A mere formality. The verdict was never in doubt. Northumberland knew better than to countermand Richard’s orders. Four more heads rolled.
Five deaths. How many more?
Buckingham, without ever baldly stating as much, wanted Richard to take the crown for himself. His reasons were obvious: with Richard on the throne, Buckingham would be the second man in the realm, lifted to heights of power and authority he could never have achieved under Edward V.
Richard might have resisted such naked, selfish ambition, but Buckingham was not alone in his urging. On the very evening of Hastings’ death, Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, had begged a private audience with the Lord Protector.
The elderly prelate got his wish, and what he had to say in private made Richard’s head pound like never before.
“I have kept this secret for many years, my lord,” Stillington informed him, “and it has proved a heavy burden, a veritable millstone around my neck. Often I have beseeched the Lord, imploring Him to know if I should reveal the truth to the world, or keep to my oath of silence. Thus far, I have kept my oath.”
“Very commendable,” Richard replied impatiently, “men should keep to their oaths.”
Stillington raised one liver-spotted hand to his withered mouth and gave a discreet little cough. He was an elongated, funereal sort of man, with a long white beard trailing down the front of his surplice to his waist.
Richard was not deceived by the air of holy simplicity. He had learned to smell ambition, and Stillington stank of it.
The bishop had suffered under Edward IV, being dismissed from his post as Lord Chancellor and even briefly imprisoned, though the reasons for the latter were unclear. Richard had been in the north at the time, though even up there he heard dark rumours of some information Stillington passed to the late and unlamented Duke of Clarence.
“Present circumstances dictate I should break my oath,” Stillington said, “my lord, I shall be brief.”
Thank God. Richard gestured at him to continue.
“It concerns your brother, His late Majesty, King Edward the Fourth. Some twenty years ago, the king fell in love with a certain beautiful heiress, Lady Eleanor Butler. Your lordship will remember her name.”
Richard indicated that he did. “As we all know, King Edward was ruled by his passions,” Stillington continued, “he desired the lady, and would do anything to have carnal knowledge of her. She rebuffed his advances, time and again, until at last he agreed to marry her in secret. It was the only way to overcome her scruples.”
“So the thing was done. I wed them myself, with none but us three present to witness it. The king made me and his bride swear never to reveal the truth of the marriage. From that day to this, I have kept my troth.”
Richard said nothing until he had drank down half a cupful of wine. Stillington’s allegations were monstrous. If true, it meant King Edward’s later marriage to Elizabeth Woodville was bigamous, and her sons by him bastards.
If true, it meant Richard was the rightful king.
He carefully put down the cup and pressed his palm against his forehead. The pain was exquisite. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out.
There was no-one else in the audience chamber. Two sentries stood outside, but they were out of earshot.
Unless one of the whoresons is eavesdropping!
Richard sprang from his chair, hurried past the startled prelate and shoved open the door. The guards were at their posts, and looked at him in surprise.
He scowled and pulled the door shut again. “Keep your voice low,” he hissed at Stillington, placing a finger to his lips.
Richard returned to his seat. “Similar tales have been told before,” he added, “my brother Clarence accused Edward of not being our father’s son.”
He gave Stillington a hard look. “For this and other offences Clarence was strangled, here in the Tower, on Edward’s orders.”
Stillington gave a weak little smile and fondled his neck. “I make no accusations, my lord,” he replied, “but the truth must be known.”
“And you have waited until now to reveal my brother’s bigamy? Why? No, don’t trouble to answer that.”
Richard didn’t require an answer. Stillington was just another Buckingham, greedy and anxious for profit. They looked to put Richard in their debt, so he would repay with interest once he was king.
I never coveted the crown. When I set out from York, it was with the intention of securing my rights as Lord Protector.
My rights. Nothing more.
He dismissed Stillington with a promise that they would speak again in private, and soon. Once the man was gone, Richard ordered his guards to admit no further guests, and struggled up the stair to his bedchamber.
Sleep refused to come, nor did he expect it. Long hours of darkness crawled past as Richard lay on his back, staring at the canopy of his bed. His wife, Anne, was in an adjoining chamber. Richard’s fractured sleep patterns were also depriving her of rest, so for now he ordered her to lie elsewhere.
The following day, exhausted and wracked with pain, Richard summoned Stillington to his presence. They spent much of the morning in conversation. Buckingham was invited to join them in the afternoon.
Richard’s fragile conscience broke under the weight of fear and ambition. He bowed to the will of his companions, and acted on Stillington’s suggestion to send for Master Shaw.
***
On the twenty-sixth of June, with all due pomp and ceremony, Richard of Gloucester mounted the marble chair in Westminster Hall.
Anne sat to his left, a slender and nervous figure, weighed down by robes of state, her face so pale and set it resembled a death-mask. She had never shared in her husband’s ambitions, or encouraged them. Nor did she resist or argue. Now she found herself seated on a royal throne.
To Richard’s right stood the bulky, florid-faced John Howard, one of the few men he trusted implicitly. Richard knew how to reward loyal service, and had made Howard Duke of Norfolk and Earl Marshal, as well as Steward of England for the coronation ceremony.
The highest honour was reserved for Buckingham. Appointed Master of Ceremonies and High Steward, he carried his white wand of office with aplomb, and left all present in no doubt as to his place in the new regime.
Arrogant, strutting peacock, Richard thought sourly, he forgets his place. I should send him to Wales to see to his estates there, or perhaps even to the Scottish border. A few months chasing border raiders in the pissing rain should knock some of the bounce out of him.
Thomas Bourchier, the doddering Archbishop of Canterbury, lowered the crown of England onto Richard’s head. His hands trembled, and for one awful moment Richard thought he might drop the heavy golden circlet.
Is it age or fear that makes him tremble? I will make men love me, not fear me. All I do is for the good of the realm.
There remained the problem of what to do with his nephews. Ten days before the coronation, the Queen had finally consented to come out of sanctuary and hand over her youngest son.
She only did so under extreme duress. Richard had surrounded Westminster with his armed retainers, and sent the archbishop in to reason with her.
“Leave her in no doubt,” he told Bourchier, “that her time is up. She has defied me for long enough. The laws of sanctuary have been broken before now, and I will drag her precious son out by the ear if I have to.”
In spite of Richard’s threats, Queen Elizabeth only consented to leave sanctuary in return for the most solemn and unbreakable public vows he could offer.
“The damned woman reeks of suspicion,” he grumbled, but agreed to her terms. Thus, in the presence of the lords spiritual and temporal and the assembled mayors and aldermen of London, he placed his hand on the relics of the Holy Evangelists and swore on his oath as King of England, that he would protect the queen and her daughters and make provision for their marriages.
The oath made no mention of her sons, but the queen was a practical,
hard-headed woman, and recognised the hopelessness of her position. Richard of York was delivered to Richard of England, and sent to join his brother in the royal apartments of the Tower.
The summer days after the coronation were full of business, but Richard’s thoughts never strayed far from his nephews.
“Spare princes,” said Buckingham, “are always inconvenient.”
“They have been declared illegitimate,” Richard replied stubbornly, “a couple of bastard boys can pose no threat to a true king.”
“Come, sire. Let us speak honestly. There are many in England and abroad who refuse to accept King Edward’s sons are bastards. So long as they are alive, they will be the focus of rebellion and conspiracy.”
Richard certainly had enough of both to contend with. The princes might be in his care, but the fugitive Woodvilles did their best to stir up trouble. The Marquess of Dorset had eluded capture, and Sir Edward Woodville was still lurking in the Channel with his pirate fleet. There were rumours he meant to offer his sword to the exiled Earl of Richmond, currently at the court of Duke Francis in Brittany.
“Henry of Richmond,” Richard mused, “he is a thorn in my foot. My brother should have made more of an effort to have him brought back to England. Another spawn of bastard stock.”
“Bastard or no, he is the last hope of the Lancastrians,” said Buckingham, “you cannot afford to have him as your enemy, drawing your enemies to him in Brittany.”
Richard brushed it aside. The subject of Henry of Richmond, otherwise known as Henry Tudor, bored and irritated him. Henry’s formidable mother, Margaret Beaufort, frequently begged him to allow her son to come home and claim his earldom.
“I will consider what is best to be done concerning the Tudor,” Richard promised. Such as sending an assassin to stick a knife in him.
Little by little, Richard’s noble ideals were falling away. He had always striven to be a better knight than his body would allow, and a shining example of loyalty to his brother King Edward.
Now he was king, and had no-one to be loyal to save God. Edward’s memory was no longer sacrosanct. Edward had lied to his family, and the kingdom, and tried to foist a bastard boy onto the throne.
Richard made himself believe Stillington’s account. It was the only way, for a man whose mind ran on strict moral lines, to justify all he had done. The alternative was madness.
If only I could sleep!These muddy waters in front of me would clear. And the pain in my head…
Pretending he sought a remedy for his headaches, Richard sent for John Argentine, physician to his nephews. His own physicians, he explained, did no good.
“How are your charges?” Richard asked as the doctor’s long, sensitive fingers probed his skull.
Argentine frowned at the question. “Well in body, Majesty,” he replied, “they are their father’s sons, and grow stronger every day.”
“Their father’s sons. Indeed. Alas, I have seen little of them since the coronation.”
In truth, Richard could not bear to face young Edward, whom he had effectively deposed, as well as publicly shamed as a bastard. Occasionally he watched them at their exercise in the grounds of the Tower, practicing with crossbows and wooden swords, but always from afar.
“Edward seems less lively of late,” Argentine went on, “though his brother is unaffected. I have given him a dose to help him sleep, but still he cries out at night.”
Richard grimaced. “Whatever you give him, I require something stronger,” he said, “though I am not surprised at his distress.”
The situation was becoming intolerable. Richard heard reports of fresh discontent in the city, where rumours were rife that the princes had been put to death.
He thought of quashing the rumours by showing the boys in public, but in late July something happened that drove his tortured mind onto a new course.
At dead of night, a ship sailed up the Thames and disgorged a band of armed men. Some bargain with the sentries had been struck beforehand, and they were allowed to get inside the Tower, almost to the very doors of the keep.
“King Edward!” they were heard to shout, “God for King Edward!”
Richard was absent at the time, but enough of his loyal retainers were inside the Tower to hold it against the invaders. A fierce battle was fought, with scores of men killed and injured on either side. Eventually the invaders were repelled, and the survivors fled into the streets.
When Richard learned of this failed attempt to pluck his nephews from the Tower, he almost had a seizure. Argentine’s medicines had done little to help him sleep, and such rest as he managed was plagued by frightful nightmares.
Rage and panic lent him energy, and his inquisition into the rescue attempt ended in a furious display of royal wrath. His troops scoured London for suspects, and altogether fifty men were rounded up and imprisoned.
The Woodvilles were behind the attempt, he was certain, though none had been arrested. They were too clever to be taken, those scheming curs his late brother had seen fit to ennoble.
Richard began to see enemies everywhere. To him, the grief and sorrow of those citizens who believed the princes were already dead was a sham, hiding their treasonous designs.
They plotted his death. They were all plotting. He could trust no-one, save those men who had served him loyally in the north. Men like Sir Richard Ratcliffe and Sir William Catesby, whom he loaded with titles and estates. Another was Francis Lovell, whom Richard made Lord Chamberlain in place of Hastings. False, perjured Hastings, whose headless body now lay in Saint George’s Chapel in Windsor.
Richard’s northerners were unpopular in London, especially by those southerners they had displaced. He cared nothing for the injured feelings of southerners.
“Let them whine,” he snarled, “so long as they obey. And obey they will. If fear must come before love, then by God I shall give them cause to fear.”
On a warm evening in early August, Richard found himself sitting alone again in his chambers. He had ordered the mirror to be removed. It showed him something he disliked.
His thoughts were impossible to pick apart. Everything he held dear – loyalty, service, strict morals and devotion to God – had become hopelessly entangled with his ambitions. He asked himself a series of questions, and got confused answers.
Why did you kill Hastings?
Because Hastings was a traitor, and conspired against me with the Woodvilles.
Liar. Hastings died because he was devoted to your nephew, and was determined to see him crowned.
No! I did not want the crown at that point.
Indeed? And when did you decide to take the crown?
After Hastings died. After Rivers died. It was the only way. I would not have survived. Edward could not be king. He would have destroyed me for what I did to his favourite uncle.
Edward and his brother are still alive. What are you going to do with them? Leave them where they are? Smuggle them out under cover of darkness, and send them to some bolt-hole in the north? Or to your sister’s court in Burgundy? As long as they live, you will never be secure.
I...
Richard stared at the wall. Black spots flickered before his eyes. The pain in his skull had ebbed a little. It was his constant companion now, and would never leave.
He longed for sleep. Sweet, gentle, dreamless sleep. If only he could sleep.
Slowly, inexorably, his thoughts turned to another prisoner in the Tower.
Chapter 7
From his cell on the top floor of the Salt Tower, situated in the south-east corner of the outer curtain wall, James Bolton had a perfect view of the Thames. The river flowed almost directly beneath his high window, and it was his custom to sit and watch the turgid waters go past.
He could scarcely complain of ill-treatment. His prison was a large, airy chamber with a huge fireplace and a decorated window. The furnishings were sparse, but a fire burned in the grate during the cold months, and he was given simple but regular meals. Twice a week,
he was allowed out under guard to the green beside the chapel, to take exercise.
Lord Hastings had been murdered on the green. The gaoler informed James of it, and the next time they let him out he noticed spots of dried blood on the grass.
James knelt stiffly to examine the blood.“Another victim,” he remarked, “the white boar is a hungry beast. What will sate him, I wonder?”
“You, perhaps,” the captain of the guard replied gruffly, “and soon, I hope. Twelve years I’ve had to listen to your nonsense. Twelve damned years!”
James grinned at him. “Hope in vain, my friend. Your little king won’t kill me. I am his pet. A man doesn’t kill his pets. He puts them in cages, gives them enough to eat and drink, and waits for them to die.”
In truth, James should have died years ago, either by the rope or the headsman’s axe. When he was first brought to the Tower, after the final Lancastrian defeat at Tewkesbury, the Yorkists had interrogated him.
As a trusted and experienced Lancastrian agent, he knew a great deal, and the knowledge was extracted from him over the following weeks and months: gently, at first, but when he proved obdurate the interrogators turned to more brutal methods. His body still bore the marks of the rack, red-hot pincers and branding irons.
He might have died under torture, but every man has his limits. James’ courage broke before his body could, and he screamed out everything he knew – the names of Lancastrian sympathisers, the location of secret caches of money and arms, all of it.
For some reason they didn’t kill him afterwards. On the orders of the Duke of Gloucester, he was carried (the rack had temporarily robbed him of the use of his legs) up the spiral stair to the top floor of the Salt Tower, and there kept in relative comfort for twelve years.
In all that time, the duke never came to see him. No-one did, save his gaolers. James assumed he was being kept alive in case he proved useful in future.
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