We Speak No Treason Vol 2 Read online

  ‘Farewell, your Grace.’ There was unfeigned mockery in his obeisance.

  ‘So you leave us, Harry,’ said the King carefully.

  ‘With regret, Sire. Business is pressing.’

  I stood by Richard, as the Duke rode close to us.

  ‘Your Grace’s answer remains the same?’ he asked softly.

  There was a look like flint that Richard could employ at times.

  ‘You know me well enough, my lord,’ he said. ‘I never retract my word. About your pressing business then, I pray you. We shall, I think, miss your company.’

  ‘Farewell, Sire,’ Buckingham said again. He clipped spurs, two diamonds, into sleek hide and took off along the Hereford road, Brecon bound. There were two children clinging to the walls.

  ‘Look! The King!’ cried one. He clambered down swiftly, almost beneath the heels of Buckingham’s train.

  ‘Silly Billy, that’s not King Richard!’ But the other, childlike, ran waving, and Buckingham, pleased, dropped gold with a laugh, and rode from the town. That was the last I ever saw of him.

  Passing through Sudbury Gate into Worcester, where the Welsh lilt grew stronger and the faces narrower with slanted eyes, we were greeted by Bishop and Mayor. They had a strongbox containing more than a thousand pounds for Richard, and again he refused it. ‘Rather your hearts than your money,’ he said, with a smile.

  ‘He’s not like Edward,’ said a butcher from the Shambles.

  ‘But he has a good face,’ his daughter said, jumping on tiptoe to see.

  ‘He’s gone into the church. To see King John’s tomb.’

  ‘He’s up at Castle Gaol,’ said one blackbrowed adventurer, caressing his bawd and laughing.

  ‘He’s letting out all the prisoners!’ cried the landlord of the Talbot.

  ‘Peace, peace,’ called a friar. ‘He is but hearing their grievances. He observes their diet, sniffs the air they breathe, listens to their double-tongued knavish tales. He’s not like Edward...’

  ‘I like well his countenance,’ said the butcher’s daughter. ‘And when he smiles ’tis fair.’

  At Tewkesbury, a change clothed him. The gaiety was forsworn. He walked slowly up the flags to the North Door. There was no blood, no harness gutted with blows, as on the last occasion. In the royal purple, with his crown, he knelt in penance before the aged Abbot. Then we followed him past the sleeping Saxons, the Despenser tombs and beneath the soaring massed stones of Norman craft, into a long-gone age. Queen Anne’s young husband lay beneath the misericords; behind the altar George of Clarence and Isabel; all free of this transient life.

  The King lay prone for some minutes, then, rising, took the Abbot’s hand.

  ‘Three hundred pounds for this church,’ he ordained. ‘Three hundred pounds for that day.’

  At Warwick Castle the Queen awaited us, with a simpering Spanish envoy. She was bright, and uplifted by the tales of our progress; she was downcast from the news that Edward, at Middleham, was ailing again—his sojourn in London and the journey back had wearied him, but they would see him again soon, at York. ‘Oh, my lord, let us not delay too long!’ pleaded Anne.

  The Spaniard, by name Graufidius de Sasiola, was a clown. Even his Latin sounded foreign. He was like a small black monkey, and his message, though welcome, held much irony. His royal mistress, Isabella, sought peace with England. King Louis had played them false. The envoy would have been sent years ago, only...

  ‘My Queen was full of fury. Her royal hand in the offing for King Edward and yet he chose another... the Woodville lady! My Queen had the wrath... del infierno!’

  He also told us that. King Louis was very sick, and this, together with the news from James of Scotland that his country wished for permanent peace, sent us gladdened on our way. But there was still Brittany to shade the brightness of those days. At Richard’s command, Dr Thomas Hutton came and went to Duke Francis and returned empty. Sir Edward Woodville still lay in safe harbour. Of the Tydder no one spoke.

  So we came at last to York, on the last day of August. The city sprang, like a jewel in a circlet of water, from out the rolling dale. Its walls winked white, and the northern breeze fluttered Margetta’s veil as she rode beside me. Behind the high sheriffs went the King and Queen, splendidly mounted, and at their side rolled the little painted chariot containing Prince Edward. He leaned from his litter, waving, his pinched face clothed in smiles. Queen Anne had well-nigh thrown herself from her horse on meeting with him again at Pontefract; I had caught her weightless fall upon my arm. She had not thought to see him until York. He had been caught up in her arms, while, regardless of the crowd, she rained kisses on his face. The King had received his son’s obeisance gravely, with a proud, burning look. Coming into York, Margetta’s grey brushed against my mount as she said softly:

  ‘Mark you the King’s countenance! He sheds ten years!’ The winds of York tugged at his purple robe; whipped youth into his face. Near him jogged a plague of bishops: Worcester, Coventry, Lichfield, Durham, St Asaph’s, St David’s; and clotted all around him were his powerful noblemen—Surrey, Huntingdon, and Lincoln, Lovell, Dudley, Morley and Scrope, Northumberland and Stanley. Yet in the midst of all this might, he seemed, most strangely, to be alone. When we approached the high barbican of Micklegate, two skulls, neatly cleaned by kites, stared out across the dale. As Richard reined in his horse, the sheriffs frowned at one another. There should have been banners only to trap the city wall. Richard paused fleetingly, and then spurred through, to shroud his father’s ghost with joy.

  For they extolled him above the skies. At each bridge and gate there was a pageant lovingly enacted for his diversion—speeches of honour—cheering, with solid faces split with grins—unashamed welcome under the banners of Christ in Majesty and behind the scenes at the Creed Play. Leaping, they ran alongside us, seeking to touch his robes, and reeling back under the whacks of the perspiring henchmen—light whacks those, for there was no mischief in the clamorous throngs, only a great torrent of affection... he was in truth Ricardus Tertius, Rex Angliae, yet he was still Dickon, their especial good lord.

  In the great new Cathedral Church of St Peter, Edward received his investiture as Prince of Wales. For this, barrels of raiment had come hustling up from London; yards of Holland cloth for all the Household: doublets, gowns, gilt spurs, coats of arms beaten with pure gold, a thousand pennons and thirteen thousand rampant White Boars for our livery.

  Prince Edward took the golden wreath about his brows, the gold wand in his hand. His face was a windflower, pointed and pale. He bore himself nobly, walking hand-in-hand with his parents through the city. And so glorious was this day, men said elsewhere that Richard had celebrated a second coronation...

  The Ouse lapped against the walls of Gildhall as the King spoke lovingly to York.

  ‘As Englishmen, I cherish you dearly. And I charge you, in all wisdom, to let justice and mercy be your watchwords. Let them illumine your path. Succour those that are oppressed, relieve the poor, and guard your juries against corruption. Every man, be he rich or poor, gentle or simple, warrants fair trial. Let not hearsay and malice sway your hearts. Ita fiat, amen.’

  Then he came down from his dais into the hushed press of people, and took the hands of as many as was possible, and thanked them for their loyalty over the years that had gone. He summoned Kendall and ordained a statute of relief, exempting them from half the tax which York had hitherto paid the Crown.

  He left York in joy and glory. The Queen and Prince Edward went north to Middleham, while we rode down to Lincoln, a city of bad and shameful tidings.

  Summer was over. The messenger was plastered with mire and dead September leaves.

  ‘Speak,’ said Richard tight-voiced. ‘Hold naught from your King.’

  The messenger—a page named Harry, who had served Richard for many years—rose from his knee and staggered against the King’s chair of estate.

  ‘Your Grace’s pardon,’ he said, choking. ‘I have ridden hard fro
m Brecon.’

  ‘Brecon,’ said Richard, the surprise fading from his voice. ‘I pray you, go on.’

  ‘Yea, Sire, I thought it prudent... there is great mischief amaking; I have heard and seen much during my sojourn there. Pray God I am in time to warn your Grace—your friend the Duke of Buckingham...’

  Here he crimsoned and clutched his left side, speechless. ‘My chief minister and trusted ally,’ said Richard, expressionlessly.

  ‘...has risen in revolt against you, Sire.’

  ‘Did he give reason?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Yea, your Grace, but I cannot speak of it...’

  ‘Then you are foolish, Harry—you that have served me so well.’

  Harry’s words came as a cataract, tumbling over one another.

  ‘He vowed that he would have as many Stafford knots as Warwick had ragged staves. Night and day he and Bishop Morton kept company. They grew close, like lovers, and walked together in the quiet ways and spoke together long o’ nights. There were messengers.’

  ‘Messengers?’ Norfolk came close to the young man’s side.

  ‘Yea, my lord, from Westminster Sanctuary. That’s a hive of treason—Lionel Woodville is arming—the Queen Dow—that is, the Lady Grey, sends thousands of their followers. At first there was talk of storming the Tower to seize the Lords Bastard once again... but then Morton—O Sire, I heard William Colyngbourne say...’

  The King breached the flood with a sharp laugh. ‘Colyngbourne! William the Silent—my own Usher!’

  ‘He said that Morton swore vengeance on your Grace for such base treatment that had fallen to his lot.’ He turned red again. ‘More he said—vile words and imprecations... that Morton would show my lord of Buckingham a method of making rulers that would not go unrewarded...’

  ‘Unrewarded! Sweet Jesu!’ muttered Norfolk.

  ‘Dorset, too, joins the rising.’

  ‘Dorset is in France!’ said Richard.

  ‘Nay, lord, he is not!’ cried Harry, breathless. ‘He has been seen in the north parties—none knows who is in the north and who is not!’

  ‘Certes!’ said Richard, and his eyes looked inward for a moment. ‘A wild place—a place of safety. Go on.’

  ‘It is worse, your Grace,’ said Harry. He glanced uneasily towards Lord Stanley, who stood near, thin and devout. ‘There is one even more powerful in ambition...’

  ‘His name?’ rapped the King.

  ‘A lady, Sire,’ said Harry. ‘The Countess of Richmond, Lady Margaret Beaufort.’ And with this he cast down his eyes, while Stanley came forward, harried, crablike, with outstretched hands.

  ‘Sweet lord, the shame!’ he cried. ‘My own wife! It is a madness that comes upon her... She thinks overmuch of Henry, her son...’

  ‘Of her son upon the throne of England,’ said Harry, with a lordly glance at Stanley, who looked furious.

  ‘Hearken to this knave, this popinjay!’

  ‘No knave, Thomas,’ said the King. ‘He serves me well. Are you as loyal, my lord?’

  He looked down as Stanley fell to the ground, kissing his robe. Harry had ceased his gasping for breath.

  ‘Tell me what moved my lord of Buckingham,’ said Richard.

  Harry looked steadily into the King’s face.

  ‘Sire, it was but that you would not grant his wish before you quit London, to wed his daughter to your infant son. He would lief be the father of a Queen.’

  ‘As I thought,’ said Richard, with a queer smile. ‘So now he would be King? How many Pretenders are there, I ask you? He often spoke of his mottled lineage—boasting of Thomas of Woodstock... sweet Christ!’

  ‘Yea, your Grace, he lusted to rule,’ answered the page. ‘But Morton prevailed upon him. ’Tis Henry Tydder whom Morton would have as King,’ and he sank his angry eye again on to Lord Stanley, to whom Richard also turned, with that look of flint.

  ‘How bold my henchman is!’ he remarked. ‘Should I have him whipped, my lord?’

  ‘Nay, Sire,’ said Stanley, cringing. ‘He serves you well, that I vow.’

  ‘As you shall,’ answered the King. ‘To arms! All of you. Summon up the levies. Now, my friend, what is their number? Which road do they take? Have they guns? Who are their captains? Oxford, I warrant, fruit of Lancaster...’

  There was a sudden activity in the Hall as the listening company thawed from their strait positions and began hurriedly to disperse, calling for their esquires, sending to rouse the blacksmiths from supper. But Harry lingered, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Henry Tydder makes ready to invade this isle,’ he said quietly. ‘He and Sir Edward Woodville have a fine fleet.’

  ‘Henry Tydder,’ said the King equally soft. ‘That bloody, bastard dog... You weep, Harry.’

  ‘Great King, I love thee,’ said Harry in a whisper. ‘There is more I have not said. Concerning the Lords Bastard in the Tower...’

  A most peculiar, shuttered look came over Richard’s face.

  ‘They shall not have them,’ he said. ‘No rebellion will begin over the heads of those children... Harry, be comfortable.’

  ‘Sire, I shall continue to love thee,’ sobbed Harry.

  ‘You have done great service this night,’ said Richard. ‘Get you gone.’

  Harry slid from the tall step, turning quickly. His eyes were sad, like an animal’s eyes. Richard beckoned him back. ‘What ails you?’ he asked

  Harry came closer. ‘While they were arming...’ he said.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Bishop Morton spoke his mind... things of great evil he spoke of the Lords Bastard, Richard and Ned. He said that he will destroy your Grace—if not by the sword, then by the spoken word. By calumny in this isle and abroad.’ Terror crossed his face. ‘All these things they said... and yet I knew not the meaning. Nor do I know it now.’

  God sent kind weather to us, that fall. Not sunshine and late flowers, but a fierce, whipping storm that buffeted the ships of Henry Tydder back to Paimpol no less than two days after Duke Francis had sent them out, so gloriously equipped. Men told how they had seen a brace of lonely battered craft still lurking off the Dorset coast, but the shore of Poole was lined with Norfolk’s men, and soon the Tydder turned upon the heaving sea with the kick of the wind behind him and English jeers to speed his journey.

  Nor was there mercy for Buckingham, in the eyes of God. Before our main body launched itself southward, King’s men under the command of Humphrey Stafford were up ahead of Buckingham, and with a stout and filthy band were wrecking bridges, sealing off passes and making the whole of Hereford Shire an ambush for the Duke. My faithful newsbearer, Richard Ratcliffe, was one of these.

  Lying in his bathing-tent, he grinned up at me.

  ‘More hot water!’ he cried. ‘Pour it on my head, good fellow.’ Spluttering, he emerged from the scented cascade. ‘Holy Mother, that is good! All the dirt of England clings to me still. Forsooth, a short but muddy little skirmish!’

  All over the Palace men were cleansing themselves of that march. And at Salisbury, six feet of the same autumn mire clothed Buckingham.

  ‘How did he die?’ I asked.

  Ratcliffe grimaced. ‘Hotly, and without grace,’ he answered. ‘He would have felt better, I trow, had one blow been struck. Ah, Richard! What a strategist!’ And he launched into a eulogy of the King, of his tactics in driving the wedge between Buckingham and the rebels in the west and south, bubbling soap and enthusiasm while the valetti washed him and listened wide-eyed.

  ‘But I ever deemed the Duke was mad,’ he said bluntly. ‘To set himself against a warrior like the King, and all ill-armed and ill-prepared, with such a scanty following and the cautious Tydder hovering mid-sea...’ He soaped his hands, lost in his thought. ‘I went to call him from his cell to face the jury. He knelt to me, and wept, begging to see the King. “One word only,” he repeated, ever and anon. “Take me to him—he will not refuse my plea.” And when we told him that Richard utterly abjured his request he smiled strangely and said:
“Richard loved me well—he saw dead George in me”.’

  ‘Richard would not see him?’

  ‘Nay—he turned his face from those who bore the message and said, hot and cold: “He is the most untrue creature living,” and went away. This I told to the Duke, who took his finger from his eye and grew red once more, like a turkey-cock. Then it was I reckoned him mad, in truth, for he babbled of the Lords Bastard, of all things, and said the King would rue the day.’

  ‘What day?’

  Ratcliffe shrugged water from his back. ‘That day, I trow,’ he said vaguely. ‘The day they sliced Buckingham’s head from his shoulders and the hand off his wrist to brand him a traitor. Mad he was, then and always. Power turns men.’

  ‘So he died bereft of all.’

  ‘Bereft of Morton, his chief adviser,’ said Ratcliffe suddenly. ‘And there is one who is not mad. As wise and cunning as ever Elizabeth Woodville deemed him. We ran him to the monastery of Croyland in his own diocese of Ely, and there we lost him. He has the Devil’s luck.’

  ‘And where lies he now?’

  Ratcliffe laughed, shortly. ‘Who knows? Men vow he is in Brittany, licking the hurt pride of his Welsh Pretender!’ He shuddered. ‘Jesu! I would see that prelate’s head upon a pike. More hot water, sirs! I am not yet cleansed!’

  All this I recounted to Margetta, whom I had not seen for far too long. I swear her wenches lit candles against my lechery. It was not seemly, they whispered, withdrawing from her bower under my gaze. Yet she was not for bedsport that day. She put me off with little words, and as on another occasion, Mistress Shore filled her head.

  ‘By St Catherine, you know what now?’ This, with eyes that dulled her diamond reliquary.

  ‘What now, sweeting?’

  ‘The King’s Solicitor-General, Sir Thomas Lynom...’ she whispered.

  I stretched upon her bed—coarse fellow, with my boots on.

  ‘A good man, and well-purveyed of livelode,’ I said, nodding and smirking.

  ‘He went to see her in Newgate, and now he wants to marry her!’