Authors: Sandra Worth
Richard rose from the council table in the privy chamber of the Bishop’s Palace where he had been discussing strategy with his lords. “How was he found?”
“He took refuge with a servant in Wem and the servant turned him in, Sire.”
“Judas, betrayed by Judas… As soon as he’s brought in, he is to be tried by Sir Ralph Ashton.” Richard ground the words out between his teeth, aware of the glances his men exchanged with each other at mention of Ashton. Dubbed the Black Knight on account of his armour, Ralph Ashton was as feared for his cruelty as Tiptoft, the Butcher of England, had been during the wars between King Edward and the Kingmaker. One of his favourite punishments for minor infractions of the law was to roll men downhill in barrels filled with spikes. That, Richard thought, dismissing the messenger and turning back to his lords, should put the fear of God into Harry, the pretty duke of Buckingham.
~*~
On All Hallow’s Eve, the day after Buckingham was delivered to Salisbury, Ralph Ashton came to Richard. He was a man large in build, with pale yellow hair and rheumy hazel eyes. His features were so sharply etched and impassive, they seemed carved of rock, and he clanged as he walked, for he carried a sword at his side that slapped against the nails in his black leather outfit.
“Buckingham has confessed. He lost no time when he realised I was in charge of matters.” Ashton’s mouth thinned into a cold smile. “He begs one boon, however.”
Standing on the dais in the silk-curtained hall of the Bishop’s palace, his lords and knights gathered around him on the lower steps, Richard eyed Ashton without warmth. He preferred not to have such men in his service, but he could no longer pick and choose. The realm had been torn by strife for thirty years. First England had been ripped apart over York and Lancaster; then the Yorkist party had divided itself between King Edward and Warwick the Kingmaker. On Edward’s death, it had divided again between those who wanted Richard and those who wished to see King Edward’s sons on the throne. Now Edward’s party had thrown in their lot with Buckingham and the Lancastrian Tudor, and that included much of southern England, for the South had hated the North ever since Ludlow when Henry’s ferocious French-born queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, and her northern hordes had invaded them, burning, raping, and pillaging as they went. And to the South, he was a Northerner. Winning their trust would take time. In the meanwhile, his base of support had been shaved perilously thin and he had to reward loyalty wherever he found it.
“What does he ask?” Richard demanded.
“To see you, my lord.”
“Never,” Richard spat.
“’Tis what I told him, but he begs an audience. He is most desperate, my liege. I’ve seen men die, but none so fearful. He is beside himself, weeping, hysterical, half out of his mind. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him he is to be executed on All Soul’s Day and to make ready.”
A shocked murmur of protest arose from his men. “All Soul’s Day falls on the Sabbath, my lord!”
“I don’t care if it falls on doomsday!” roared Richard, his grey eyes dark, glittering. “He dies on All Soul’s Day, and that’s final!”
They were all staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Desperate to get away, he fled the dais. His heart racing, he halted in the passageway to catch his breath and leaned his head against the damp stone and closed his eyes. All Soul’s Day, the second day of November, had been young Edward’s birthday.
~*~
Men hammered in the drizzling rain, erecting a new scaffold in the marketplace for Buckingham’s execution. Richard was conscious of the din as he listened to Ralph Ashton. “My lord, the traitor beseeches you to see him. He has lost all dignity. He is feverish, filled with abject terror, and wildly implores this one boon.”
Richard looked at the scaffold rising in the shadow of Salisbury Cathedral and let his gaze drift upwards, to the spire standing dark against the grey skies. “You may tell him that well should he be filled with terror, for on Sunday he will be judged by God.”
“My lord, he says there is something you need to know.”
Richard hesitated. Then anger swept him. “Never again will I see his vile face in this world!”
Richard didn’t sleep that night but lay in his bed listening to the chanting of the townsfolk. It was All Hallow’s Eve and evil spirits were about. The castle servants had fastened hazel branches over the doors and windows to keep out witches and the souls of the wicked departed. In town, after an evening of apple-bobbing and fortune-telling around the half-finished scaffold in the market square, people were circling their homes with lighted candles for the same purpose. At the castle there had been mummery and entertainment for the servants, and in a light moment Richard had allowed his fortune to be told by a wise-woman. He would die young, she said, like all the men of his line, and his time would come soon after he saw the castle of Rougement.
Welladay, what else was new? Only Edward had died in his bed. Everyone else he had known and loved had died before his time, and violently. On Sunday there would be one more.
~*~
All Soul’s Day blew in with freezing rain and a blustery wind. After Mass, as the mighty cathedral clock tolled the hour of noon, Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham, was led into the crowded market square. From a small chamber high in the palace, Richard heard the axe fall and the pigeons scatter skyward.
As his lords talked among themselves that evening, he sat quietly around a table in the great hall staring into his wine, trying to understand the sense of loss that dogged him. Why had Buckingham’s death affected him so? Maybe because he had felt alone at Edward’s death, and then came Buckingham with Edward’s merry laugh and George’s golden curls. In a moment, he became everything.
There was something else. A sense of unfinished business nagged at him. What had Buckingham wanted to say? Might there have been more to young Edward’s murder than he had confessed to Ashton?
Maybe he should have heard him out. And maybe it was nothing, just more lies… Maybe all he’d wanted was one last chance to beg for his life. Whatever it was, it was too late now. He’d never know.
He shook himself to dispel his gloom. A messenger had arrived. Richard lifted his head and forced himself to concentrate on what the man said… Henry Tudor had appeared near Dorset harbour with only two ships. They had tried to lure him to shore by waving lanterns and shouting that the rebellion had prospered and that the Duke of Buckingham had sent them to conduct him to his camp. But Tudor, sensing danger, had sailed away. “He was probably awaiting a password,” offered the messenger.
The old sea-dog, Howard, who had joined them after taking care of the rebels, slapped a hand against his ample thigh and growled, “By God I wish I’d been there! I’d have given him a password he’d ne’er have forgotten!”
“I wish you’d been there, too, Howard,” Richard said dully. “Tudor’s the only threat left. We’ve survived the others… No doubt we’ll take care of him soon enough.”
“My lord, may I speak?” requested a man in a loose russet robe down the table. It was Thomas Hutton, who had returned from the court of Brittany. His brown eyes burned in his lined, bearded face, and his tone held urgency. Richard inclined his head.
“I observed Henry Tudor in Brittany and gained a sense of the man,” said Hutton, leaning close and speaking low. “As so few here at court have met him, I request permission to speak bluntly, my lord, for it would be wise for all concerned to know what they are up against.”
Richard motioned him to his side and he slipped in between Francis and Scrope. “’Tis not surprising that Tudor didn’t fall into the trap,” Hutton went on, “and—if I may give a word of warning, Sire—he will not be easy to trap. He has the suspicious wariness of a hunted animal, for in a sense, ’tis what he is.”
His voice was deep and carried a unique force. Silence fell like a mantle over the table. His gaze moved from Catesby to Howard, from Jack to Ratcliffe, and lingered on Francis. A strange look came over his face. Then Hutton met Richard’s gaze. In the flickering candlelight those penetrating dark eyes might have been the eyes of a seer, for they seemed to hold wisdom beyond understanding. So might Moses have looked, Richard thought, seeing all… knowing all.
Hutton continued. “He is a man both clever and devious, an adventurer with nothing to lose. He will risk all for his dream, which is the Crown of England. His word is writ on water, and having run for his life, most of his life, he is an unnatural man, bound by none of the rules which bind others.” His thick brows drew together in a frown. “His head is filled with intrigue. He has few scruples and is consumed by ambition and greed. There is nothing he will not say, and nothing he will not do, to gain his end.” He looked at Richard with his solemn, capturing eyes. “It would be a mistake to underestimate him, Sire. Tudor is a dangerous man—” Hutton’s voice fell to a chilling whisper “a man to fear, as one would fear Lucifer’s own.”
No one moved. A shiver ran down Richard’s spine. He made the sign of the Cross. His lords followed his example. Keeping all inflection from his voice with great effort, he said, “I thank you for your council, Hutton, and assure you, it’ll not be forgotten.” He rose to his feet, and with a confidence he did not feel, strode from the room.
That night he dreamt of the frightful dragon of his childhood nightmares with its cruel yellow eyes and fiery red breath. Screaming the wise-woman’s prophecy of violent, premature death, its vicious fangs tore into his flesh. He awoke in a feverish sweat, the name Tudor on his lips.
How strange… He had forgotten. Tudor’s emblem was the Red Dragon.
Damn Tudor
, he thought. Until Brittany handed him over, he’d have no peace.
~ * ~
Chapter 8
“A moral child without the craft to rule.”
Thoughts of dragons and prophecies soon evaporated as Richard learned in Exeter that another leader of the rebellion had been captured. Thomas St. Leger was his brother-in-law, married to his eldest sister, Nan.
She had begun a liaison with St. Leger when her Lancastrian husband, the Duke of Exeter, fled to France after the Battle of Towton that put Edward on the throne. Exeter, who had commanded Warwick’s left wing at Barnet, was captured at Tewkesbury, sent to the Tower, and released years later, in time to accompany Edward on his invasion of France. At some point along the sea journey, he had disappeared. Foul play was rumoured. With her husband dead, Nan had married St. Leger on his return to England.
Richard found the whole business distasteful. But then, he’d never been close to his haughty oldest sister, and she had always kept aloof from him. He remembered how his beloved sister Meg had assured him, when he was small, that Nan was distant with everyone, but he’d had his doubts, even then. He knew exactly how he felt about St. Leger’s treason, however. His sister’s husband had hatefully, shamefully, betrayed the family ties and defiled the bond of kinship. He deserved to die. Richard immediately ordered his execution.
Within hours he was besieged by his sister’s messengers offering large sums of money for his release. He refused. The next day she arrived in person to beg for his life. She had requested a private audience and Richard received her in a small chamber at the Bishop’s palace in Exeter, with only Gower present,
“As he chose to become an agent of the Woodvilles, I see no reason to spare his life,” said Richard.
“I love him!” she cried. “Do you know what love is?”
Richard stared at her. Now he admitted to himself what loyalty had suppressed all these years: He didn’t care much for this woman, sister though she was. Age had heightened her stern demeanour by slashing deep grooves into her cheeks and pulling down the edges of her mouth. Nor did her dress soften her harshness. She had clad herself in a riding habit of brown and green and hidden her hair beneath a matronly wimple. Indeed, it surprised him that such a woman had ever found love. Clearly, she thought the same of him. Now he knew she’d never given a care to his predicament during the troubles with Warwick. He’d been seventeen, forced to choose between his brother and the girl he’d loved, and she had not spared him a thought in his misery.
Yet in spite of everything—in spite of her disregard for him, and though treachery was the most heinous crime a man could commit—he could still have forgiven St. Leger, if St. Leger had had his excuse. What made his treason more heinous was that he was kin, without cause to turn against him. Like Buckingham—
“Never did I wrong St. Leger! Never did I deny him favour. Always he was welcome and honoured in my court. He chose to be a traitor, and for no good cause—certainly no cause that I ever gave him. Such a man does not deserve to live!”
For a bare instant his sister said nothing, didn’t even move. Then she lunged at him, screaming and pounding wildly against his breast. He seized her wrists in an iron grip and turned her over to Gower. Adjusting his velvet cap with the boar badge and straightening his doublet, he strode past her. In a voice low with disgust, he said, “Where is your dignity, sister?”
“Where is your heart?” she shrieked. Shaking Gower off, she ran after him. “I’ll not call you ‘brother’—you boar, you beast—you vile murderer of innocent babes! May God destroy you for what you’ve done—
Usurper!
”
Richard froze in his steps. Though he kept himself under rigid control, inwardly he felt as if a stake had been driven through his heart. It was not her curse that affected him as much as her words, which had scratched the secret core deep within his soul where he had buried the doubts, guilts, and fears of a lifetime. He clenched his fists and fled the chamber.
~ * ~
In late November Richard returned the Great Seal to Chancellor Russell in the Star Chamber at Westminster. The business of the rebellion was concluded; rebels punished, loyalty rewarded. Richard dealt with the rebels with a light hand, executing only ten men and offering pardons to most of the leaders of the conspiracy, including Morton and Dorset. Even Sir John Fogge, who had repaid Richard’s kindness with treason, was pardoned and promised restoration to his estates. With Stanley’s wife, Margaret Beaufort, the prime mover of the rebellion, he was exceptionally lenient. Though she was stripped of her titles, he gave them to her husband to enjoy. As for Stanley, Richard rewarded him so lavishly that he raised eyebrows even among those who knew him well.