The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (16 page)

“I heard,” replied Richard wearily. “A damned fool thing to do.” Rotherham would have to be disciplined, and the sooner, the better.

Shaken from his reverie, Buckingham snorted. “He must be charged with treason and thrown into prison!”

“That’s too severe. He meant no real harm, and he did return to reclaim it,” Hastings replied. “He’s a friend of mine, Dickon, and I’ve promised him I’d speak for him. He told me it was her tears that drove him to it. Will you consider a pardon—”

“Not bloody likely!” exclaimed Buckingham. “He’s a Woodville lover. And you’re the fool, if you think we’ll let him off!”

Hastings’ face registered surprise, then anger. “He’s served Edward well all these years. The man’s old and doddery. Bad judgement—not treason—is all he’s guilty of.” He twisted around, looked at Richard. “He has his supporters. I believe it would be a mistake to deal harshly with him. With all deference, Dickon, I have more experience in such matters than Harry!”

Richard pushed open the window. God’s curse, how he hated court! Already the feuds were breaking out, even here, among his own. Why had Buckingham spoken so rashly and insulted Hastings? They could have come to an amicable agreement. As it was, each was waiting to see whom he would favour. He agreed with Buckingham that the offence could not be overlooked. Rotherham was one of the Queen’s men and owed his rise to her influence. The fact that he gave her the Great Seal proved it, and he had demanded its return only because he realised he’d backed the wrong cock in this fight and feared for his own hide. But now, thanks to Buckingham’s damned intemperate remarks—for which he’d have to rebuke him later—it was impossible to discipline Rotherham without offending Hastings. And he owed Hastings. If it hadn’t been for him, he’d be dead now.

“We can’t overlook his action,” said Richard, “but stripping him of the chancellorship should be enough.” He held up a hand to silence Buckingham’s protest. “He can still remain on the council. I was thinking of the Bishop of Lincoln as his replacement. What do you say, Will?” John Russell, Bishop of Lincoln, was one of Edward’s most accomplished diplomats and a man of great learning and piety.

Hastings had always been a generous man, and generously he accepted the compromise. The tension was defused. But no sooner had he left than Buckingham turned his fury on Richard. It took Richard far longer to mollify him.

Rob and Francis, watching silently, exchanged glances. The future did not bode well. There was going to be trouble between Hastings and Buckingham.

The next day Richard held his first council meeting. He included even those who had supported the Woodvilles. This was no time for confrontation. He had to heal the divisions if they were to avoid strife. He knew civil war too well; it set brother against brother and friend against friend, and was the greatest horror, the deepest agony, a land could inflict on itself. “What is past, is past,” he said in the Star Chamber at Westminster, named for the tiny silver stars emblazoned on the blue silk cloth that lined the walls. “Let us learn from our mistakes and move forward to a prosperous and glorious reign.”

The council took up debate and set the date of Edward’s coronation for St. John’s Day. The only serious problem that confronted Richard was what to do with the Woodvilles. His feelings of magnanimity had evaporated since it was discovered that Richard Grey had three wagonloads of armour and weapons in his train. Clearly, they had been planning to use force. Even now Bess’s brother, Sir Edward, was defying the government with his fleet. And her son, Dorset, who had managed to escape from Sanctuary—no doubt with the aid of that bawdy woman Jane Shore—was trying to raise men against Richard’s Protectorate.

“On the matter of Anthony Woodville, Grey, and Vaughn, I wish charges of treason be brought against them.” These accursed Woodvilles cared nothing for England. They would plunge the land back into evil days to secure their base of power. He wanted them to pay the full penalty:
Death
.

“My Lord of Gloucester,” said beady-eyed Morton in his slippery voice, his lips barely moving, “you had not been appointed Protector at the time. Therefore, there was, in fact, no treason.”

“Their intention was clear. They tried to set aside my royal brother’s testament and my Protectorate in order to seize power and rule the land themselves. That is treason.”

“You say they
intended
to displace you, my Lord of Gloucester. Their intent is a matter of conjecture. Treason is a serious charge. We cannot convict on mere hearsay about intent when there is no proof whatever… I motion that they be released immediately for lack of evidence.”

A bitter argument ensued. Howard and most of the barons readily concurred with Richard, but Hastings, former chancellor Rotherham, and the spiritual lords sided with Bishop Morton. A consensus was finally reached. No charges were to be brought, but Anthony Woodville, Grey, and Vaughn were to be kept in confinement. As for the Queen, she was to be offered pardon if she would leave sanctuary and promise to behave honourably, as befitting a Queen Dowager. A committee was appointed to negotiate with her.

“What about Sir Edward Woodville and the ships he’s taken?” demanded Hastings.

“We won’t have to use force if we pardon his men,” said Richard.

“But how do we get the offer to the sailors?” asked Chancellor Russell. “They are at sea, and no ship could get close enough to announce it.”

Richard looked at the man he’d nicknamed “The Friendly Lion” in childhood. “Lord Howard, what say you?”

All eyes turned to the portly magnate in dark blue brocade. The hero of the Scots invasion rose to his feet. If Richard was the first general of the realm, Howard was its admiral, but though the sea was his coinage, he fought like the silver lion of his blazon both on land and sea, and it was Towton that had distinguished him. That, and his unwavering loyalty to York for over two decades.

“It can be done,” said Howard. “And I know just the man for the job, my Lord.”

The hint of a smile tipped the corners of Richard’s mouth as he voiced the name. “Edward Brampton, who captured St. Michael’s Mount from Oxford.”

Howard hitched up his gilt-embossed girdle from below his ample belly and grinned. “Indeed, my Lord. There’s ne’er a sea dog in the land as hardy and resourceful as Brampton. He’ll pull it off, by God!” He winked. “And if anyone wishes a wager on it, my lords, I’ll give ’em ten to one odds…” He looked around hopefully. No one accepted his wager. His acumen in turning a profit was too well known. He not only fought in ships, he traded in them. Over the years, he’d managed to grow many a penny into a pound.

By the end of the week, in a dazzling display of swashbuckling bravado, Brampton managed to get the message to Woodville’s men, who then plied their guards with drinks, overpowered them, and sailed for London. Edward Woodville, left with only two ships, fled to Brittany. But he took with him half the King’s gold.

During the course of the next few days Richard confirmed many appointments and made new ones. Hastings kept all his offices. He was still Captain of Calais and Lord Chamberlain of England, which gave him ready access to the young King’s ear. Hastings’s messenger, William Catesby, who had served them so well during the momentous events of the past weeks, was appointed chancellor of the earldom of March.

But unknown to Richard, Hastings chafed.

He had expected to be Richard’s right arm, as he had been Edward’s. Had he not stood alone against the Woodvilles? Had he not risked all—his very life, in fact—to warn Richard and prepare him to thwart the Woodvilles? But for him, Richard would not be Protector. And now that he was, Richard had turned all his favour, all his attention, all his trust, to that upstart, that rash, brash, ebullient, unstable George-like Buckingham. In council Buckingham was the dominant voice. Wherever Richard rode, Buckingham rode at his side. Richard had loaded Buckingham with titles, lands, and offices. Buckingham was Commissioner of Array and Constable of all the royal castles in five counties, Steward of all royal manors and demesnes. Buckingham was Chief Justice and Chamberlain in North and South Wales, Governor of those regions, Constable, Steward and Receiver of most of the Welsh castles. The list went on and on, the result being that Buckingham was the virtual ruler of Wales, the Marches, and most of the West Country.

And Hastings was not happy.

Even Jane Shore, for whom he had hungered all these years, and who had finally come to his bed after Dorset’s disappearance, could not console him with all her beauty and all her wit.

~*^*~

Chapter 17

“—a man of plots,

Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings—”

“I bear dire tidings,” said the black-clad messenger from Middleham. “My Lord Protector, I regret to inform you that your gracious nephew, George Neville, is dead.”

Richard felt as if his breath solidified in his throat. “How…?”

“He was thrown from his horse. His neck was broken.”

Slowly, heavily, Richard let himself down into a chair and listened to the man’s report. Riding to Nappa Hall near the falls at Aysgarth to visit their neighbour, old Metcalfe, and hear his tales of Agincourt where he had fought with Henry the Fifth, George’s horse had stumbled. He had been flung headlong to his death.

“Leave me,” said Richard.

There was a sudden commotion at the door. Rob’s voice called out, “Richard…”

He looked up with bleary, unfocused eyes. “What is it?”

“Are you ready to see them now—the petitioners, I mean? The hall is full. The line reaches almost to the river.”

“Tell them to go away and leave me in peace. In peace, do you hear!” He leapt to his feet and pushed past a stunned Rob, making for the chapel.

First the father; now the son. Richard’s head throbbed. He fell to his knees before the altar. For most of the day, a dismal rain had been falling. He stared up at the gilt cross glinting in the gloomy light and remembered the cross at Hadley Church. He had stopped at Barnet on his way to London. It had been the fourth of May. George had died that sunny morning. Maybe even as he was passing through Barnet; maybe even as he had stood gazing up at the cross at Hadley Church.

A shiver ran down his spine. He found the knowledge ironic, and horribly unsettling.

Arrangements for the coronation moved forward. Under the watchful eye of the Keeper of the Wardrobe, tailors fashioned splendid costumes for the young King and his household. Meanwhile, the full council continued to meet formally in the Star Chamber while smaller committees assembled in the Tower to issue the writs and bills necessary to the state’s business, or met at private homes for informal consultation.

Richard’s own intimate circle of advisors gathered at Crosby Place. They included Buckingham, Francis and Rob, Howard, Conyers, and the Lords Scrope of Bolton and Scrope of Masham, who were Neville kinsmen and had been good friends to John. There was also one newcomer to court: Richard’s nephew Jack, the young Earl of Lincoln, his sister Liza’s son. He had grown up since the day he’d won the prize of a pup sired by Percival for committing to memory verses written by his great-grandfather, Geoffrey Chaucer, and he was now twenty years old, anxious to help his uncle in any way he could.

The pace of these days was gruelling; the tension draining. Crosby Place bustled with Richard’s household staff, his growing number of supporters, and the daily procession of men with special grievances or hopes for favour. In the city he had always hated, there was no joy for Richard without his family, but duty called, and Richard had never failed the call of duty—even in the face of grief.

Late on a Thursday evening, exactly a month after George’s death, Anne arrived at Crosby Place, escorted by a pale and drawn George Gower. Rain had been pouring all day and she shivered in her wet clothes. Richard removed her soaking mantle and embraced her. He rested a gentle hand on Gower’s drooping shoulder, met his pained eyes. “We’ll miss him, Gower.”

“Aye, my Lord,” Gower managed.

Richard swallowed his sorrow and led Anne into the solar where a fire glowed. “How is Ned?” He was distressed to find her looking thinner, her eyes red-rimmed. Young George’s death had exacted a heavy toll.

Anne shook her damp curls. “I wish I could say he was well, Richard, but he misses George… Ned fell ill on his birthday, you know, two days after George…” She broke off, struggled for composure. “That makes two fevers in one month. It is so worrisome.”

Indeed, young George’s death had reminded them of the fragility of life. Richard caught her hands in his own and looked steadily into her eyes. “Remember what I keep telling you, my little bird?”

“‘Richard liveth yet,’” Anne repeated dutifully. “I realise you were a sickly child, and so was I. But ’tis… difficult, Richard.”

“I know, my love.” He drew her to him and smoothed her wet hair. “Yet all will be well in the end, God willing.” He kissed her on the brow. “Now eat and get some rest. I have to take care of business for a bit, but I’ll hurry along as much as I can.”

“Oh, Richard, must you? You look tired, my love. Can you not take this one night off?” Indeed, he looked quite exhausted. He was pale and hollow-cheeked. If he had lost weight during these two months, he had also lost sleep, for there were bags under his eyes. She traced the line of his jaw lovingly. “We can curl up before the fire and take a bath together.”

Richard was sorely tempted. Gladly would he have dismissed everyone and committed to the morning the business that remained, but he could see that Anne was more fatigued than she knew. Rest was what she needed, maybe even more than he needed the comfort of her arms.

“Nay, my love, I can’t,” he said gently. “There is business I must attend tonight.”

Forcing a light note into her tone, Anne said, “Then you owe me.”

“Will you accept a promissory note?” Richard grinned.

Anne smiled, stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cleft in his chin.

Richard stood warming his hands at the hearth in his bedchamber for there was a chill in the air though it was summer. He’d spent nearly the full day in council attending affairs of state and so busy had he been that his meals were brought to him. As a result, he hadn’t seen Anne all day, but it was precisely to spend time with her that he’d pushed himself so hard. Now it was past Vespers, candles had been lit, and the remains of dinner cleared. Almost all the urgent business had been concluded. Only one other matter remained.