Sacrifice

by David Pilling

  Twelve years of almost total isolation. Boredom and loneliness might have long since driven him mad, or compelled him to dash his brains out against the wall, but James was fuelled by deathless fires.

  Every night, he knelt by his bed and offered up the same prayer. “Lord, let this thy poor and miserable servant live long enough to see the House of York come to grief and ruin. Permit me, O Lord, to have some hand in its destruction.”

  After that, he prayed for his kin. First, those he knew to be dead. His father, his eldest brother and his brother-in-law, all slaughtered in battle by the Yorkists, and his mother, that fierce old woman, who died in the midst of the wars.

  Then the living. His sister Mary, mutilated after Tewkesbury and thrown into a convent. His younger brother Martin, fled to God knows where.

  Finally, his niece Elizabeth. James always stumbled over his words when he came to her. Every night, tears came to his eyes when he thought of what the Yorkists did to her, and he ended his prayers in bitter tears.

  For all he knew, these last three were also dead by now. He might be the last of the family. If so, God owed him a measure of revenge on those who had destroyed his kin.

  On the morning of Richard the Third’s coronation, he was woken by the sound of bells tolling across the river from Saint Paul’s. James crawled out of bed and limped across to his window, from where he could watch barges sail up the Thames, laden with monks and choirboys singing the praises of the new king. The barges were painted with white roses, the symbol of the House of York, and decorated with banners displaying the Plantagenet arms and Richard’s white boar.

  James curled his fingers around the bars of his window. “Lord,” he whispered, “I do believe you begin to grant me my request.”

  From then on, James was no longer permitted to exercise on the green. Confined to his lofty chamber, he waited, and prayed.

  One night he was jerked awake by the sound of men shouting outside, and the crash of steel. James had not heard the sound of battle for years, but his soul kindled at it. He hammered uselessly on the nailed and timbered door.

  “God for Saint George and King Henry!” he howled, “God for Lancaster! The White Hawk!”

  Eventually his howls faded to a hoarse croak, and the sound of fighting died down. Spent, James slumped to the cold floor, where he lay motionless and drifted into sleep.

  One morning, not many days after this strange incident, James received a visitor. He heard footsteps echo in the stairwell, and the murmur of low voices as the bar was lifted and keys jangled in the iron lock of his door.

  It was past his usual breakfast time, and dinner was not due for hours yet. Thinking they had come to kill him at last, he pressed his back against the wall next to the fireplace.

  His heart thumped. To die, now, when the hated Yorkists were starting to tear each other to pieces, seemed wretchedly unfair.

  James smiled mirthlessly. No doubt his brother Richard had thought it unfair, when the swords and halberds hacked into his body at Empingham. There was no justice in this world. Men got what they earned, not what they deserved.

  A man stepped into the chamber. He was not the usual gaoler, or the captain of the guard. James judged him to be a soldier, stocky and balding, with a couple of old scars on his ugly face.

  He looked and dressed like a common man-at-arms, in quilted jack and grubby hose, but spoke with the gentle courtesy of a knight.

  “Good morning, Master Bolton,” he said, bowing slightly, “I am Tyrrell.”

  “Sir Tyrrell?” James demanded, “Lord Tyrrell? Tyrrell what?”

  Tyrrell’s smile showed thick yellow teeth, with a few gaps. “Just Tyrrell,” he replied.

  He folded his brawny arms and ran a critical eye around the room. “Not half-bad,” he added, “and all paid for out of the King’s own pocket.”

  “He was a mere duke when I first came here,” said James. He watched Tyrrell carefully, especially the short sword hanging from his hip. The man looked like he knew how to use it.

  “True. And now he is king. His Majesty has many demands on his time, as I’m sure you can appreciate, but he has not forgotten you. He never forgets his friends.”

  James spluttered, and almost forgot his fear. “Friend? All my friends are dead, or exiled, and Richard Plantagenet is no king of mine.He is a usurper, like his brother before him. God will judge them both.”

  Tyrrell held up his big, powerful hands. “Forgive me,” he said with a little laugh, “an idle jest. I did not mean to provoke. Your loyalties are well-known. You will remain a Lancastrian until the day you die.”

  “There is nothing,” he added, “you would not do to hurt us.”

  It was a statement, not a question. James did not respond. This Tyrrell – assuming that was his name – would have to work a deal harder if he wanted James to utter treason.

  “It so happens,” Tyrrell said, in the same amiable tone, “that your wishes coincide with those of our lord king. There is a service he wishes you to perform.”

  “If he wants me to drive a knife into his heart, then I am his man,” James spat. Tyrrell laughed again.

  “No, no. His Majesty intends to enjoy a long and prosperous reign. First, however, he needs to rid himself of a certain inconvenience.”

  “What inconvenience?” James asked, intrigued despite himself.

  Tyrrell told him.

  “I thought your master was a subtle man,” James replied after a long moment, “but this is poor stuff. Go back and tell him that the years of captivity have not yet dulled my wits.”

  “You think he wishes to implicate you?” said Tyrrell, “not a bit of it. If the king wished you dead, Master Bolton, we would not be talking now. Remember the fate of Lord Hastings.”

  James stared at him, not knowing what to think. Could it be true? There was a certain dark logic to it all. Richard had already usurped his nephew’s throne. The next stage was to dispose of the boy, and his brother.

  He tried to think. It was surprisingly difficult. So many years of tedious routine, of talking to the same tiny handful of people, had caused his once-supple brain to rust.

  Richard was ruthless enough to send men to the block, with or without trial. Recent events had proved as much. But his own nephews? The eldest, Edward, was just twelve years old.

  The horror of it would shock Christendom. It didn’t shock James. Once, maybe, but there was nothing left of his old self. Years of festering hatred, and the all-consuming desire for revenge, had burned away the virtuous side of his character.

  “I will return this evening,” said Tyrrell, “have an answer for me then.”

  “Wait,” said James as the other man turned to go, “if I do this thing, what will Richard give me in return?”

  “Why, your freedom. Such a great service demands no less.”

  James had thought as much, and said nothing more. Tyrrell gave another polite little bow and left him in peace.

  He did not return until just before midnight. James had spent the day in prayer and contemplation, and was ready for him.

  “Well?” asked Tyrrell, standing in the doorway. He wore a black cloak over his jack, with the hood pushed back.

  James nodded sharply. Tyrrell stood to one side and spread his hand to indicate the door and the dark stairwell beyond.

  “After you,” he said.

  They swiftly descended the winding stairs, lit at intervals by torches in sconces fixed to the walls. James half-expected to find armed men waiting at the bottom, to arrest him on a charge of treason and conspiracy to murder. There was no-one.

  “That way,” said Tyrrell in a low voice, pointing to his left, and the rugged silhouette of the Lanthorn Tower. The turret at the top of the tower was used as a beacon for ships approaching the palace at night. As usual, a light blazed from the turret. No challenge sounded from the battlements as James and Tyrrell crept past.

  The night was warm, but James gave an involuntary shudder. They were approaching the Wakefiel
d Tower, the largest in the palace after the White Tower, and the place where his beloved lord, King Henry VI, had met his end.

  “Of pure melancholy and displeasure,” he muttered under his breath.

  A fresh surge of hate spurred him on. The Yorkists may have claimed Henry died of displeasure, but in his heart James knew the truth. The old king was murdered, brutally done to death in his cell by King Edward’s assassins.

  Tyrrell took him towards a small postern gate on the eastern side of the tower. A torch burned in a bracket on the wall to the left of the gate, and a hooded and cloaked figure stood waiting in front of it. There were no guards.

  The figure was a giant, a clear foot taller than James, and broad as a barn door.

  “Who’s this?” he hissed, glaring at Tyrrell.

  “Your companion in this work,” the other man replied curtly, “enough talk. Let us be doing.”

  James detected a slight unease in Tyrrell’s gentle voice. He was human, then. It would take a rare kind of man to remain totally unaffected.

  The giant stood aside as they approached the gate. James caught a glimpse of a smashed grey face under the hood, and a leather patch over one eye. The other shone in the torchlight like a doorway to Hell.

  Some condemned criminal, he reckoned, promised a pardon in return for performing one terrible deed. Or else an old Lancastrian soldier, willing, like James, to stoop to murder if it meant causing injury to the House of York.

  Tyrrell pushed open the gate and beckoned the others inside. A darkened stair lay beyond.

  As they climbed the steps, James strained to recall what he knew of the layout of the Tower. The postern gate was one of two that allowed private access to the royal apartments on the upper floors of the Wakefield Tower. For one heart-stopping moment he thought they were going to see King Richard, but remembered Richard was not in residence.

  Not King Richard, he reminded himself, Richard of Gloucester. Richard Plantagenet. Second in the line of Yorkist usurpers. God grant he will be the last.

  The door on the first floor of the tower was guarded by a single halberdier in royal livery. He stared straight ahead, silent and unblinking, as Tyrrell unlocked the door and led his companions into the round chamber beyond. A guardroom, judging from the weapons hanging in racks on the walls. Benches were stacked to one side, along with a trestle table. A set of dice, four neatly piled wooden bowls and an empty pewter jug sat on a shelf beside the arrow-slit window.

  All has been arranged, James thought grimly. The guard on the door was evidently one of Richard’s trusted retainers, guaranteed to see or hear nothing.

  The far door led to a narrow passage with a timber floor. A series of arrow-slits to the left overlooked Saint Thomas’ Tower and the gatehouse leading to the river. The three men filed in silence along the passage and through an archway to a small antechamber.

  James reckoned they were now on the first floor of the old water gate tower, known as The Garden Tower.

  “They are above us,” whispered Tyrrell, nodding at a doorway leading off from the antechamber, “the door to their bedchamber is unlocked. I saw to that.”

  “I have no weapon,” James hissed back. He glanced at the giant, and saw he was also unarmed.

  Tyrrell gave a dry little chuckle. “Of course not. There are to be no marks, you understand? It must be clean.”

  “Clean? There is nothing clean about this.”

  “You are wrong. My hands will remain spotless, and so will the king’s. Go to it.”

  James felt a flicker of hesitation. He had craved revenge on the Yorkists, begged and pleaded with God for a chance to strike his blow, but never imagined this.

  Too late. He was committed now, body and soul. The giant was already tramping up the steps with slow, heavy footfalls. His big hands twitched slightly as they hung listlessly by his sides, his only sign of nerves.

  With a final glance at Tyrrell, James followed.

  The stair ended at a black door. His companion halted and slowly reached out one long arm to push it open.

  Pitch darkness lay beyond, and silence, punctuated by the sound of two boys breathing peacefully in their sleep.

  James stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  Afterwards, he descended with the lifeless body of Richard of York slung over his shoulder. The giant carried the slightly heavier form of Prince Edward.

  They found Tyrrell waiting for them, along with four other men. All five held daggers. Steel breastplates glinted under the cloaks of Tyrrell’s companions.

  “Put the bodies down,” Tyrrell ordered, “we shall dispose of them.”

  James did as he was told, and carefully laid Prince Richard’s corpse on the bare stone floor. A sturdy child, with the broad, flat features and hooded eyes of his father. Those eyes now stared glassily at the ceiling. James had crushed the life out of him with a pillow, while the giant did the same to Edward.

  “Well done,” said Tyrrell “you have both earned your freedom.”

  James knew – he had always known – exactly what kind of freedom Richard Plantagenet offered. He stood up and spread his arms wide as the men with daggers closed in.

  “Tell your master,” he said calmly, “that I look forward to greeting him in Hell.”

  He grunted as the blades entered his body, but did not scream or cry out. His companion was a different matter, and squealed like a frightened pig until one of the soldiers had the presence of mind to slash his throat.

  James slowly slid to the floor. His life bled from nine stab-wounds. Shadows rose around him. He thought he saw people. Familiar faces, long departed. His father. His brother.

  The shadows darkened and closed over his head.

  Chapter 8

  Maud had no tears. They refused to come, even when she saw Sir Geoffrey Malvern riding through London in the front rank of Richard of Gloucester’s household knights. The memory of what he had done to her still had the power to cut like a knife. Still there were no tears.

  Weeks later, she stood under the gatehouse of the Tower and gazed up at the severed head of her brother James, mounted on a pole alongside the heads of his fellow traitors. She was dry-eyed.

  Maud had not seen James for twelve years, but would have recognised him anywhere, at any time. His face was thinner than she remembered, and his flaming red hair and beard much longer, rank with grease and blood, but he was still her kin.

  No-one else knew him, or the other fresh head that had appeared above the gatehouse of the Tower. The second was hideous, like a frowning ape, with a missing eye and lank grey hair. They had simply appeared one morning, having presumably been added to the ranks of traitors during the night. The general opinion was that they had belonged to two of the fifty men arrested for trying to storm the Tower.

  “The rest will soon follow,” said Long Kate, Maud’s friend and fellow whore, “the new king don’t abide traitors. He has their heads off, sharp as you like.”

  Maud looked sidelong at her friend. Long Kate was aptly named, a thin, consumptive streak of a woman, unusually tall for her sex, with spindly limbs and long pale fingers. She was surprisingly popular among the patrons of The Cardinal’s Hat, who seemed to enjoy her novelty value.

  It was tempting to strike her. Maud resisted the urge. Her past was a secret she shared with nobody.

  Almost nobody. She looked up at her brother’s head again, the awful dead thing stuck on the end of a spike, and cast her mind back to the old days, before the disasters of Barnet and Tewkesbury.

  James was always the dark one of the family, a shameless drunk and womaniser and possibly the worst chaplain in the kingdom. He was also kind, and brave, and risked his life over and again carrying messages between Margaret of Anjou and the Earl of Warwick. All three were dead now, along with their causes.

  She had no way of knowing why James died. Nor did she care overmuch. The last of her brothers was gone. True, Martin was not accounted for, but Maud refused to entertain false hopes. His bon
es almost certainly lay in one of the grave-pits at Tewkesbury, into which the Yorkists had dumped the corpses of their slaughtered enemies.

  It fell to her to avenge them. She, a weak and degraded woman in a world governed by pitiless men. If the Yorkists ever discovered her true identity, they would cut off her head and place it beside her brother’s. Two pairs of dead eyes, staring out over London until they rotted or were devoured by hungry ravens.

  There was a way. Maud had turned aside from it long ago, preferring to keep a whole skin, but there was little to fear now. She would no longer sell her body.

  “I’m going for a walk, Kate,” she said, “tell Theresa I will be back later.”

  Kate gave her a suspicious look. “How much later? We’ve been busy these past weeks, and likely to be again tonight.”

  “Later.”

  Maud pushed through the ranks of beggars and idlers gawping at the awful trophies. She didn’t look back, even when Kate shouted after her.

  She made her way west, past Saint Paul’s and on to Greyfriars. Few paid her any heed, the slender dark-haired girl in worn and patched clothing. Occasionally a wagon rattled past, splashing her already soiled dress with wet mud, and a group of drunken toughs lolling outside a tavern jeered at her. She responded with an obscene gesture and hurried on, pursued by mocking laughter.

  Eventually she came to a wide street lined with modest but decent houses. Compared to Southwark, there was air of cleanliness and respectability about the place. Every house boasted a small but neatly-kept garden.

  Maud fought against a sense of shame and dread. This part of the city was not for her. She was a creature of the stews, the brothels and taverns and crooked alleyways. Women like her were not welcome here, unless invited under cover of darkness.

  She approached a house halfway down the street, to the left, with a pretty red door and half-timbered upper storey. Maud stopped and glanced around the street. There might be any number of eyes watching from hidden windows.

  Foolish, she thought, I should have waited until dusk. Anger has made me over-bold.