by Robyn Young
As he entered the room with the trapdoor, the stench of decay rose to greet him again. It wasn’t an unfamiliar smell, although it had been many years since he’d been subjected to a stink of quite this magnitude. Drawing in a few breaths, steeling himself, he climbed awkwardly down the cellar steps, grasping his stick in one hand and balancing himself with the stump of his left arm. Things scuttled away into the darkness as he stepped into the cellar. Glittering eyes turned to stare at him from the shadows. These rats were large. As well they would be with the feast that had been left for them. Things that had once been his men were now just rotting limbs and blood-soaked clothing piled in a corner. The other bodies he had only noticed when, retching, he’d flung open the trapdoor, throwing air and daylight down into the cellar.
These corpses had been more considerately disposed of, lined up in a row and buried under mouldy grain and blankets, as if earth. Trying not to breathe, his arm over his nose, Amaury had scraped away the grain, but air and insects had done their work and the mushy pulp of flesh had made it impossible to discern any real features. He hadn’t stayed long, the stench filling his mind with memories of another place of death, thirty years ago: the day of the fall. It was all still so vivid. The swarms of flies that turned the air black, the acrid smoke from the burning libraries, the rivers of blood in the streets and the terrible echoing emptiness of Santa Sophia, whose walls had been sheltering thousands of women and children. Amaury had hastened from the cellar as if it were that dying city itself; an old hell of memories boiling beneath him.
Now, back down in its rotting darkness, he didn’t pause but continued quickly through the cellar door and out along the tunnel, his stick helping him on the uneven ground. At the end, he stooped to pick up the pack he had left there and slung it over his shoulder. It was light; just a few belongings to see him to England after the death of King Louis had unbound him from his duties.
Emerging into the blessed air of the rainy morning, he lowered the tunnel’s trapdoor and nudged the green-stained barrel back into place over it. Before his men had left France, he had told Amelot where she would find sanctuary in the city if she needed it. He could only hope she had made it there. After hobbling down the narrow, refuse-filled alley, Amaury emerged on to Birchin Lane and limped away into London’s crowds, heading north to where the bell tower of St Helen’s Priory rose like a slender white flower from the dark tangle of rooftops.
‘My lord king?’
Richard realised the messenger was still standing by the door, his cloak dripping rainwater on the silk rug. ‘Go,’ he murmured.
Inclining his head, the man hastened from the room.
Richard looked again at the piece of paper in his hands, the hastily scratched words from a clerk of John Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, telling him their tale of betrayal. After a moment, he balled it into his fist, the seal digging into his palm as he crumpled the message as small as it would go. Striding to the hearth, he flung it into the fire. The flames licked around the edges, then caught. Richard closed his eyes, asking God that by this simple action this would all be undone, his betrayer burned up like the paper. But he knew it was not to be. Neither prayer nor magic would solve this. There must now be sword and soldier, cannon and blood.
‘Father?’
Richard started round at the voice to see his son standing in the doorway, dressed in his hunting clothes.
‘The huntsmen have returned. They say the dogs have caught a scent. The men are ready to ride.’
‘Leave me, Edward.’
‘But—’
‘I said leave me!’
The prince recoiled from his father’s rage. His footsteps echoed quickly down the passage.
Richard tore at the jewelled brooch holding his fur-lined cloak in place. Despite the October chill he felt hot, suffocated. The brooch pin spiked his thumb, but he barely noticed, letting the cloak fall from his shoulders to pool on the floor at his feet. There was a jug of spiced wine by the bed, left earlier by a servant of Sir Thomas Burgh. The lord had been entertaining him at his Lincolnshire manor these past few days on his journey from York to London. Richard went to it, reaching for the gold goblet beside it. He stopped, his hand held out towards it. Then, all at once, he was crossing to the chests of personal belongings his porters had stacked against one wall.
He opened one, rummaging through the clothes and other items inside. Leaving it, he hauled open another. This time he found what he was looking for, carefully wrapped in a swathe of blue cloth. He pulled out the bundle and ripped off the cloth, revealing two goblets of pale green Venetian glass, the delicate stems intricately swirled with darker shades of colour. They were beautiful. One for him and one for Anne, gifts from Buckingham, presented at his coronation. He had made the man his constable, showered him with glittering titles. For a moment, Richard wanted to crush the goblets in his fists, but instead he rose and hurled one against the wall. He threw the second just as William Catesby entered the room. The lawyer ducked as he was sprayed with shattering glass.
‘My lord!’ he exclaimed, lowering his arm and staring at the king.
Richard was grimly satisfied to see the lawyer’s poise so shaken. Catesby, Francis Lovell, James Tyrell – they had all told him he had nothing to fear. How wrong his advisers had been. How God-damned wrong.
‘What has happened?’
‘Buckingham,’ spat Richard. ‘He is at the heart of all this!’ Seeing Catesby’s confusion, he paused for breath. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. ‘I have just received word from Norfolk. Men have risen in Kent, in Buckingham’s name. They have slain yeomen and bailiffs, and rioted in Gravesend. My agents tell me they plan to march on London, before joining with Buckingham and forces from Brecon. My cousin, it seems, has made a pact with Henry Tudor. They intend to challenge me.’
Catesby, standing there silent in his hunting greens, took this in for a moment. He closed the door and came forward, his boots crunching on shards of glass. ‘This is certain?’
Richard let out a humourless bark of laughter. ‘I put him in charge of the treason commissions – told him to root out any conspirators in my midst. All the while he was the greatest traitor of them all!’ Returning to the table by the bed, he poured wine into the goblet. He realised his hand was shaking. ‘Buckingham has apparently released that wily rat John Morton. The bishop is now helping him orchestrate this from Brecon.’
‘Who else is involved in this treason?’
Richard wasn’t listening. He drank deep, the wine flooding his throat. ‘Duke Francis hasn’t simply freed Tudor. Norfolk tells me he is preparing a fleet for his former prisoner.’ His fist tightened around the goblet. ‘You all told me I had nothing to fear. That Tudor was a problem that could be dealt with in due course. Now I am told he plans to invade England!’
‘My lord, we couldn’t have—’
Richard didn’t let him finish. ‘I doubt we can even use our treaty with France to threaten Duke Francis now Louis is dead. The new king is a child and his court is being run by a woman. Neither has the might of their father.’ Richard turned away from Catesby to pour more wine. Some of it spilled over the rim on to the rug. He stared at the spreading stain. ‘Hastings warned me about Buckingham. He told me my cousin would try to take the reins of power. I should have listened. I never should have—’
Catesby cut in quickly. ‘What matters now, my lord, is swift action. Your progress has gained you the loyalty of many peers and—’
‘It has also drained my coffers of the funds I will need if I am to fight a war,’ countered Richard bitterly. ‘And whatever reputation I have built these past months has been mired by the malicious rumour I have killed my own nephews.’ He paused, realisation dawning cold in him. He laughed harshly. ‘Oh, now I see it. Buckingham and his allies – they are the ones who have spun those lies, turning men against me.’
On first hearing the rumour Richard had been furious, but not overly concerned. It was a falsehood he could prove the m
oment he was back in London. He had, however, sent at once for word of his nephews’ health to make certain there was no fire in this smoke, since Richard, the younger of the two, had had a fever when he was brought to the Tower from Westminster. Troubled to hear the young Duke of York had recently taken a turn for the worse, Richard sent his own personal physician to see to his treatment, thinking that perhaps the child’s illness had been at the heart of the rumour.
Now, though, he saw it clearly. This wasn’t some spark of hearsay that had caught alight beyond the Tower. This was intentional, designed to hurt him. Of course people believed it. He had killed Earl Rivers, Thomas Vaughan and Richard Grey on a lie, and he had executed Hastings without trial. The irony that his enemies could now use his own false accusations to commit true treason was not lost on him.
‘There is a dastardly mind behind this,’ Richard murmured. ‘Buckingham is too self-serving to see past the tip of his own nose. He is being led. I want to know everyone involved in this plot.’ He set the goblet on the table. He wanted to be clear-headed. His fury was already hardening into resolve. ‘I could display Edward and his brother in public. Prove they are still alive. That would take the wind out of my enemies’ sails.’
‘I would resist that, my lord,’ advised Catesby. ‘For now at least. There has already been one attempt to rescue them and knowledge that the princes are indeed alive may simply spur these rebels on – a rallying cry for their cause. In some ways it may be better for your nephews to be thought dead. It creates anger, yes, but it takes away hope. The former will burn itself out. The latter is the more potent force. Instead, we should focus our efforts on consolidating what you have already done to establish your rule. We must contact your allies and all whose loyalty you have secured these past months; remind them of their fealty to you. At the same time we will work to denigrate Buckingham and Tudor. It will not be difficult. The first is an upstart who has never been popular, even among his own tenants. The second has been in exile so long he may as well be a foreigner. A bastard of the fallen House of Lancaster.’
Richard was nodding in agreement. ‘The earls of Northumberland and Lincoln, Lord Neville, the men of York – I want word sent out to them all today. Lord Stanley too. He commands a large enough force in the north-west to counter even Buckingham’s might. He may be Tudor’s stepfather, but I believe with the right pressure I can twist him to my side. I want troops mustered as soon as possible and my forces in the capital bolstered. Norfolk is dealing with the rebels in Kent. Set loyal men to man the southern beacons. The moment Henry Tudor is sighted I want an army there waiting for him. Bring Francis Lovell and James Tyrell to me at once.’
Catesby bowed. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And I want a reward put on Buckingham’s head,’ Richard called as the lawyer made for the door. ‘One thousand pounds. If my cousin wants popularity, then by God he shall have it.’
Chapter 23
The steward opened the door, inviting Henry Tudor in. The chamber was light and airy, with a large window that looked out over the abbey’s gardens. The cold draught threading in through the cracks smelled of salt marsh and sea. Across one wall was strung a tapestry, the silk expanse of which undulated in the breeze, flowing life through the scene depicted upon it: an ethereal forest in which two men were walking. One was old, dressed in frost-white robes. The other was tall, with a war sword strapped to his hip, a red dragon emblazoned on his tunic and a gold crown on his head, which was bent towards the older man as if he were listening intently. In the distance behind them was a marble tomb, the lid of which was open.
‘Come in, Henry. Come, come.’
Henry turned his attention to the bed where Duke Francis II of Brittany was propped up against a wall of pillows, being fussed over by his servants and physician. White-haired at fifty with a wide, rather lumpy face and gentle grey eyes, the duke gestured for him to approach.
‘Never get old, Henry,’ said Francis, grimacing as the physician tugged a fat black leech from his forearm and plopped it into a dish. His face lit up as he saw the basket Henry was carrying. ‘Ah!’ He patted the bed.
As Henry sat, setting the basket down beside him, the duke hooked a finger over the rim to peer in at the mound of shellfish: ridged oysters, blue mussels still shiny from the sea and dark spiralled whelks. ‘Fresh from the harbour,’ Henry told him.
‘This will set me right,’ remarked the duke to his physician, who murmured something inaudible in response and pulled off the last leech. ‘The final preparations are in progress at Paimpol, yes?’ Francis asked in the same breath, looking back at Henry as the physician turned to pack away his equipment.
‘Yes, my lord. The fleet is almost ready.’
‘They will be enough for you? The vessels?’
‘Fifteen ships are more than enough.’
Henry turned at the abrupt voice to see a tall figure standing in an archway that led into an adjoining chamber. It was the duke’s treasurer and chief minister, Pierre Landais. Henry didn’t know he had arrived. Covering the fact he’d been caught off-guard, he offered a cordial smile as the minister approached the bed. ‘They will suffice, certainly.’
Pierre was several years older than Francis, but he looked much younger with his dark hair and pointed features, the sharpness of which was accentuated by a clipped moustache and forked beard. The minister was carrying two jewelled goblets. One he handed to Francis, the other he kept for himself, his eyes never leaving Henry’s. ‘Those ships are the lifeblood of this region. They will be needed here when the fishing season begins again. The men too.’
‘They won’t sail for Thule for another six months, Pierre,’ Francis cut in. ‘There is time enough for us to help our friends. And for them to help us in return.’
As the duke’s gaze returned to him, Henry inclined his head. He knew, well, what was expected of him in exchange for the duke’s generosity. His freedom had not been granted out of kindness.
For decades, Francis had been engaged in a fierce struggle to keep Brittany’s independence from France. With the signing of a treaty eight years earlier between Edward IV and Louis XI an agreement had been made that France would not invade the duchy – England’s ally of old. For Francis, the peace had brought a welcome reprieve from Louis’s expansionist aims and, for Edward, it provided an opportunity to negotiate for Henry’s extradition. Now, at the end of a summer that had witnessed the deaths of both kings, the duchy’s future was once again uncertain. The best way for Francis to secure Brittany from its power-hungry neighbour was to make sure another ally sat upon the throne of England.
‘When do you plan to sail, Henry?’
‘The captains say they will be ready to leave within the week.’
‘The sooner the better I would say. My astrologer tells me a great storm is coming.’
Henry nodded, but didn’t think a man needed stars and charts to offer this insight. The last vestiges of summer had been whipped away this past week by strengthening winds and ominous skies that turned the sea to slate and washed the Breton sands black with seaweed. In the port of Paimpol that morning, discussing the final arrangements with the captains, he had watched the galleys, many of which had spent the summer on the roaring seas west of Thule netting hauls of cod, being tossed like toys in the harbour.
‘Do we know more of affairs in England?’ Pierre wanted to know.
‘Only what we have been told already,’ Henry answered. ‘That the Duke of Buckingham is raising an army and the rebellion is gaining in support in the south. When I make landfall in Plymouth my forces will join with them and, together, we will march to confront Richard.’
‘It sickens me,’ murmured Francis. ‘That a man could be so black-hearted as to murder two innocents. His own nephews.’ He laid a hand on Henry’s, his grey eyes hardening. ‘May God help you strike him down.’
Henry said nothing. He knew the truth, from the messenger sent in secret by his mother. Knew her plan and the part he would play. But he inclined
his head gravely, acknowledging the duke’s outrage.
‘Once you have taken the crown, we will enter discussions about how best to continue our alliance,’ said Pierre. ‘Charles may be a child, but his sister, Anne, has apparently inherited their father’s zeal for intrigue. France remains a threat. To both our countries.’
‘Have no fear.’ Henry placed his own hand over the duke’s. ‘I will be ever in your debt.’ He smiled. ‘And you will always be my guide.’ His eyes flicked to the tapestry, which the duke brought with him when ill health had forced him to retire, in the midst of the fleet’s preparations, to Beauport Abbey. He knew the scene of Merlin and King Arthur walking through the ancient forest of Brocéliande was one of Francis’s favourites, for the duke had hunted often in the woods where the wizard was said to be buried.
Francis laughed. ‘Indeed.’ His mirth faded, his grey eyes filling with solemnity. ‘Through the blood of Cadwaladr, through fire and sword, the red dragon shall rise again.’
Henry nodded, his sober expression matching the duke’s. Ever since he first discovered Francis’s passion for Arthurian legends, he had seeded in the duke the knowledge of his own Welsh ancestry leading back to Cadwaladr, the last king of the Britons, who had himself been forced into exile in Brittany and who foretold the coming of a future king of his line who would one day save Britain – Y Mab Darogan – the Son of Prophecy. Those seeds had taken root in the duke’s soul and, when Buckingham called Henry to arms against Richard, it had been the easiest thing in the world to ask the duke to aid him, as a Duke of Brittany had once aided Cadwaladr.
‘You should rest, my lord,’ said Pierre, stepping in. ‘Recover your strength.’
Francis sighed, but he let go of Henry’s hand and lay back against the pillows. He gestured one of his servants to the basket. ‘Have these prepared for my supper.’
