‘Faster, please,’ she called to the servants. ‘I believe I will take my children on before. Please follow after us, with the rest of our things.’
Elizabeth took young Richard’s hand as he raced past her, pulling him up short. He was nine years old and could be as rude as any stable boy when he chose, even to his mother. Yet he sensed something of her seriousness and stood still, glowering in expectation of some punishment. There was no point beating him, she had realized. The boy soaked it up like a rug and did a superb job of appearing not to care. It stung her hand more when she slapped him and she hardly troubled to any longer as a result. She still
threatened
to slap the cheek out of him, of course. In turn, he pretended to take her more seriously than he actually did.
She felt his hand squirming and took a stronger grip. Young Edward had been so much easier than this little devil, she thought. God, let him live. Please, let him survive his uncle.
‘Come along, children, all of you,’ Elizabeth said firmly. ‘Pick up young Bridget, would you, dear? It’s too far for her to walk and I cannot wait.’
With all her Plantagenet children following like geese, Elizabeth kept her head high as she walked out of the room,
heading for the Abbey across the road and the little fortress that was both a refuge and a prison, for a second time. As she went, she prayed, and all the while she struggled not to sob.
Richard of Gloucester returned to London at the head of two hundred knights, a force of men that could charge down any threat that faced them. Lord Buckingham waited with another forty men at the Moorgate, keeping it open. As a result, Gloucester came through without slowing from a canter, though Londoners had to scatter or be trampled. Richard had learned from what had gone before. The mistakes of the past could be avoided and it gave him a grim satisfaction to plan his counters before the obstacles even came about. Life went more smoothly when he saw the ditches coming, Richard had realized. He had a moment to nod to Buckingham as he shot past him.
Nothing cleared a street quite so well as the clattering roar of two hundred horsemen coming in fast and hard. The uncrowned king sat a horse in the centre of the column, head down and staring ahead as they drove on across the city, riding for the Tower.
Gloucester was the Lord Protector and in a crisis, his word was the closest thing to law. He had three men race ahead at full gallop along narrowing streets, yelling for the traders and people to get out of their way or be trampled. Cries of pain dwindled behind as the rest went on, the sound changing as they crossed on to stones. That was a tumult that built and built as more of them came off the mud of the smaller streets and reached the cobbles.
Those at the Tower gatehouse had seen them. The riders Richard had sent ahead had done their work so that the gate stood open there as well. There was almost a joy to it, to see the whole world falling into place like a puzzle solved.
The Lord Protector and his royal charge crossed the drawbridge and the gatehouse and clattered into the courtyard beyond, going deeper in towards the White Tower to give the others room to halt their mounts and stand, panting.
Richard dismounted and walked to where his nephew sat high in his stirrups, his horse still wanting to bolt after such a terrifying run through the close streets. The Lord Protector stroked its nose and patted the animal, soothing the horse and perhaps its frightened rider.
‘There now, there now, you are safe here. There is a royal apartment that has not been used for a few years. Your father preferred the rooms in the Palace at Westminster, though I always liked the Tower more, I think.’
‘What about my mother?’ Edward asked. ‘My brother and my sisters?’ His voice cracked as he spoke, though he was trying hard to be brave. Richard held up both hands and helped him down to the ground, then brushed some specks of mud from his shoulders and his cheek.
‘I cannot say they are safe, Edward, not yet. When I heard there was a threat to you, I rode north, just as fast as I could. I went to save you first. You are the heir – the king.’
‘But you will find them as well? You’ll bring them to me?’
‘I will do my best, Edward, yes,’ his uncle said. ‘I promise you that. Go on with these men now and let them search your rooms before you enter them. Oh, have no fear, lad! I am jumping at shadows, nothing more. I will rest easy when you are crowned, but not till then.’
He patted his nephew on his shoulder and kissed the top of his head. Edward looked back, trying to be brave as he was led away by strangers, stone walls looming over them all.
Richard of Gloucester paced the length of the table, so that the six seated men had to turn their heads back and forth to watch him. They had come at his summons to the Palace of Westminster and its Painted Chamber. Despite their great status, therefore, they waited on the Lord Protector’s pleasure. Richard strode up and down before them like a schoolmaster, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a fine doublet of gold and black over hose, with a silver-hilted sword at his waist. At thirty years of age, he could still stalk like a furious swordsman, threat radiating from him. The Archbishop of Canterbury was put in mind of his cat and almost looked for a lashing tail as Richard passed by. He kept his peace however.
As Lord Protector, Richard of Gloucester had been given royal power with no clear limits, or rather limits he could define himself in emergencies, which amounted to the same thing. The documents with his brother’s Great Seal had been lodged with Parliament and the Tower archives days before the king’s death. Richard’s authority could not be denied. His source of irritation was that somehow it had been denied even so. Three of the Council at that table answered to a higher authority even than the Seal of England and the Lord Protector.
Richard stopped suddenly, his glare an accusation in itself. Archbishop Bourchier of Canterbury was eighty if he was a day, an ancient who seemed to have retained his wits, with enormous white eyebrows. The archbishop could
communicate much with just a glance at Archbishop Rotheram of York. It was rare for the two most senior churchmen in England to be summoned to the same room, unless it was to crown a king. Both of them seemed to understand very well what was at stake.
Lord Buckingham was there to support Richard against the others, to cast a vote or simply provide another voice to win a point. At twenty-nine, young Buckingham had simply appeared around the new heart of power in London. He seemed willing enough to be led by the nose. He and Richard had been born around the same time, the archbishop decided. Perhaps they shared a sensibility, a kinship or an awareness that some of the whitebeards in that room had forgotten. Or perhaps Buckingham merely saw an opportunity to rise, like a man putting all his wages on a particular dog in a fight.
Neither Richard of Gloucester nor Archbishop Bourchier liked the Bishop of Ely, John Morton. The man was too worldly to please the archbishop – and too religious to please the lords. Either way, Morton was certainly too clever for his own good.
In the same way, Richard had little sense of support from Baron Hastings, still his brother’s Lord Chamberlain until a new king chose another. Hastings had been there for the battles of both Barnet and Tewkesbury. The old sod really should have been on Richard’s side, arguing for him, not crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes like a suspicious old washerwoman. It was infuriating.
The last of the men at that table was Thomas, Lord Stanley, with a beard that was still dark brown, though it rested on the table and was at least as long as those of the archbishops. Richard smiled on him as a man of great wealth who had been one of his brother’s supporters in the later years of his reign. Stanley had secured a French payment of seventy
thousand each year in return for not invading them again. The baron liked nothing more than to speak of his private force of men, which he maintained all year round as Warwick had done years before. It cost Stanley a fortune but he had been unusually skilled at the gathering of wealth to his coffers. For his understanding of finances alone, the man deserved respect and Richard intended to flatter Stanley to his side, so that he might benefit as his brother had.
The Painted Chamber was some eighty feet long and thirty wide, with enough space up to the vaulted ceiling to echo back the sounds of conversation. It was odd then to have so many men of power and influence look uneasily at one another in silence rather than answer his points. Hastings and Stanley in particular seemed willing to defer to the men of the cloth, though the three of them had proven quite unable to answer him.
‘In this room,’ Richard said, ‘I see assembled before me some of the most senior men of the Church in England. The Archbishops of York and Canterbury – and a bishop renowned for his fine understanding! I would have imagined I’d be spoiled for learned opinions and rulings, not forced to endure this awkward hush. Perhaps I should have asked how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, or the exact nature of the trinity. You would not have been so quiet then.’ Richard leaned over the table and it was no accident that he had come to rest opposite the Bishop of Ely. Of all the men there, Morton had the sharpest mind. Richard had heard he was tipped for Archbishop of Canterbury when the post came free, perhaps even to become a cardinal in Rome.
The bishop cleared his throat under the pale scrutiny of the Lord Protector. Morton had no desire to make a ruling that might later be shown to be wrong or illegal, but it was also clear that no one else would be drawn on the matter.
‘My lord, it is my understanding that there are
no
exceptions to the protections of sanctuary, not that I have ever heard. You say you have been informed of a threat to the young Prince of York in Westminster Abbey with his mother and his sisters.’
‘I say that because it is true, Your Grace,’ Richard replied sharply. He could see the objection coming as the man formed it.
‘Yes, so you have said. The difficulty is not in my assessment of that threat, as I am trying to explain. There are no exceptions in canon law over sanctuary, not once it has been granted or accepted. Even if the prince is truly in danger and that danger might be averted by taking him out of sanctuary … I’m sorry, my lord. The means to do it do not exist. I would be happy to write to Rome, of course, to seek advice and guidance in this matter.’
‘I rather think it will have been resolved by then, one way or another,’ Richard snapped. He found he was breathing hard in his anger. He watched as the bishop spread his hands as if in apology.
‘The boy is nine years old,’ Richard added suddenly. ‘He was taken into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey by his mother, without any sense of the dangers they might face. At the Tower, I have hundreds of guards and high walls – at the Abbey, why that small stone block could be overrun with half a dozen men. So tell me why I cannot remove
my own nephew
for his safety? If you need a decision from the authority of the Crown, I rule that his mother protected
herself
when she ran to that place. Her children are not included in the shadow of sanctuary, how could they be?’
‘They are inside,’ the Archbishop of Canterbury said suddenly, sitting up. ‘They have crossed the boundary. It matters nothing whether their mother intended them to come along
or sought to protect them. Sanctuary is consecrated ground, intended as a place of safety for those who are oppressed by enemies. It is an ancient and valuable tradition and certainly not one that can be set aside when it is merely inconvenient.’ His mouth worked in anger, as if he teased a piece of meat from between his back teeth. ‘If there is so terrible a threat to the boy, you may try to persuade his mother to give him into your care. You may
not
enter yourself, however. Nor any man bearing a weapon. You may certainly not bring out the boy by force.’
Richard shook his head, half exasperated and half amused at the source of the resistance. He was a little surprised to have such an old man wake up long enough to challenge him in anything.
‘Your Grace, I have a son of my own, not far from the same age. If he was surrounded by men intent on his murder, and if I had a chance to save him, I would dare anything. I would take him from his mother’s own arms.’
‘And you would be damned for all eternity.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I would be damned, but I would have saved my son, do you see? This Richard is my brother’s son. Every day that passes brings whispers of new plots. Yet I cannot keep him safe in a place where only good men fear to tread! I have young Edward behind the Tower’s walls, aye, and with a hundred men to watch those walls and each other. The most skilful assassin could not reach Edward where he lays his head tonight, but his brother? A few monks will not stop evil men, Your Grace.’
‘I understand what you have said, I think,’ the old man answered. He pulled at his beard, tugging unconsciously at the locks in old habit. ‘You wish to protect the boy – and perhaps to give both sons the comfort of one another’s presence.’
‘In the safest fortress in England, yes, Your Grace. My
brother Edward made me his Lord Protector and left all he had to that protection: his goods, his heirs and his realm. All I ask is that you retrieve the missing part, before more blood is shed.’
The old man blinked at the last of Richard’s words, not quite ready to ask if it was a threat or a reference to the plots Richard had mentioned. The archbishop could only imagine the horror and condemnation he would face if he refused and then the child was slaughtered with his mother and sisters. Yet even to allow that sanctuary could not protect the family without armed men was to weaken the authority of the Church.
He was silent a long time, so that the others fidgeted. At last, Archbishop Bourchier nodded into his beard and his hands became still.
‘I will enter Sanctuary, my lord. I will enter and I will speak to Queen Elizabeth about her son. If she refuses, I can do nothing more.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace. I am certain that will be enough,’ Richard replied.
In the darkness, the Archbishop of Canterbury found his path lit by men bearing torches. He could not carry a crozier, with its shepherd’s crook. The weight had become too much for him over the previous year. Instead, he rested on a walking stick of oak. The tip was of coiled leather and he tap-tapped along the damp and shining stones, looking ahead to Sanctuary with the Abbey at his back.
Archbishop Bourchier had found little to like in Richard of Gloucester, though he supposed the fellow was admirable enough for the care he was taking to protect his nephews. It troubled some part of the old man how little mention had been made of Elizabeth Woodville and her daughters. They
could not inherit, of course. The female line was the weaker of the two, as it had been since Eden. Archbishop Bourchier nodded his head as he followed the stone path, thinking of all the evil seeds women had created since then. Poor benighted creatures, he thought. His mother excepted, of course. She had been a stern and wonderful woman, free with her backhand, but so proud when her son had taken holy orders that she could hardly see for tears.
Ahead, Archbishop Bourchier saw the glint of men moving in armour, like beetles creeping away, over and under each other as the lamplight came close. He hesitated, unwilling to approach and pleased to take a moment to just stand and catch his breath before all the young men around him who had never known weakness or old age.
‘Who is that there?’ he said, pointing with his stick. ‘By the Abbey Sanctuary? What violent fellows are those?’
‘Lord Gloucester’s men, Your Grace,’ one of those around him replied. ‘There is word of an assassin from the land of the Turks or the Tartars.’
Archbishop Bourchier touched a hand to the crucifix at his throat. It contained a tiny fragment of the true cross and he took comfort from it. He had read much in his lifetime and had heard of such men and their cruelty. He set his jaw, taking a firm grip on his stick. He could play a part, still.
‘Lay on, gentlemen,’ he said, shuffling ahead.
The archbishop approached Sanctuary with bulldog stubbornness, bent over his stick, but never slowing until he reached the door and saw the young monk watching from inside. Two men-at-arms in mail stepped back as he approached, waiting patiently. Archbishop Bourchier saw the Lord Protector’s men were two or three deep in all directions. There had to have been two hundred soldiers around that Sanctuary, presumably with more nearby for when the
shifts changed. The old man understood afresh what it cost the Lord Protector to split his resources between two parts of London, each a mile from the other.
Archbishop Bourchier looked up at the stairs in concern as he entered. He was relieved when a monk ushered him along a corridor on the ground floor, panelled in some dark and polished wood. The old man had never before entered that place and he was intrigued by it. Most small churches or chapels set some constraint on giving refuge to criminals. It was usually a month or forty days, after which they could choose exile. Such things had to be, he knew, or they would have been overrun each winter with poor men who had fallen foul of the law. Yet the Abbey at Westminster was the greatest church in the land. Sanctuary there had no limit, once admitted. Such a place was a hallmark of civilisation, he thought, a shining light.
The archbishop clenched his jaw at that thought, recalling the abbey at Tewkesbury, where King Edward had broken faith with one of the oldest traditions of the Church and sent men to murder his cowering enemies. The entire building and grounds had needed to be reconsecrated after that. It was not just the blood that had to be scrubbed from the stones, but the mortal sins committed within its walls. Edward had paid a fortune in reparations in the years afterward. Archbishop Bourchier had been rather disappointed when the Church had accepted those vast sums. It seemed to him to have been a rather tawdry exchange for the breach of trust.
Such were the archbishop’s thoughts as he entered through a door held for him into the presence of Queen Elizabeth and her children. The old man’s gaze flickered from one to the next until it rested on the nine-year-old Richard of York. The boy’s status had been recognized by his father from birth. Young Richard had been the recipient not just of the
Dukedom of York, but of the Earldoms of Norfolk and Nottingham as well.
The child was well made, the Archbishop noted, without pox scars or any sign of diseases. It meant perhaps he would endure them yet, of course. That was the great balance-scale of a life, that to be marked was to survive. Those who were not marked could yet be snatched away in the night. Death was always there in the laughter of children. Every parent knew that only too well.