Richard clapped his hands. ‘Let him land! I shall have him when he does and then perhaps the realm may have some peace.’
‘I think he will not know Buckingham has failed in his rebellion,’ gushed Tyrell.
‘Then we must not disabuse him; rather let him believe that Buckingham has won the day. Where is he expected to make landfall?’
‘That is difficult to say, Your Grace, given the state of the winds from Brittany,’ replied Tyrell. ‘I would expect somewhere around the coast of Cornwall . . . perhaps?’
King Richard paced the room, thinking out what was his best course.
‘We shall move with the army to Exeter,’ he ordered. ‘Have the coast watched and report to me there.’
‘Rebels are still holding out around Bodmin and Plymouth, Your Grace,’ advised Catesby.
‘Then we shall deal with them from Exeter,’ he declared. ‘They will not last long seeing most of their leaders have already deserted them. Sir James, get you hence with your men to Cornwall. See to it they are well armed. Master Laurence, you will go with them and see to their harness.’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’ Laurence swept the king a low bow of obeisance.
‘Oh, and Sir James, see to the arrangements for the execution of the traitor Buckingham before you leave. Sir Ralph Assheton will have pronounced over him by now. I would have him out of this world before we depart for Exeter.’
‘Everything is in hand, Your Grace. He will be gone early on the morrow.’
‘Give word for my captains to attend upon me,’ called the king. Immediately his retainers scuttled around crying for messengers to get word to the nobles in command of the king’s army. Laurence and Sir James Tyrell bowed and backed from the king’s presence.
*
The sun next morning crept up on a world shrouded behind thin grey cloud. The year 1483 had turned to November with yet much unresolved campaigning to do in spite of the near impossible weather conditions. None of this bothered the Duke of Buckingham as he was brought to the scaffold erected in the market square at Salisbury. The leaden aspect of the skies could hardly be more oppressive than the weight that bore on his soul.
Harry of Buckingham was not ready to die.
Most of his days had been spent at his estates where he oppressed his people and grumbled about his wife, Katherine Wydville, a commoner whom he felt was beneath him. He kept away from Edward’s court and had few thoughts on his title to the throne of England, other than the petty jealousy his distant claim might have engendered in his breast. Unlike Henry Tudor, his mother had not stirred him to revolt; that was entirely his own doing and he bitterly regretted it now. Why hadn’t he remained at Brecon and eschewed Richard’s court as he had Edward’s?
When Edward died, he realized there was much to play for. Ever the opportunist plotter, Margaret Beaufort, Lady Stanley, through her friend and fellow conspirator Bishop John Morton, had told him of her plans for her son Henry, and when it was discovered the two sons of King Edward were barred from the succession, suddenly ambition, hitherto but a smouldering scrap within his brain, burst into flame. Lady Stanley it was who put the idea in his head that the two boys might be disposed of to clear the way for another claimant. Of course, the Beaufort woman believed that would be her son, but Buckingham thought he could prosecute his own agenda, fool that he was. He would help Richard of Gloucester to the throne and persuade him to murder the two boys to eliminate any further claim by them. This would turn the people against Richard, which should have made it easy to remove him. Afterwards he, Buckingham, would revoke his support for Henry Tudor and take the throne. That is what should have happened, and it had nearly worked – if only the weather had not turned, or Henry Tudor had made it with his promised army of five thousand. King Richard had recoiled from the suggestion of murder and now the boys were gone to ground. At least the Beaufort woman was confounded in that. What a fool he had been to think he could outwit the subtlest plotter in the realm.
They shoved him towards the steps of the scaffold. He was unable to control his trembling limbs and tears ran down his cheeks as he heard, somewhere distant, the intonations of the priest they had allowed him. The priest was following behind, hastily brought from the cathedral. Bishop Lionel of Salisbury had been one of the rebels who had fled at the approach of the king. This was a minor cleric, commanded to attend the duke in his last moments. At Wem he had been hiding, disguised as a humble serving man, and the same rags he had been caught in flapped about his cold limbs. All his effort had been taken up by his constant pleading to be brought to the king and he had not thought to ask for his own robes. If only he could throw himself at the feet of the king and explain how foolish he had been, put the blame where it rightly belonged on Margaret Beaufort and Bishop Morton. He would retire to his estates and never leave them again, just as he had when King Edward reigned. King Richard would never again hear a single treasonable utterance from Henry Stafford.
The block was before him. They had not even taken the trouble to hide the axe that would separate his head from his body. The axeman, a great hulking fellow, was scowling with contempt as he saw the pathetic duke having to be shoved on to the scaffold. Nobles were very good at condemning others to death and, truth to tell, they mostly met their own bravely.
But Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was not ready to die.
His contrition was absolute – the king . . . just let me speak to Richard.
He felt himself grabbed from behind, his arms pinioned, and now he was being pushed down, his neck on the block. Please, the king, it wasn’t me – my friend, just one word, mercy . . .
*
‘It is fortunate that you two came along,’ growled Tyrell, as he, Laurence and the soldier David Morgan rode at the head of his troop of armed men. ‘I can never get any sense from those hereabouts, with their confounded cackling.’
Laurence, a Breton who had many difficulties with the variety of English dialects he encountered about the realm, grinned smugly. In and around Cornwall they spoke Breton, or at least a version of it that was close to the language of his homeland, as was Welsh. He and David, as near native speakers, had little difficulty in conversing with the local population. Thus they had discovered the state of the rebellion in the area. Certain rebels were still holding out, though they were confining themselves behind castle walls rather than ranging about the land. Their leaders, once they had committed to rebellion, had little choice other than to flee the country or stay and brazen it out, hoping, no doubt, for a king’s pardon. So it was that they had managed to get towards Plymouth without any resistance. Villages and town streets were devoid of people as they rode through, and where they found an inn for the night, the locals seemed to have suddenly become abstemious regarding their drink and kept to their own firesides.
‘Our king, I think, is too free with his pardons,’ grumbled Tyrell. ‘Folk believe they only have to keep their heads down for a time and no retribution will be visited upon them. King Edward would have made them pay dearly for daring to rise against him.’
‘Perhaps King Richard understands how they have been fooled into thinking their king is wont to murder babes as they sleep – that is one of the rumours going about,’ offered Laurence. ‘Violent retribution among the general population would rather tend to confirm them in that belief.’
‘The king acts firmly enough with the leaders, though,’ said David. ‘Buckingham was shown no mercy whatsoever and Thomas Saint Leger, the husband of the king’s own sister, is also taken and due to suffer the same as Buckingham.’
‘He takes it badly when treachery involves those in his own family. They suffer most who offend against King Richard’s personal motto – Loyaulté me lie,’ said Laurence. ‘Former friendship or family influence is no defence for treason.’
‘The expectation locally seems to be that Henry Tudor will come with an army and invade the realm to bring justice and depose one they have been told is a tyrannical king,’ mused David.
‘Yes, and the area around Plymouth is a likely place, seeing as he comes from Brittany. It was about eighty years ago Bretons captured the town and occupied it for a time,’ Laurence informed them. ‘The whole coast around here is convenient for the winds that blow from Brittany.’
They rode on the Devon side beyond Plymouth, heading towards Wembury. There were extensive views across the sea and they considered it the best place to look for Tudor’s invading ships. For one thing there was a beach there. The wind whipped around them and every man huddled inside his riding cloak with hoods pulled up over their sallets. As they topped the rise above Wembury they could see Plymouth Sound vastly extending to the west and across the sea to the south, their vision disappeared into a grey haze long before reaching a far horizon. A curiously peaked island, nothing more than a rock, rose from the sea as if marking the whereabouts of a convenient landing place.
And there he was, the Tudor! Not, as they had supposed, with a fleet, but just two carracks, one flying the flag of Brittany and the other displaying a red dragon, which Henry Tudor had politically selected as his badge, hoping for support from his uncle Jasper’s followers in Wales. The vessels were clearly having great difficulty holding station in the rough sea; though they had ventured near enough to drop anchor, they would not be able to remain there for long.
Tyrell turned to one of his men and sent him off to inform King Richard that they had found Tudor.
‘Let us dismount and make our way on to the headland where we can be seen,’ suggested Laurence. ‘We should keep our mounts out of sight lest they perceive they are dealing with soldiers rather than local rebels. Hopefully we might entice a landing. Once on shore we can invite them inland and move them towards the king’s army.’
‘Laurence and I can talk to them, in Breton and Welsh. They won’t expect to be addressed thus by King Richard’s men. It might fool Tudor into coming ashore.’
‘By the Virgin, it would be a feather in our caps if we could capture Henry Tudor,’ gushed Tyrell, his face alight with the idea. ‘Keep our pennons out of sight and cover your livery with your cloaks,’ he commanded his sergeant, who promptly ordered the men to dismount and tether their horses safely. Tyrell had thirty armed men in his command, enough to deal with a small force, yet it was not known how many were in the ships. It was unlikely Henry Tudor would come ashore before his soldiers, so subterfuge was their best chance. Once they began to move inland, Tyrell was confident he could at least cut off their retreat when they finally detected the deception. Hopefully the king would have sent reinforcements by then.
They ranged themselves at intervals along the headland in plain view of the ships. Spread out thus they would not appear a disciplined military force. In front of them was a coastal path that led down to the beach.
‘I think that David and I should go to the beach as if in expectation of their arrival,’ said Laurence. ‘If those are Breton soldiers they will be more likely to come ashore if they hear a fellow countryman address them.’
‘Good idea,’ enthused Tyrell. ‘But first, remove your surcoats. Present yourselves plainly and they might come to us.’
Laurence and David shrugged off their cloaks and removed their surcoats, which were coloured murrey and blue and emblazoned with the badge of the white boar. Both had leather jacks beneath, which were suitably restrained in appearance, as would be expected apparel for country rebels. Their riding cloaks were of oiled brown wool and also dour, providing them a degree of anonymity. Thus clad, the two of them tramped down the path and made their way to just above the tide line. The sea was rough and breakers were rolling on to the shore. Any boat trying to get ashore would have much trouble. They wrapped their cloaks around themselves against the biting cold of the wind, and waited, staring out across the breaking waves to the vessels pitching and tossing on the sea. They could just make out the heads of men ranged along the decks and up on the fore- and after-castles.
Presently, one of the vessels lowered a boat and a few men managed to clamber into it and pull for the shore. Laurence guessed the boatmen must be Breton seamen, perhaps fishermen, as only superb boat-handling would get them ashore and then off again. Skilfully the oarsmen in the boat breasted the surging surf and let the bow slide into the shallows, whereupon they leapt out and dragged it partly out of the water. They were, indeed, dressed as rough Breton seamen. Laurence stepped up to them and gave them a hand in securing the boat. He greeted them in Breton and immediately had their attention. He stood back as another, dressed as a noble, clambered out of the boat and stood, somewhat gratefully, on the shore. On closer scrutiny he had the look of a rough soldier about him, though he was dressed in a fine brown leather doublet under a scarlet cloak. A sallet with a rather sad yellow plume covered his head. His hose was dark blue and he wore boots that came almost up to his knees.
‘Greetings and welcome to England,’ ventured Laurence in Breton.
‘Welcome? That is what I am here to discover,’ came the arrogant reply, though in the same language. By his accent and manner, Laurence thought he recognized a mercenary captain rather than a court noble. Brittany had many such for hire, and Henry Tudor would probably need quite a few if his invasion was to have any chance of success. However, there were many exiles from England, particularly among the Wydville family and their followers. He had wondered if one of these would come ashore first. Apparently not; it seemed the Tudor wasn’t taking any chances.
‘Henri Vasson, at your service.’ The Breton gave him a perfunctory bow. Laurence responded with a deeper bow. ‘Who are you – a Breton?’ enquired Henri.
‘I am, in the service of Duke Francis the second. I am his agent here in England, Laurence de la Halle.’
David came over and joined them.
‘Where is the rest of the fleet?’ he asked the Breton.
‘Ah, a Welshman, I perceive,’ said Henri Vasson. ‘My lord, the Earl of Richmond, will no doubt be glad to hear such accents again. As for the fleet, we are dispersed. Unless they find us here we shall not land.’
Laurence felt a pang of desperation.
‘But the rebellion – my lord the Duke of Buckingham awaits Henry, Earl of Richmond to continue his march towards London. The king’s cause is lost and he has fled north.’ Laurence injected a note of urgency, which he hoped would encourage the man to report the fictional situation to his master. He included the Tudor’s self-proclaimed title to add legitimacy to his statement.
‘The king is beaten, you say?’
‘He is, and will remain so if only we can consolidate our gains; to do that we need my lord of Richmond with us. The people will rally to his banner.’
Henri Vasson gazed up at the men standing casually on the headland. ‘Who are these?’ he said, sweeping an arm to encompass Tyrell’s men.
‘They are followers of William Collingbourne,’ replied Laurence hurriedly. Collingbourne, a name he knew from Cornelius, had been in contact with Henry Tudor in Brittany and was one of those attempting to get him to invade England. He expected the Breton mercenary would know the name too.
‘Collingbourne? I had not been told he was to meet us here.’
‘We had no clear idea where you would appear. There are other followers of Buckingham along the coast. It just so happens that here is where Collingbourne’s men are placed.’ The mercenary looked up at the men on the headland, carefully considering what he had heard. ‘I must impress upon you the need for all speed, otherwise the king will have time to reform his army. If we act quickly we can be in London within a week.’
‘We are too few,’ muttered Henri, half to himself. ‘We should wait for the others in our fleet.’
‘Henry Tudor is worth ten thousand or more should he land and meet up with Buckingham,’ responded Laurence enticingly. ‘His mother, Margaret Beaufort, the lady Stanley, is poised to bring her husband’s men into the cause. She only waits upon her son.’
At the name of Lady Stanley the Breton mercenary made up his mind
. The fact he was conversing with one of his own countrymen along with a Welshman encouraged him to believe them. The other Tudor, Jasper, had lands in Wales and he knew they were expected to gain much support there.
‘Very well, I shall convey your news to the earl. First, I will take a closer look at those men on the headland. I need to know we are sufficient in number to make our way inland.’
He began the tramp upwards by the rough pathway. Laurence tried to think of something to dissuade him without making it look suspicious, but was unable to do so. He exchanged a glance with David whose face remained passive, indicating they had little choice. He hoped Tyrell would have enough time to get all signs of identification off his men before they encountered the mercenary.
They could tell by Tyrell’s facial expression that he had no idea how to respond to the presence of the man Laurence and David were bringing to him. Those of his men close to him had either removed their surcoats or had wrapped themselves in their cloaks to prevent identification as the king’s men.
‘This is Captain James,’ said Laurence by way of introduction. ‘He commands Collingbourne’s men.’ A flicker of confusion passed over Tyrell’s face and Laurence hoped the mercenary had not noted it. ‘May I present Monsieur Henri Vasson, one of the captains in the army of our lord, the Earl of Richmond?’
Tyrell, catching on, swept the Breton a bow.
‘I am relieved you have come at last,’ he managed to get out.
‘Monsieur Henri wishes to know our strength before he will report to the earl it is safe to land.’
‘I understand,’ said Tyrell brightly. ‘We are thirty armed men in all, a useful number when added to your men in the ships.’
‘Are they well accoutred?’ said Henri, speaking in English while looking at the man nearest to Tyrell. All were cloaked against the wind that roared across the headland from the sea, obscuring their weapons. Tyrell nodded at one of his men.
Grant Me the Carving of My Name: An anthology of short fiction inspired by King Richard III Page 6
