I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie

by J. P. Reedman

  “That deed is remembered with affection throughout the city, your Grace,” said Frank. “Your good lordship is ever praised and the people do love you.”

  “But as you also know, in recent times, maintenance of the council fell to the wayside, due to matters of state importance. Even before that, with the Scottish wars foremost in my mind, I had to put the presidency aside while I dealt with Berwick and Edinburgh. When I ascended the throne, it was impossible for me to remain in my old position, and had intended my son Edward, God have mercy on his soul,” I halted for a moment, while the others in the room bowed their heads, then continued, “to be nominally president, with advisors to assist him until he came of age. However, that was not to be…”

  Rising from my seat, my voice grew louder, filled with growing enthusiasm for what I proposed. “It is my intention to reform the Council of the North, and as King, finance it more handsomely than my brother ever did. The centres of governance will be from York, where we sit this day, my castle at Sheriff Hutton, and Sandal Castle, where my father met his death by treachery—to continue his own just governance would be a fitting tribute to his memory. You will all be aware that in June I began repairs on Sandal’s walls and decreed a new strong tower be built. Later, when all finances are in place, masons will start on a new bakehouse and also a brewhouse,” I grinned, adding some levity, “which I am certain a few of you will appreciate! The main meetings of the council will take place in York four times a year. If the counties of the north are managed as I intend, one day York will rival London and Norwich in wealth and importance.”

  “Aye,” Dick Ratcliffe murmured, “Why not show the world that England is not just London, as many foreigners think!”

  The assembly laughed.

  “I agree,” said Rob Percy, “the council of the North must be resurrected under good governance. However, as you stated, your Grace, at present it has no head. As the King must rule from Westminster, so another must fill the position. How you someone in mind?”

  “For many weeks I have mulled over who might be a suitable candidate. In my mind, I thought upon whom amongst you might be suitable. All of you are, but you already have high offices, and I am loathe to remove you from them. I need you all firmly at my side in the days to come.”

  “An outsider then?” asked Assheton in surprise.

  “Not exactly, but he is young and many of you have only met him once or twice. At my Coronation I gave unto him the honour of carrying the Orb. It is time he was given office of high standing. He is my nephew John de La Pole, earl of Lincoln, son of my elder sister, Elizabeth. What say you to this proposal?”

  My gaze swept around the chamber, glancing from one face to the other. I hoped the lords would approve of my choice but not just because I wished my young kinsman to prosper. I was a King in a great predicament, the worst that any king could face. My heir was dead. Although I would continue to pray for an end to Anne’s barrenness, until she bore another male child, I would need to appoint an heir presumptive. If any evil should befall me, be it assassin’s knife, a wound taken in a skirmish, or a surfeit of rotten peaches like those that killed old King John, unless the succession was assured, the country would fall into renewed civil war.

  I did not want Tydder and his mother getting their grasping hands upon the throne; as for Clarence’s son Edward, whose bloodline was true…Well, I had dwelled long upon the boy’s suitability, but he still lay under his father’s attainder, and, sad to say, was not the stuff of Kings. England did not need another Harry Six. De la Pole, on the other hand, was a grown man with a wife, and albeit he was still young and untried, showed the promise of greatness.

  “My Lord de la Pole is already here in the north, is he not, Your Grace?” asked Ralph Assheton. Ralph was a dour but loyal man, who had been Sheriff of Yorkshire in 1472, when I was settling into Middleham with Anne. He had served on the Scottish Campaign and fought with great ferocity at Berwick, where I made him a Knight Banneret. Recently, I had given him even greater rewards—the positions of vice-constable and lieutenant of the Tower.

  “Yes, he has been at Sheriff Hutton for close to a year, seeing to the welfare of its tenants, including the son and daughter of my brother Clarence and my natural children. Had my son lived and been accorded the role of president as I wished, the Earl would have been one of his guardians and chief advisors while he remained of tender years.”

  Perhaps already guessing my intentions regarding John de la Pole, Francis nodded. “Lord Lincoln seems an appropriate choice, your Grace. Although as yet untried, his lineage and burgeoning abilities commend him.”

  The other men murmured, some more enthusiastic than others, though generally they seemed in favour. “But should not de la Pole be here to join in this discussion?” asked Ratcliffe warily. By his expression, he believed the lords were being tested in some way.

  They were.

  “He is here,” I responded. “His entourage has not long arrived in York.” I called for a pageboy. “See that my Lord of Lincoln is brought to this meeting as soon as he is ready.”

  John soon joined us in the chamber. Even in one short year, he seemed to have matured; although not so tall as Ned, he still cut a fine upright figure, with long, curling dark hair and the hazel eyes that were from my mother’s side of the family. Well made, as I was not. Handsome and personable in a way I was not.

  Watching him carefully, I tried to envision a crown above his head should it come to pass that I had no heir of my body. Ah, how sad that I could not name my own son John heir, but a bastard could never be rightful king. I had pressed home that truth when I established my own right and disinherited Ned’s sons.

  “Welcome, nephew.” I held out my hand to him. “How goes it at our castle of Sheriff Hutton?”

  “Well enough, your Grace” he grinned. “The walls still stand, the Scots have not rampaged down from the wastelands and eaten local babies, and the children have not escaped the nursery. Your son the Lord John sends salutations, and the Lady Katherine Plantagenet wants to know when she will be married as promised.”

  I smiled, thinking of Kytte’s eager face. I had procrastinated rather long with the wedding, first through grief for little Ned then from an irrational fatherly fear—of losing my daughter. “Ah yes, the wedding must take place soon…by Michaelmas. Neither the Earl of Huntingdon nor Katherine will forgive me if I delay any longer.”

  John of Lincoln was looking at me, rather intently, a worry line between his brows. “My lord King, why have you summoned me before these great lords, who look upon me with hard, appraising eyes? I am sure it is not just to find out about daily life at Sheriff Hutton! Have I given offence in some way? If so, it was not intended….”

  “You have committed no offence, my lord of Lincoln.” I gazed at him sternly. “I have brought you here for a new appointment, if you will take it. President of the new establishment of the Council of the North.”

  “Your Grace.” He blinked in surprise and inclined his head. “I am honoured.”

  “That is not quite all, nephew. In the months to come, I may find even higher appointment for you…”

  I heard indrawn breaths around the room; saw the men sit bolt upright, become extremely attentive. Frank had been aware of what I might do, perhaps Rob too, but not so much the others. Now it became clear to them why I had asked their approval of John de la Pole.

  “I would confer upon you the position of Lieutenant of Ireland, formerly held by my late son, Edward of Middleham, God assoil him. After that appointment is firmly established, I will also have it drawn up that you will receive the revenues of the Duchy of Cornwall.”

  Lincoln’s face was a stunned picture, turning red then white with shock. Falling to his knees before me, he grabbed the hem of my robe and kissed it fervently. After the initial gasping and shuffling of my advisors, the rest of the room became as still as a tomb.

  The lords knew the significance of my words.

  The Duchy of Cornwall and its
revenues were traditionally granted to the King of England’s heir.

  The Scots sued for peace. It was as I had hoped. Alexander Duke of Albany, who had been skulking around in England since he fled Scotland, even joining my first royal progress, made a wild foray over the border with another Scottish rebel, James Douglas.

  I neither hindered nor helped the rebels and, predictably, Albany’s forces were defeated at Lochmaben after a short, fierce battle. However, his folly proved beneficial to me, for it caused a distraction and allowed my navy to impart maximum damage on the Scottish fleet. The Scottish ambassador, Robert Lyle, arrived in court desiring a long-lasting alliance soon after.

  Now I was in Nottingham, awaiting the arrival of the full Scottish delegation. How hard it was to enter the chambers where Anne and I had received the news that our son was dead. Before we reached the castle, I had ordered the apartments stripped of their furnishings and redecorated, in an attempted to quell the bitter memories.

  Alas, I could not quell them, but I managed to hold them at bay when others were present. At night, as I sat at my desk and the wind howled around the great tower that Edward and I had beautified, I held my head in my hands and thought how this would forever be my Castle of Care.

  Anne came everywhere with me, dutiful, attentive, but still she did not quicken with child. She was permitted to eat meat on Fridays and prayed to St Margaret of Antioch and St Anne, to no avail. I had worried how she might react upon entering our quarters in Nottingham, where the dire news had first reached us, but her face had remained emotionless as marble.

  It was only when an unthinking minstrel began a song in which the Blessed Virgin spoke with foreknowledge to her doomed Son, Our Saviour, that I saw Anne cast down her eyes and her lips quiver:

  Learn to love as I love thee.

  In all my limbs thou mayest see

  How sore they quake for cold;

  For thee I suffer all this woe,

  Love me, sweet, and none other,

  To thee me take and hold.

  Jesu, my sweet son dear,

  In poor bed thou liest here,

  And that grieves me sore.

  For thy cradle is a bier,

  Ox and ass draweth near,

  Weep may I therefore!

  For one irrational moment, rage filled me and I would have struck the hapless minstrel, but I controlled my emotion and stayed my hand. A fool he was, but an innocent one. “Be silent!” I slammed my fist into the palm of my other hand with a crack. “You have sung enough. Get you gone from our presence.”

  The man’s lute slipped from numb fingers, hit the flagstones with a bang and broke. Beneath heavily coiffed golden hair, the man’s face turned a shade of sickly green-grey. Grabbing his broken instrument, he bowed, gabbled an apology, and fled.

  “Anne, I am sorry…” I said to my wife.

  Anne said nothing but looked off into the candlelit chamber as if she saw something, someone, I could not see amidst the shadows in the corner. The wind, ever strong upon that high rock, made sounds like footsteps above, a child running.

  I shivered beneath my heavy royal robes. “Light the fire,” I ordered the squires, “and more tapers to chase the shadows away.”

  Before High Mass on the 12th day of September, I greeted the Scots delegates as they filed into the Great Hall of Nottingham Castle. I wanted to impress my glory upon them; everything was prepared to show off the majesty and power of the King of England. The floor, though old and worn, shone through scrubbing with soap and boiled water, while a heap of imported carpets lay across fresh rush mats. Lavender and camomile hung in decorated pomanders to sweeten the air; the doorways and niches were decorated with herb bundles and dried flowers. Wainscoting had recently been added to the Hall and gold paint applied liberally to all exposed woodwork. Great woven hangings bearing the arms of England, the Fetterlock, the White Rose and the White Boar dangled on the high thick walls between clusters of armorial shields. Candelabras filled the chamber with brilliance; I had ordered dozens to be brought into the castle. The place fairly blazed with light; all shadows were chased away.

  The dais stood at the far end of the hall, raised high above floor level and reached by several steps; a throne stood upon it, painted green and scarlet, and with its armrests studded with precious gems. Beneath the canopy of state, I sat on that throne, stern and remote, wearing a long open robe of purple trimmed with ermine, and a red cloth of gold tunic beneath. A gold circlet shone on my brow, my feet rested on a silvered silk pillow, and around my neck hung a heavy gold collar that flashed with rubies held in the mouths of enamelled white boars.

  On either side of the throne stood the greatest nobles of my realm, summoned for the occasion—John Howard, Henry Percy, Thomas Stanley. The Chancellor had come from London, and several Bishops whose job was to oversee the proceedings. From amongst my close friends, there was Rob, Catesby, Harrington and Ratcliffe, though sadly not Frank, who had ridden south on business at Minster Lovell and at Wallingford Castle, of which I had made him constable.

  The Scottish delegation entered the hall, gazing round suspiciously as if they feared men with long daggers would pounce upon them in the manner of the warring clansmen of their own country. Trumpets sounded a fanfare as they gathered before my high seat.

  “Greetings, my lords of Scotland.” I leaned forward in the throne, swinging my foot lazily, one leg crossed over the other like some knight’s effigy—not a terribly respectful pose, but my ire was raised when I spotted some irritatingly familiar faces from my campaign in 1482, and recalled certain jests at my expense that had been reported during the failed negotiations over Albany’s claim to the Scottish throne. “So, you have come to ask for terms from ‘Wee Dick,’ have you? How good of you. How things have changed within two years. How swiftly they may change again.”

  The expressions of the delegates ranged between terror and mutiny. Had any of them been armed, I am sure there would have been a fray upon the very steps of the dais.

  “Do not fear.” I beamed benevolently. “It is peace I do desire above all. You know that, Colin Campbell, do you not?” I thrust a finger out towards Campbell, one of the chief lords I had negotiated with in Edinburgh, now Lord Chancellor under James. You’ve risen rather high in the ranks, have you not? For a man who held his own King in prison at one time then did an about face when it was convenient.”

  Campbell’s mouth opened and shut and his cheeks burned the colour of raw meat; the Scottish lords Lord Oliphant and Lyle side-eyed him as if he had suddenly begun to smell; and the bishop of Aberdeen pouted as if a wasp had stung his lower lip and clung to his crosier as if he would whisk it up to use as a quarterstaff.

  I laughed. “Just so that you know, I forget nothing. So do not even think to befuddle me in our dealings, or believe that because I have not my brother’s stature in body, that I am not stronger than he in mind. Underestimate me, my lords, at your peril. But it is lasting peace, I desire, I swear to you. Too many towns and villages lay needlessly in ruins upon the borders of our lands. Too many lives have been lost over the same debated ground, over many hundreds of years. It is time to end such hostilities.”

  Earl Campbell’s face began to return to normal colour; the bishop licked his lips and loosened the grip on his crosier.

  Another member of the Scottish embassy stepped forward and did obeisance, a little old man with silvered hair and a bright, hawkish visage. There was an openness about him that I liked instantly.

  “My lord King, I am Archibald Whitelaw, secretary to King James. I have served my lord-master long and faithfully, from the day he became king at a tender age, and I served his esteemed sire before that. Once, long years ago, I even was ambassador to your noble father, Richard Duke of York, when he was settled in Ireland. An illustrious man of great honour and valour; and your Grace much like him…”

  He peered at me, shaking his head as if in wonder and then said, “Now that I see your face, I find it worthy of the highest author
ity and kingship and illuminated by moral and chivalric virtue. About your highness could be said what the Greek poet Statius ascribed to the famous prince, Tydeus: Never did Nature so enclose in such a small body such a great spirit and such strength.”

  My brows lifted. “I am…flattered.”

  Archibald continued, “In you, serene prince, is all that is required of a great king. Nothing can be added to your list of virtues, save the words of the poet Vergil:

  So long as the rivers shall run to the sea

  and the shadows pass over the curves of the mountains,

  so long as the sky will harbour the stars,

  and the boar enjoy the mountaintop, and the fish the rivers,

  so long as the bees live in the thyme and cicada on dew,

  so long shall your honour, your name and praises survive…”

  “Vergil! Splendid! I rather like that!” I exclaimed in delight, bringing my hands together. “The boar on the mountain top, indeed! What do you think, Rob, Ratcliffe, Catesby? Will my memory be eternal, like that boar on the mountaintop?”

  There was head nodding and murmurs of assent. I glanced at Thomas Stanley who looked as if he were choking on something. “Take care of that cough, Thomas,” I said in a smooth voice. “We wouldn’t want to lose our loyal new Lord High Constable.” Stanley gave one last splutter and stepped back a pace, his expression and his eyes becoming suddenly dark and shuttered.

  I looked back to Archibald Whitelaw as he cleared his throat and continued his oration, his white head flung back and his arms thrown wide, as if he were an angel come to announce a glorious event. “Surely, your Grace, it is an unnatural thing that wars should be fought between our people—we who dwell together upon a small island in the western sea, linked by the same climate, the same good earth, and sharing similarities of language and ancestry? Do you, most god-like Prince, wish to create love and amity between yourself and our Prince, in such a way that bonds of good will shall bind Englishmen and Scotsmen together? Great benefits will spring from harmonious union: alliance, marriage, and family connections between our people.”