Ravenspur: Rise of the Tudors (33 page)

They roared in response and he patted the air, euphoric. He saw his wife appear at the edge of the balcony, standing shyly. Ann Neville, second daughter to Warwick. Richard only wished her father could have lived to see him crowned. He wondered briefly if Earl Warwick would have been delighted or appalled.

‘Come, Ann!’ Richard called to her. ‘Let them see you!’ She was a few years younger than him and pale in her white steepled headdress, almost ethereal, so that he worried for her health. Against his ruddy tan and swordsman’s hands, she looked as if he could break her in two. Yet he stretched out and she came to stand by him, causing another great roar from the crowd below.

‘My queen, Ann, will be crowned at my side,’ he said to the crowd. ‘My son will be Prince of Wales.’ He dipped his head to speak in a lower voice to his wife. ‘Where is the boy, Ann? Can you not do that much for me?’

‘Ned ran off,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t
know
where. He pulled away from my hand. All this wild shouting and cheering frightened him.’

Richard turned away from her rather than begin an argument in full view of all those watching. It was a source of
constant irritation that his nine-year-old son seemed to weep and reach for his mother when he should have been growing strong. There was no sign of King Edward’s towering great height in him either. It made Richard wonder if Buckingham wasn’t right after all.

As his wife glared at him, Richard beamed down at the crowd once more.

‘I tell you, we begin here, by God’s grace, a new reign. Yet we continue a royal line that will reach a hundred years. Let there be peace now, under a white York rose, under royal lions. I awoke as Lord Protector this morning. I will sleep tonight as King of England.’

As they cheered, he took Ann by the hand, leading her down the steps to where a horse-drawn litter waited for her and a warhorse for himself. Buckingham had arranged eight pages for the king elect, men all perfectly matched in height and wearing robes of red-and-white satin. Ann’s pages wore the same red and also a tunic of dark blue to honour the mother of Christ. They made a great cornucopia of colour on the drab streets, with swelling crowds heaving all around to watch them set off.

The lords and Richard’s guests were already streaming away in a great surge to Westminster, if they had not already left servants to secure a good seat. Richard saw his wife was looking strained and nervous and he reached down to kiss her. To his irritation, she turned so his lips brushed her cheek. He could not snap at her as he desired with so many still cheering all around them. Yet it was typical of her to take the shine from his moment of triumph with some petty act.

Ann stepped up from the mounting block and took her place on the litter, waiting with her neck bent and head down as maidservants arranged her dress so that it spilled well and hid any sight of leg or thigh beneath.

‘Thank you, Lady Beaufort,’ she said to the gentlewoman overseeing the rest. Richard glanced at the miserable old trout tending to his wife.

‘Look after her well, my lady. She is my greatest treasure.’

Margaret Beaufort dipped into a brief curtsey, though she still looked sour. Richard gave up. It should not have been too much to ask that his wife shared some of his joy and satisfaction. God knew, he had worked hard enough to bring it about. His back hurt like a bastard and he could feel the shoulder winging out like a gate opening under his tunic, bringing a sense of wrongness as well as an increase in pain. He would be shifting uncomfortably all the time the archbishop prayed over his head and the monks sang the
Te Deum
, he just knew it. Yet he could at least smile for the crowds. It would be pleasant if his wife did the same, he thought.

It seemed their son would not be there at his father’s own coronation. Edward, whom they called Ned to set him apart from the host of boys named for the king. Richard’s only child – who would be Prince of Wales and, one day, would be crowned himself. It was infuriating to think of him off playing somewhere at such a moment in his father’s life.

‘Lady Beaufort,’ Richard called. ‘Would you send someone to find my son, Ned, for me? The little … fellow has run off somewhere, I am told. I would have liked him to see his father crowned, that small thing. I’ll instruct a man at the door in Westminster to keep a seat for him.’ To his irritation, his wife’s companion looked first to Ann and received a tiny nod before she curtsied again. Richard raised his eyes. A man could be king, could actually be king of England – and still be scorned in his own household. He vowed Ann would not deny him the marital bed that night. He would insist, whether she agreed or not. His son needed brothers and sisters, after all. There would be no more talk of headaches and coughing illness.

As he mounted a young gelding, Richard wondered idly if his son would be Edward the Fifth or the Sixth when his turn came to be crowned. He thought then of the two nephews in the Tower. Richard looked east where he could see the White Tower in the distance, standing above all the rest. Could the cheering be heard over there? He thought perhaps it could.

Once he was king, he would have to consider his nephews again. He would discuss it with Buckingham, perhaps. The young duke had become devoted to him over the previous months, showing an enthusiasm for the cause that was sometimes embarrassing. It was difficult to believe the man’s grandfather had fought for Lancaster and been killed at Northampton. Or perhaps that lay at the root of Buckingham’s attacks on King Edward, Richard did not know. It had been Buckingham who had added the details to the petition in Parliament of Elizabeth Woodville being a sorceress, ensnaring King Edward with her wiles and magic. The man spoke with such great feeling that he had almost written King Edward out of the record, despite his accomplishments, as if the poor man had been nothing but a cat’s paw.

Richard frowned at the thought. For all he wanted to encourage Buckingham, he would still have to rein him in. Richard had been utterly loyal to his older brother while he was alive. It might have been his proudest boast, if he would ever have said such a thing aloud. He had adored Edward, revered him as a man much greater than the crown he wore. Edward’s loss still wept in him, hidden deep. He would not give his trust again, to anyone.

At last, his wife appeared to be ready. Richard dragged himself out of his gloomy reverie and nodded to his guards and the pages ready to walk in step ahead of them all. With some of his good feeling left behind, he and his wife set off
through cheering crowds. Trumpets and drums began to sound ahead, raising his pulse. Knights in armour rode along before and behind, their armour shining silver.

Richard felt his spirits begin to recover and he raised his hand to the crowds, though it made his back ache. It was worse every year, he thought. Pain he’d thought he could bear all his life became less easy to endure as he aged. It was a frustrating thing to acknowledge, but the physical power and certainty of a man in his twenties saying ‘This, I can stand for ever’, would not itself last. A brother and a beloved king could die. A vow could wither, a back twist further and his pain might never ease at all.

Richard sighed, sitting back from the table. The summer had lasted for an age, longer than he could ever remember. As late as November, the fast-shortening days were still gloriously warm. The leaves had turned to gold and red, in a thousand shades, but the sun still shone and, by God, it only seemed to rain at night. His wife, Ann, had accompanied him on a Royal Progress with judges and lords in grand procession, as far north as York. It had been a little different to his memory of entering with Edward and a dozen more. As if to make up for that cold welcome, he had been presented with a chalice full of thick gold coins, while Ann had been given a gold plate brimming with silver. They had been feasted and fêted on every side. Richard had been so pleased with the generosity of that second city in England that he’d overseen his son being crowned there as Prince of Wales, in York Minster, the great and ancient cathedral.

An ambassador from Spain had joined him and proved delightful company. Over months of drowsing warmth, Richard had carried on the business of state while going from city to city of the realm. He had affirmed peace with Spain and France and dispensed justice for just under a thousand criminals, some of whom had waited years for judgement. More important even than those things, he thought, was that he had been seen around the country. Not as a pretender, not even as a lord, but as king, giving justice and rewards, executing criminals or pardoning them as called upon. His wife and son had left him at last as he’d
headed back to London. They’d gone together to Middleham Castle, after his royal physicians had said both of them were exhausted and suffering from congestion of the lungs. His wife’s cough had certainly worsened, so he did not suspect her of flagging enthusiasm. If anything, Ann seemed to have enjoyed his first months as king. When she and his son were stronger, they would come back to London with him.

Richard upended his cup of wine and felt the warmth seep into his muscles. He had high hopes of a new unguent for his back and had found a little Dorset woman with thumbs of iron to apply it. He looked forward to her attentions that evening with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

He felt his back twitch as his steward entered and bowed. The twist there was becoming like one of the old wounds he’d heard about that could predict rain or bad news. The idea made him smile.

‘What is it?’ he asked the steward.

‘Your Highness, there is a messenger without. He has grave news of Lord Buckingham.’

Richard looked along the table to where Lord Stanley had put his plate aside. Stanley shrugged, though as royal treasurer, he felt perhaps he should sit up and take notice.

‘Send him in then,’ Richard said. He could not shake the prickling sense of unease, whether it came from his back or just his intuition.

The messenger entered and spoke for half an hour, longer, as Richard questioned him. The news was bad indeed, though the king took the time to wipe his mouth and hands with a cloth as he stood. His guests rose with him, exchanging glances.

‘Well, gentlemen, it seems Henry Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, is not the man I trusted after all. By God, I
gave him everything! To have him turn against me … he is the most untrue creature alive. So. You have heard all that I have. Do any of you wish to question this young gentleman further? No? Then I will send out a demand to assemble in my name. I will raise an army to defend against this rebellion, these threats and insurrections. Perhaps Buckingham has lost his mind, or fallen under some spell, I cannot say. No, I will add this: I offer a reward for his capture. If Buckingham has decided to act like a common criminal, that is how I shall treat him. For capture, alive for punishment, I will say … a thousand pounds, or land to the value of a hundred a year. That for Buckingham. For Bishop Morton, a man whose advice I thought I could trust, five hundred pounds, or land worth fifty pounds a year. For any knights who are such fools as to believe their promises … forty pounds a man.’ He looked around at those who had been expecting nothing more than a relaxed banquet in Lincoln, on their slow way back to London. Many of them were smiling, reflecting Richard’s own clear confidence.

‘Gentlemen, I have witnessed battle at Barnet and Tewkesbury. I have seen rebellions before. I have no patience for another! Summon the men of England to stand for me. I will answer.’

They gave a cheer then and raced out as fast as they could in dignity. Richard sat down once more, raising his eyebrows at Lord Stanley, his treasurer.

‘This will empty the coffers,’ Richard said glumly. ‘Though perhaps it will leave a healthier state – after the letting of bad blood. I suppose I would rather know now that Buckingham was a false-coat, than fear his knives in the night. At least he has taken the field and not tried to have me poisoned. Oh, damn these
inconstant
lords! I tell you, since my brother
Edward, there has not been another fit to clean his shoes. No, not even me. We have all seen too much of war. It costs too much.’

‘It does indeed, Your Highness,’ Lord Stanley replied with emphasis. Richard looked up.

‘Yes, of course. Well, borrow what you need to, in my name.’ He thought for a moment, his expression darkening.

‘I wonder if Buckingham is Bishop Morton’s pawn? Have they risen to put my nephews on the throne? It cannot be for
Lancaster
, surely? What rags are left of that house, after Tewkesbury? Some servant? Some faithful hound?’

Lord Stanley smiled dutifully at his patron, pleasing Richard as the king went on. ‘I had not thought Buckingham would be such a fool. He is a fine speaker, but no great leader of men, I would have said. Though perhaps they are one and the same in the end.’ He saw that Stanley wished to be dismissed and waved his hand.

‘Go, my lord. Be sure my commissions of array go out before me. My army is to assemble in ten days, at … Leicester. Yes, that will do. I can strike out from there, wherever they gather against me.’

As Stanley bowed and left, Richard looked up at the rain spattering against the windows of the Lincoln hall. He had been driven out of that very county once, with his brother Edward and not two coins to rub together between them. Edward had given his coat to a Flanders captain for their passage! Did men like Buckingham think he was some innocent, some fool to be surprised by their petty insurrections?

For all his light words to the men at the table, Richard was furious with Buckingham for his betrayal. He would not be driven forth again, not as king. He had enjoyed one glorious
summer – and it was not enough. The rain struck more strongly in gusts against the glass and Richard smiled. The summer was at an end. Let Buckingham fear the autumn winds and winter cold. Let sly Bishop Morton fear the rain that made roads a quagmire for marching men. Richard would answer them – and anyone else who stood. He thought once more of his nephews. While they lived, they would always be a rallying cry, an old wound still unhealed. He set his jaw. There was an answer to that as well.

Buckingham had overreached himself. He knew it as soon as he sent men to ask Bishop Morton’s advice and they came back confused and empty-handed, saying he could not be found. The duke felt ill then as he watched the royal army that appeared at sunset, a dark tide of armour, marching against him for King Richard.

The men who had come to Buckingham’s banners were grim and shivering as the rain poured down. They had not eaten well for days and they were worn out by damp and cold.

By the time the sun rose, there were thousands fewer than the night before. Lords and their men had simply crept away as soon as darkness hid them. They’d watched the massive royal squares taking shape, ready for the morning – and their nerve had failed.

It had not helped that rain had fallen almost without respite from the moment Buckingham took the field two weeks before. It was as if the long summer had saved up every drop of water only to unleash it all in torrents, like the Flood. Roads and paths were not just muddy but hip-deep in rainwater that would not seep back into the earth. His men slept wet and woke shivering, and even their food was always cold and sopping fare.

Buckingham felt eyes on him as he rode along a path between hedges, seeking out flat ground. He was certain he saw avarice in his own knights and the few lords who still remained that morning. The idea of King Richard putting a price on his capture was so insulting that Buckingham still burned with it, but it had had an effect. Morton had vanished, after all. Buckingham could no longer ride or walk anywhere without eyes following him, as if he was a fortune to be watched in case it disappeared. It was infuriating. Yet even then, he did not think his plans would have fallen apart quite as quickly without the whispers from London.

One piece of news had ruined him, more than the reward on his head, or the damp, or the fear. Buckingham cared nothing for the two sons of King Edward, but half the lords who had risen against King Richard certainly did. Some had come to his rebellion to restore the rightful succession, to throw down the usurper who had moved against his brother’s widow and her sons with indecent haste, with the old king’s body still warm.

Buckingham had not worried overmuch about their reasons – just as long as they came to the field. It would not matter in the end why they had come. A rebellion grew in power and ambition and when Richard was dead, they would be swept up and see the outcome as he did. The forces of Lancaster should have landed by then, to join them in triumph. It would all have been settled on Richard’s corpse – and those Buckingham had lost could rest in peace.

The news that the princes had been killed in the Tower, no one knew how, had dealt a mortal blow to his campaign. Without them, there
was
no cause of York, no rallying point. In desperation, Buckingham and Bishop Morton had argued that their lords should change their alliance and fight on for Lancaster. If there had been some sign of the damned
Tudors, they might have swayed the gathered lords. Yet there was not – and there were nobles on that field who would not keep their titles if Lancaster returned. They had said little as darkness came, but they’d all been gone by morning, taking thousands of soldiers away with them.

It was perhaps the most disastrous and short-lived rebellion of his lifetime, Buckingham thought ruefully. He did not think he had eight hundred men left on the field that morning, a thousand at most. God alone knew how many he faced. He had been outmanoeuvred almost from the beginning and he felt a grudging respect for King Richard that had not been there before. The rising tide Buckingham had felt for a few exciting weeks had become a still pool. He liked the image, in part because the heavens had opened yet again and the rain was hammering down, drumming unpleasantly on his armour. His iron plate was already brown with rust, though he had squires and servants to polish it each evening.

He saw a farmhouse ahead and pointed it out rather than shout over the downpour. The king’s army was a mile or two away over broken ground of fields and ditches and a river. With the rain making it all a morass, Buckingham did not think they would be advancing that morning, no matter whose banners flew, unless it was to demand his surrender. He had a little time, either way, and just the thought of a hot cup of milk made him want to groan.

He dismounted in the farmer’s yard and walked towards the door. He did not see one of his men raise a cudgel as he ducked to pass below the lintel. When the blow came down on the back of his head, the Duke of Buckingham fell senseless across the threshold. The family within were astonished and terrified at the crash of armour bringing rain and wind into their home.

The men with Buckingham said nothing as they dragged him up and tied his unconscious form to his horse, his arms securely bound behind his back. He lolled there as they looked at one another in wild surmise. Even shared between six of them, a thousand pounds was a fortune for poor knights.

The ship no longer rose and fell with the waves, but shuddered like a wounded boar. The white crests showed above the rails as they came hissing in, breaking into foam as they smacked against the sides and across her deck, sending deep groans through the whole structure. Sailors ran bare-footed along the waist, grabbing for ropes or wooden sides whenever they saw a wave coming at them, calling and pointing to one another in warning. Again and again, one of them saw the threat too late and was thrown from his feet, shooting across the boards in a flood of white until he struck something else. Some struggled to stand, bedraggled, hair streaming with salt water as they fought for breath. Others took friends away with them and went over the side into the foaming, breathing deep.

Another danger, worse than the great waves that threatened to tip the entire ship over, lay in the ships struggling along on either side, lost to sight in the unnatural darkness under the storm. The wind would fall without warning though the sea continued to plunge, leaving men to pick themselves up and search the grey for some sight of land or their own fleet. The air itself was thick with spray and there was no warning as one ship appeared on top of another, rising up and up across the waist as men screamed. The masts snapped on the ship below and it turned right over as the other shook itself like a wet dog and leaped on as if it had not just murdered scores of men.

Jasper Tudor watched in horror. He considered himself a sailor, but the open sea between France and England was one of the most dangerous stretches of water he had ever known. The storms there came out of nothing and the coast was black rock or cliffs of chalk, with no gentle harbours visible from the deep water. He prayed as he saw one ship destroy another and heard the great wail of the men on the surviving vessel as their ship broke free and went on. It looked almost untouched at first, but then began to list and the second cry was one of unending terror. There was nothing anyone could do, though he saw men dropping into the water like stones as the ship leaned and bucked. The waves would not give them a respite and the wind increased, whistling, and freezing those who watched and those who drowned.