Those particular children were a most attractive group, the archbishop saw. A chair was brought for him by a crackling fire and he sank into it gratefully. With a smile, he accepted a bowl of walnuts and a glass of brandy against the night’s cold. He sat back and remembered when he’d had enough blood in him to sweat instead of being the dry old bone he’d become.
‘Your Grace, you are most welcome,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Do you have word of those men who are ringed around this place? They will not speak to me, nor will they let anyone in or out for days now. I have had no news at all of the world.’
‘Perhaps you should send these dear, delightful children away, my lady, yes? I think that would be best.’
Elizabeth’s face grew strained at that, but she did as he asked, sending them all to other rooms so that she was alone with the old man. She cracked another walnut for the archbishop and placed the pieces where he could easily reach them.
‘Richard of Gloucester is a most determined young man,’ Archbishop Bourchier said into silence broken only by flames and crackling sap. ‘It is not easy to discern his most secret heart. I offered to hear his confession, but he said he uses some country priest for such things. That is a shame. It would have helped me decide what I have to say to you.’
‘He wants my son,’ Elizabeth said, her face crumpling. ‘That much I learned before the soldiers came here.’
‘He wants to keep him safe, my lady,’ the archbishop confirmed, chewing carefully on a piece of nut.
‘From whom? His own men? Who else could come against me here, with all his soldiers clanking and muttering all night? I tell you I have not slept a wink since they surrounded Sanctuary. If this place can deserve such a name when it is encircled by iron and cruel soldiers!’
‘Be calm, my dear. There is no point in … shrill voices. There is no need to panic and allow our thoughts to run to madness. No. Let us decide instead what is best for your boy. To remain here, at a cost I can barely imagine, taking vital men from the defence of the city and England, or to go to the Tower to be with his brother Edward.’
‘You have seen him?’ Elizabeth broke in. The old man nodded.
‘I insisted on it, yes. Your son is in good health and spirits, though lonely. He sees no one and though he reads, there are only a few of his father’s books there. He is enjoying some history of the Caesars, I believe. Such terrible lives of violence and betrayal! Yet boys feast on such things, of course. There is no harm in it.’
Some tension went out of Elizabeth at his words.
‘Would you trust Gloucester in this, Your Grace? To put my son on the throne and keep safe the other? That is the heart of it, is it not?’
The old man looked into the flames for a time. His mouth worked all the while and he spat a small piece of shell on to his palm when he was done.
‘I do not see that you have a choice, my lady. The Lord Protector was insistent and you’ll recall that his brother did not hold back from entering consecrated ground before. It
grieves me even to say such a thing, my lady, but I fear for your son if he remains here. It has become an obsession of Gloucester’s to bring him out. Listen to me. You must trust someone. I will be there to see all is well, never fear for that.’
Elizabeth glanced at the white-bearded old man, wondering what hindrance Archbishop Bourchier thought he could possibly be to violent men. She had not said how close the soldiers came at night, when the monks were all asleep. They truly were creatures of blood and filth and violence and they stood beneath her window and crept about, clanking and whispering threats until she thought they would surely come in. She knew they could, that such things had happened and been covered up. She feared for herself, but also for her daughters. The men at her window made worse and worse threats. She had told no one of that, but she could not bear it any longer. Elizabeth could hardly remember when she had slept for more than a few moments, startled awake by calling voices and ugly laughter.
She stared back at Archbishop Bourchier as he reached for the nutcrackers and fumbled them in his old hands. The decision was hers, though she felt squeezed as well, gripped perhaps to breaking. Sanctuary was surrounded by armed men and it was too easy to imagine an assassin amongst them, a man run berserk for some old imagined slight or injury. If she was murdered, if her daughters were injured and killed like lambs, it would be the talk of the realm and all fingers would point to the Lord Protector – but that would not undo a single wound.
On one side, she had such terrible fears that stirred like creeping things in her thoughts whenever she pressed her exhausted head on to a pillow. Yet it was all unproven! Her son Edward still lived and would be crowned. Had she misjudged Richard of Gloucester? He had called her brother a
traitor and all news of Anthony had ceased from that point. She swallowed at the thought that Rivers might not be alive even then, unknown to her.
‘These men who surround me here,’ she said softly. ‘Will they go with my son?’
‘They are here only for his protection, my lady. I will insist on it, if you wish.’
Elizabeth felt her eyes fill with tears at his faith, as if the old priest could simply wave a hand and of course evil men would walk away and never threaten her again. Still, she grasped at the chance. She chose: all her daughters over one more son. In hope and uncertain desperation, she chose.
‘Very well, Your Grace. I will pass Richard into your care. I will trust you, and the Lord Protector, to do honest duty by a nine-year-old boy.’ Tears spilled from her and ran down her cheeks in two streams though she wiped at them. She called for her son and Prince Richard came running in, seeing his mother’s distress and looking in anger at the old man who seemed to have caused it. The little boy clambered into his mother’s lap and curled up there, holding her tightly as she wept into his hair and kissed him.
‘What’s wrong? Why are you crying?’ he said, looking close to tears himself.
‘I’m sending you to see your brother Edward, that is all. You’re not to cry yourself now, Richard! I expect you to be strong – a warrior and a soldier. You are the Duke of York, remember, like your father before you. He trusted you to look after me and your brother.’
She held him tightly for all the time it took for Archbishop Bourchier to rise and gather his stick. The old man smiled and gestured to the boy.
‘Come, lad. You’re to go with me, it seems. You may have to help me, you know. I am very old. Come now, no
snivelling! You must be brave for your mother. Has he a coat or a cloak?’
‘By the door,’ Elizabeth said. She watched as Richard placed his perfect little hand in the old man’s grip, rubbing his eyes clear. She could not bear to see him go, but it was right, she hoped, the best decision she could make. It broke her in two even so, as he turned and waved to her, smiling to raise her spirits. The boy pulled free of the archbishop and raced back then, almost knocking her over in his enthusiasm and the strength of his grip.
‘I’ll bring Edward back, if they let me,’ Richard whispered to her. ‘Don’t be upset.’
Elizabeth reached down and held him so tightly he could only squirm, then let him go.
The Bishop of Bath and Wells looked uncomfortable in such surroundings, or perhaps in the presence of more senior men of the Church. He seemed a timid creature and Richard had not explained his presence, though he sensed the curiosity in the Archbishops of York and Canterbury in particular. Still, they would have to wait on his pleasure.
He had summoned them once more as a Council, as was his right as Lord Protector. On this occasion in June, he had called them across London to the Tower itself. It was busy with repairs and a new barracks being constructed on the central green. London itself was alive and thriving in the warm, with all the signs of a fine summer to come.
Richard watched each man as they arrived: Hastings, Stanley and Buckingham, Bishop Morton of Ely, the Bishop of Bath and Wells and the two archbishops. No one there could say he had not assembled the most senior men of the Church for such a serious occasion. For the oldest men of the cloth, just reaching the council room in the White Tower had been a trial. Archbishop Bourchier mopped his brow freely, making quite a performance of it to show what he had suffered for his duty. Even so, they were all tense with expectation. Private Councils were called rarely enough, to advise the monarch in times of disaster or war. Parliament had been summoned to Westminster for later in the month, but until it sat, the men in that room were the only power in the land. It was true too that each of them was aware of the two princes, not too far from where they sat. There had been no
news of them for days, beyond glimpses at the high windows of the Tower staterooms.
‘My lords, Your Graces,’ Richard began, ‘I asked for your presence here in part because I have news that will need to be discussed by wise heads before the mob hears and runs wild with it. I may hold a burning brand tonight. I must be careful where it falls.’ He looked around the table at the men he had gathered.
‘Archbishop Bourchier has my gratitude for his aid. Thank you, Your Grace. Due to his intercession, when every other path had failed, I was able to bring my nephew to a place of safety. At the same time, I saw no more need to keep such a great presence of armed men on the Abbey grounds. I have heard of no threat to my brother’s wife nor to his daughters – certainly nothing that would allow me to interfere in Sanctuary once again. I have already stepped too far on ancient liberties.’ He waited for Archbishop Bourchier to nod into his expanse of beard.
‘I withdrew all my soldiers, gentlemen. But I left one man to report on anyone else who might slip in and out of Sanctuary, expecting to be unseen. That decision is what brings you here. I am sorry to say there are men who have been observed to carry news and whispers to Elizabeth Woodville. Men who do not yet understand I know their names. Though they will in time, Your Grace.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Archbishop Bourchier said, his eyebrows rising in confusion. ‘You are surely not accusing me?’ Richard sighed.
‘No, Your Grace, of course not. I had not thought to bring this news to you today … but perhaps it is time. I find my hand is forced, though I might wish it was any other way but this.’
With a gesture, Richard indicated the quaking Bishop of
Bath and Wells, Robert Stillington. In ordinary times, the man looked like a wise cherub, with wisps of white hair and a round-faced pinkness. In that council chamber, under the gaze of another bishop and both archbishops of England, he was white about the lips and completely out of his depth.
‘These men have come at my summons to hear the truth, Robert,’ Richard said, indicating the others. ‘You must tell them what you told me. This is the moment and the truth must come out, though it breaks my heart. Yet I will insist on light! Carried into all the shadowed corners, so that nothing is left hidden. Nothing!’
‘What
is
this?’ Bishop Morton said, leaning forward. He seemed more irritated than intrigued and Richard could only stare at the Bishop of Bath and Wells and urge him on in silence. If the old fool refused to speak, he could yet lose them all – and everything else that might follow.
‘M-my lords, Archbishops Bourchier and Rotheram, Bishop M-Morton …’ The recitation of titles seemed to have dried the bishop’s mouth. Stillington raised a hand and ran it along the sinews of his neck, as if struggling to swallow. ‘Gentlemen, it has fallen to me to bring ill news … of an old marriage contract between King Edward IV, or the Earl of March as he was then, and an Eleanor Butler.’
‘Oh, Brother, no,’ Bishop Morton murmured suddenly. ‘Thou wilt be damned for such a lie, for such a calumny.’ The man at whom he had spoken went pale and his eyes swivelled left and right in panic.
‘Go on, Your Grace,’ Richard said in irritation, glaring at Morton. ‘You say you witnessed this? A marriage promise, a betrothal. Were you the celebrant?’
The bishop nodded with his eyes shut.
‘Two lovers there were, very young, who came before me, laughing and asking to be blessed in marriage before they
went to bed. I was but a young priest then and I thought I might prevent a greater sin. I recall their names, though I did not see either of them again after that day. In Northamptonshire, it was.’
‘Very
well
,’ Bishop Morton snapped. ‘Then you must summon this Eleanor Butler before us, that she may be questioned, or put to the irons. For an accusation of such import, I would have it confirmed beyond the meandering memories of an old man.’
‘An old man of your own age, I believe, Bishop Morton,’ Richard said smoothly. ‘Now, I asked the same thing exactly when I heard. I would not believe it. Bring her before me, I said. Sadly, Your Grace, Eleanor Butler died some five years ago. If we had known – if we had
only
known, my brother King Edward could have remarried Elizabeth Woodville and declared all his children legitimate.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘Yet he did not. I can hardly bear the grief I feel, but I will not allow anything to be hidden, my lords! Let us hear the truth and
all
of the truth about this youthful madness of my brother’s. God knows, he had mistresses! You all know the truth of that. He had little concern for the wives or daughters of other men and he would tumble them at a whim. In drink, I do not know if he could say himself where he had lain.’
‘You have the word of one man for this entire tale?’ Bishop Morton asked quietly. ‘No witnesses, no wife? Yet if true, it will mean not just that the king’s marriage would be annulled, but that his children,
all
his children would be illegitimate.’
Lord Hastings rose slowly to his feet as the full import of the news sank in. Not so nimble of wit as Bishop Morton, he had not jumped ahead as quickly in his understanding. Instead, he had been sitting in growing anger, turning his head back and forth as the men of the cloth debated points
as if they were esoteric matters of faith and morals. Hastings could hardly believe what he was hearing.
‘You would disinherit them all!’ he said, pointing a shaking finger at Richard of Gloucester, the Lord Protector. ‘His wife, his heir,
all
. What madness is this? What lies are these?’
‘Would you call a bishop of the Church a liar?’ Richard responded with equal passion. ‘You knew my brother well, Lord Hastings, almost as well as I did myself. Are you saying such a manner of persuasion would have been beyond him? That he would never have talked a young girl into bed with a mere promise, with such a ruse? Can you swear to that?’
Hastings said nothing, though his colour deepened under the stares of the other men. He knew as well as they did that such a thing was possible. It was exactly the sort of error a young man like Edward might have made. He did not believe it even then, simply for the gain it brought to Richard of Gloucester. It was just too perfect, too convenient.
‘Be that as it may, you expect me to believe that this doddering old fool came to you when he heard King Edward had died and never before? That he had kept this vile secret for twenty years?’ Hastings turned on the Bishop of Bath and Wells, the old man curling in on himself in fear. ‘Stillington, did your conscience finally cry out so loudly that it could not be silenced any longer? Does this not have the greasy feel of lies to you?’
‘You cannot intimidate a bishop of the Church, my lord,’ Richard said firmly. ‘Nor should you try. Now listen to me, all of you. Perhaps Hastings has shown us a path, in his anger. There are no servants present. No one but those of us in this room know my brother’s marriage was false, his children illegitimate.’ Lord Stanley stirred uncomfortably at his elbow and Richard turned on him. ‘Oh, I hate to say those words as much as anyone! Yet we could swear an oath, a
pact, as solemn as any order of chivalry, or sovereignty, or oath before God. We could swear in blood not to reveal what we know of the succession. To keep it in this room and never beyond this room.’ He paused, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice.
‘Westminster has known secrets before and will again. Swear this oath with me never to reveal what you have heard – and I will go from here and bring out my nephews from their rooms in this fortress. I will take the elder prince from this place to Westminster to be crowned King Edward the Fifth. Only we will know. Yet if but one of you dissents, I must let the news go out, though it breaks my heart in two.’
The men at that table exchanged glances, but both archbishops were shaking their heads before Richard had finished speaking.
‘I cannot give my word to such a lie,’ Archbishop Bourchier said firmly. ‘My oath of office prevents me, even if I could allow it as a man.’
‘Nor I,’ Archbishop Rotheram of York added. ‘What you ask … is impossible.’
Bishop Morton said nothing at all, though he was tensed as if to spring to his feet. Richard closed his eyes and sagged in despair.
‘Then there is nothing I can do. I had hoped … but, no. The word is out.’
‘As you
intended
,’ Hastings said suddenly. ‘Why would you have this little man bring his accusation to this room if you hoped for it to be suppressed? Why not just keep the secret yourself?’
‘My lord, you seem to see my guilt in everything I do,’ Richard said, growing angry once more. ‘Yet all I have done, all I have
tried
to do is to support my brother’s memory and secure the life of his son as he ascends the throne. With an
open heart, I read the archives and spoke to hundreds of men who knew my brother and what he might have wanted. This is the result and I did not desire it. Your foul suspicions … well, perhaps I understand them well enough.’
Hastings rested his hand on his sword hilt.
‘You do? You understand me? Well, to the
devil
with you.’
Lord Stanley and Bishop Morton came to their feet in the same instant that Hastings moved. All three of the men pulled blades, though Stanley cried out for them to stop at the same time. Bishop Morton held a slender dagger and held it to defend himself, backing away a step.
Hastings ignored the shout. He had drawn his sword and he thrust with it right across the table, aiming at Richard’s heart.
The tip of the blade reached the Lord Protector as he threw himself to one side, snagging in the gold stripe of his tunic. Speed and his relative youth had saved Richard, though Hastings had not remained still as his first blow failed. Without hesitation, he stalked around the table to finish the work.
‘Guards! Treachery!’ Buckingham roared. He too had come to his feet at last. Though he looked like a rabbit before a fox, he drew his own sword, lowering it at Hastings to block his path.
‘Treachery!’ Richard of Gloucester called in turn. His eyes glittered and Hastings scrambled to reach him in a fury as the doors slammed open and men poured into the room. Hastings knocked Buckingham aside, but he was grappled from behind before he could take another step, his sword falling on to the table with a clatter. The Bishop of Bath and Wells cried out in fear at the sudden presence of so many armed men. Lord Stanley almost fell across the old bishop when he too was grabbed and sent sprawling, his sword torn
from his grasp. Bishop Morton stood very still with a sword at his throat, handing over his dagger to the hands that reached for it.
The crashes and shouting came to a sudden halt, leaving only the sound of men breathing hard, or groaning under the weight of five or six bearing down on them so they could not move.
‘I am the Lord Protector of England,’ Richard said clearly. ‘Appointed by my brother, King Edward. On my order, arrest William, Lord Hastings, on charges of treason and conspiracy against the person of the king.’
‘You lie so easily, I wonder if your brother knew you at all,’ Hastings said.
Richard’s colour deepened. He stepped closer to Hastings and though the man struggled, he was held so tightly he could not move an inch.
‘How many times have you gone into the Sanctuary fortress of Westminster Abbey, William? Since the death of my brother at Easter? Before and after I had my men surround that place – over these six weeks or so, how many times would you say?’
Hastings curled his lip.
‘So you have spies watching the place. What is that to me? I am a free man and no conspirator. It is no business of yours how many times I have entered that place.’
‘And your mistress?’ Richard went on. ‘Jane Shore? How many times would you say she has crept along those paths and slipped inside, at all hours, even with the stars overhead. I wonder what messages she held that could not bear the light of day, like any conspiracy. What do you say about her, my lord?’
Hastings had swollen in the grip of the men holding him, as if he held in soaring emotions. His face had darkened
almost to purple and those around him could see the webs of veins on his cheeks and his nose.
‘I say it is no business of yours, Gloucester, no, not even if you make it sound like an accusation! My mistress, my sister, myself – no one who knows me can say I am anything but loyal. Your brother trusted me. How can you accuse me now? What does it gain you? For God’s sake, Richard,
please
. Let us forget today and what has been said.’
‘I wish I could, my lord,’ Richard said. ‘But you have not walked your way to the end of the path, do you see it yet? Do you see?’ There was only desperate confusion in Lord Hastings and Richard shook his head in sorrow.