“Hastings knew?” he snapped, and the bishop nodded. “’Tis hard to believe he has not come forward since my brother’s death to prevent a wrongful crowning. It was his duty.”
Catesby suddenly stepped forward. “May I suggest that this is why Jane Shore was seen at Westminster, my lord. Could he be in league with the queen and sent his mistress as a go-between?”
“Hastings despises Elizabeth more than most,” Richard retorted, twisting his ring. “Why would he choose to side with her rather than with me?”
The lawyer’s mind saw a plausible reason. “Perhaps he resents your new order, my lord,” Catesby ventured, braving his lord’s displeasure. “You have chosen my lord Buckingham as your second in command, easing out Lord Hastings from the position he held with the late king. Since my lord bishop’s story has revealed that Hastings has known all along, he may want to offer his help to the queen to oust you and, as a reward, become the new king’s close advisor.”
Richard noted Catesby’s easy betrayal of his one-time mentor, but all that consumed him now was the lawyer’s implication. If Hastings aided the queen and together were able to get possession of the young king, Richard would lose everything he had strived for. They could easily silence Stillington—and him. Buckingham and Catesby would be finished without him, and no one would listen to them. Then nobody would know the truth. He stared at the floor, but aware all eyes were on him, he rose and began to pace.
Buckingham, who had no love for Hastings, broke the silence by bringing his fist down on the table, making everyone start. “By the Virgin, the man has threatened the royal line by remaining silent. If young Edward is a bastard, he should not be king. Hastings has deceived you, the council and the whole kingdom. He is a traitor and should be punished!”
Richard thought so too, but not so much for keeping silent as for plotting to oust the rightful protector. In Richard’s eyes, the man’s loyalty was now doubly suspect. At the May council meeting, Hastings had sworn to uphold Richard as protector and regent until Edward was crowned and able to assume kingly duties. Richard was king in all but name. But now it seemed, just as Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan had attempted to deny Richard’s right as protector at Stony Stratford, Hastings was plotting to do the same.
Richard made up his mind. He must do what was right for England, and he must protect himself and his family from whatever Elizabeth Woodville was conspiring. That very night he had John Kendall write an urgent letter to York, beseeching the loyal city to give him aid: …we heartily pray you to come unto us to London in all the diligence you can after reading this, and with as many as you can defensibly array, there to aid and assist us against the queen, her blood adherents and affinity, which have intended, and daily do intend, to murder and utterly destroy us and our cousin of Buckingham and the old blood of the realm… John Kendall paused in his writing and looked up. “You are certain, my lord?” he asked.
Richard nodded. “It has come to my attention that the queen’s astrologer has been busy plotting my chart, and you know they are not doing it to pass the time.” He did not mention his excruciating back pain at night and his suspicions that the queen was putting a curse on him.
Kendall gave a low whistle of surprise. “Then let us hurry and finish this,” he said, dipping his quill in the ink.
“I will send Ratcliffe to York, so they know I am serious,” Richard said. He dictated a few more lines and subsided into his chair, listening to Kendall’s scratching. His mind wrestled with all the pieces of information he had been given in the last few days and where it all led. He suddenly saw clearly what should be done.
Hastings must be punished.
“What will you do?” Anne asked, her face pinched with worry. “Hastings served Edward loyally. Are you accusing him because he took a mistress? Be careful, Richard. You, too, committed adultery.”
Richard swiveled to face his wife. “How dare you! Are you calling me a hypocrite?” he demanded. “Are you still jealous of Kate? After all these years? Nay, do not answer that, the subject is not important.” He ignored her tiny gasp of hurt. “What is important is how I deal with this new information and how I lead England out of a morass. This news will cause a crisis of the monarchy. According to English law, young Edward cannot be king and Hastings knew it and said nothing. He was willing to keep silent so that he might stay in power. And worse, he has been plotting to undermine my position as protector by going to the Woodvilles. I cannot allow him the freedom to continue down this path. He must be contained—nay, detained.”
Anne had retreated to the bed and was watching him stalk up and down. What had happened to the man she loved who had ridden grieving from Middleham not six weeks before? She had been stung by his retort, but she recognized he was merely lashing out at the nearest person because he was angry and afraid. She decided to appeal to his fair-minded, honorable self.
“I understand now why you are upset, my dear, but do not let your anger impede justice. William Hastings should be given the chance to defend himself in a fair trial. You will grant him that at least?” she implored him. “If not, what will people think of you? What will God think?”
“God knows I am right!” Richard shot back and then mumbled, “if He is even listening anymore.” Nothing Anne could say would change his mind. Hastings’ silence and subsequent plotting was a treasonable offense. “I must do what is right for England now,” he told his alarmed wife. “You can pray for me if you want, but I can no longer wait for His counsel.”
“My lord, I am innocent of treason, I swear!” Will Hastings cried, his ruddy face ashen with fear. “I have no knowledge of any plot to overthrow you. Whoever says so is a liar.”
Unmoved, Richard watched as the big man wrestled out of the guards’ hold to go down on his knees and beg for his life.
Despite telling Anne to the contrary, Richard had spent hours on his own knees the night before, but not only did his aching back interfere with his prayers but voices from his past insisted on whispering in his ear, tormenting him and shutting out anything God might have advised.
“He was my most loyal servant and friend,” Edward’s ghost reminded him.
“A good man and true,” Warwick’s agreed.
And even George from his grave had admonished him: “Don’t blame Hastings, blame the Woodville woman.” But then Richard of York’s face, all bloodied, its head crowned with paper, spoke, “Remember your duty, my son, to God, to England and to York.”
“It is what I am doing, Father,” Richard had whispered into the darkness. “I am trying to uphold my position and govern my nephew and England as faithfully as I can. But I fear betrayal—betrayal by those I thought were friends.”
“Then you know what you must do.” His father’s words reverberated in Richard’s exhausted brain as the image faded. But it was the last voice he had heard last night that made him cringe. “Sometimes you must play God, Richard Plantagenet,” the murdered King Henry murmured. “You played it once before, remember. Now you must do it again for the good of England. I said ’twould not be easy.”
Richard banished Henry’s ghost now and, clearheaded, he glared at Hastings. “Take him away,” he commanded the guards. “Let him be shriven, but then execute the traitor!”
The others in the meeting room gasped as Hastings was pulled to his feet.
Jack Howard stepped forward. “Without trial, my lord? Where is justice in such haste? What is proof of his treason?”
“Aye,” Thomas Stanley, Margaret Beaufort’s husband, agreed, “we must have proof.”
“Look to your wife,” Richard spat at him. “She is not innocent in this.” And Stanley cowered in his chair. His fellow councilors, Lord Chancellor Rotherham and John Morton, bishop of Ely, remained silent. Richard knew why—they were complicit, he felt certain of it.
“As protector and chief constable of England I do not need to answer to any of you, but I will tell you that Lord Hastings has been dealing secretly with the queen to plot my downfall
.”
“’Tis a lie!” Hastings cried, now terrified. “Why do you accuse me of this?”
“Your mistress was seen visiting the queen in sanctuary. Prove to me you did not send her. ’Tis certain the two have been practicing witchcraft to aid my demise,” and he held out his stiffened arm. His superstition blamed witchcraft at this volatile time instead of a perfectly natural result of sleeping heavily on one side of his body. “Do you see their work?” he shouted. “Witchcraft, I tell you, and I have sent Tom Howard to convey Mistress Shore to prison for it.”
Richard was surprised by the anguish in Hastings’ face. The man is in love with the harlot, Richard realized. Was she really so desirable, or did the woman’s witchery entrap her prey, including his brother Edward, which had led to his demise? She was immoral and a necromancer, and he was right to arrest her. All of these thoughts further enraged him. “If that is not enough for you, my lord,” he continued, loudly, “then shall I accuse you of withholding a secret from me and the council that would put the monarchy in jeopardy. You have such a secret, do you not? And by not confiding it to me, you have betrayed your country and your king.”
With this damning disclosure Hastings knew he was doomed. He knew exactly to what Richard was referring. As Richard divulged to the others the devastating secret as reported by Bishop Stillington the night before, Hastings’ legs crumpled under him and he fell to his knees. The councilors exchanged worried glances, and Jack Howard sat down hard.
Frantic, Hastings attempted to defend himself. “I was always faithful to your brother, Richard. ’Twas his secret I held, God help me.” He appealed to the group, wringing his hands. “My lords, you know me. You know my loyalty is to the king! I implore you, speak for me now. I am no traitor.”
Either in fear that they might be the next in line to face Gloucester’s wrath or they were too stunned, no one spoke. Hastings tried again: “Richard, for the love of God—and of your brother, punish me for immorality, for lacking in judgment, but do not accuse me of disloyalty.” When Richard turned away, in desperation Hastings raised his voice. “Remember your oath, Richard of Gloucester!” he cried. “You pledged to protect your nephew’s throne. Some protector! I believe you are only serving yourself.” Now petrified and with nothing to lose, he warned the others: “Mark my words, my lords, Gloucester seeks the crown. He destroys me for no other reason.”
Richard’s fist smashed down on the table and shouted, “The reason is treason!”
At that, more guards rushed into the room causing the councilors to leap from their seats in surprise. They were even more surprised when Richard ordered the arrest of the three unsuspecting of them he believed were Hastings’ and Elizabeth’s co-conspirators: Rotherham, Morton and the loudly protesting Stanley.
Hastings, now firmly held by his guards, cried triumphantly: “You see, my lords, I was right. The lord protector has his eye on the crown.”
“Away!” Richard shouted, pointing towards the door to an outer stair. “Find a block and execute him at once.”
When the prisoners were removed and Hastings’ loud protestations could still be heard, Jack got down on his shaking knees. “Come, my lord, the least we can do is to pray for Will Hastings’ soul.” Only his long association with Richard gave him the courage to suggest this generous action. “You know in your heart he deserves our prayers.”
But Richard was in no mood. He had yet another violent death to beg God’s mercy for, and this one would surely lie as heavily on his heart. “You pray for him, Jack,” he said as he left the room. I’m beyond prayers now, he thought. I fear no prayer can bridge this chasm between me and God. Nay, I will answer to no one but England now; it is she alone in whom I must put my faith. She is my religion now.
Chapter Twenty-Five
June 15–July 7, 1483
“Hastings is dead!” The cry rippled out from the Tower down the narrow lanes and alleys of the city and sent the citizens into the streets in alarm. They were used to seeing the genial Hastings alongside the king enjoying an ale at one tavern and a wench at another. “He was one of us,” an innkeeper told his neighbors as they hurried to the standard on the Chepe, where important announcements were made. “What has he done? Better be ready for trouble,” he said, picking up a stout stick. Others brought their tools and weapons with them, shooing children back indoors. They needed answers in these uncertain times. Questions were being asked as to why the queen remained in sanctuary and refused to let her younger son join his brother in the Tower. What was it about the protector that frightened the woman enough to choose to stay at the abbey in relative discomfort? Already he had postponed the much anticipated coronation twice in his six-week term as regent. The most suspicious of them whispered that the king’s uncle might have designs on the throne himself. “Just like his brother Clarence,” they said.
At the standard, a trumpeter silenced the rowdy crowd that was shaking staffs, knives, pikes, and fists. A herald rode forward and read the proclamation from the royal council: “In so much as William, Lord Hastings has been discovered plotting with her grace the queen and others of her affinity to destroy the lord protector and my lord Buckingham so as to rule our sovereign Edward and the king-dom at his own pleasure, the charge of treason warranted his immediate punishment. The said Hastings was also charged, with his co-conspirator and concubine Jane Shore, of bringing about the demise of the late King Edward through their immoral and licentious way of life. Therefore, Lord Hastings was executed in the Tower this day, the thirteenth day of June, by order of the lord protector, his grace the duke of Gloucester.”
The mayor ascended the Chepe Cross steps: “The government, our city, and the kingdom hav-ing thus been secured, you are required to return to your homes and put away your weapons.”
Apprentices, mercers, butchers and bakers, goodwives, weavers, tailors and wherrymen stood for a moment to absorb the extraordinary news before an excited buzz of conversation supplanted the silence as they dispersed. Most accepted the lord protector’s action as necessary—if sudden, but others of a more cynical nature had to ask, if the popular Lord Hastings could be despatched so swiftly, was anyone safe?
When Thomas Grey, marquess of Dorset, escaped from sanctuary the very next day, Richard was further convinced he had been right about the conspiracy.
“We must increase security at the Tower in case he tries to capture the king,” Richard told the council in the Star Chamber two days later. “After all, until I relieved him of the post when he went into sanctuary, he had been constable of the Tower and thus is well known there. He will be seeking to join with his mother’s followers, so we must find him quickly. My lord Buckingham, I shall count on you to spread a net throughout the city.”
Whether Richard noticed the subdued demeanor of the members was doubtful given his heightened anxiety. With Hastings executed and Stanley, Morton, and Rotherham still in custody, the rest of the council members feared for their own safety and so watched Richard warily.
Surely of all the items needing discussion that day the pre-contract was the most important, and yet Richard hesitated to give it voice. Of those present only Harry, Howard, and Ratcliffe knew of it, although rumors were surely rife, but those three were loyal, and Richard decided it must wait. Before he could proclaim the news publicly, he was determined to make sure he had custody of the king’s younger brother in case of any insurrection following the announcement. He spoke slowly and deliberately hoping to sound in control. But Richard was far from being in control. In fact, he decided, his labored speech might easily have been mistaken for inebriation. He explained why it had been necessary to put Hastings to death, and although there were murmurings and surreptitious glances, no one dared interrupt the protector. The time was ripe for Richard to make his move.
“Regarding the preparations for the coronation,” he continued, more naturally now, “it is my certain belief that Edward cannot be crowned until Richard of York is retrieved from his mother. He is heir to the
throne and must be under my protection. With the escape of Dorset, we cannot afford to take any chances with the boy. I am afraid we shall have to resort to force if necessary.”
Several members nodded, but Francis was perturbed. “Force, my lord? In sanctuary?”
“The archbishop assured me that because the boy is not there of his own volition nor has he done anything wrong to warrant his being there, it is within our legal right to remove him. It is not the way I would prefer to proceed, but if we want a coronation, we must secure the heir.” Richard’s tired back had begun to force his head forward, but to his audience it merely looked like bullheadedness. They stayed silent. After what had happened to the respected Hastings, who could blame them? “Sir John, I trust you can arrange to accompany the archbishop with an armed escort. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
Richard rose painfully from his chair, unwilling to answer possible questions about any rumors of the pre-contract. Later, he thought, I will tell them later. His discomfort was overriding his usual logic or he might have understood that the longer he waited, the more his detractors would view him as coveting the crown.
Fortunately, no one was surprised when he left the meeting early. It was true, Richard did not look well; he had hardly slept since the execution. He had taken to downing several cups of wine to help make him drowsy, but it just gave him headaches in the morning.
“I am haunted by bad dreams if I do manage to sleep. Ah, Anne, how I wish we could just ride home to Middleham,” he confessed later that night. “How I long for the life we had there, away from such turmoil.”
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