The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (19 page)

“Surely Hastings’s loyalty is not in question? It’s not possible Harry!” said Francis.

“You can’t deny the facts!” retorted Buckingham.

“We have no facts, Harry. Only suspicions,” said Richard.

The debate raged for an hour. Then Buckingham rose to his feet. “You must act, Dickon. You cannot afford to wait and hope that all will be well. You’re accessible to the plotters—their armed retainers throng the city. If they choose to seize you, you may well be unable to fight them. To delay until the plot is proven could be fatal!”

“But to condemn a man before we ascertain his guilt—that would be lawless murder.”

There was a knock at the door. It was Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the Yorkshire knight and brother by marriage to Richard’s friend Lord Scrope of Bolton. “My Lord, an urgent message has come for you from Lord Hastings.”

Glances were exchanged around the table. “Show the messenger in,” commanded Richard.

Ratcliffe hesitated. “My Lord, he states that his message is for the ears of the Lord Protector alone.”

“Very well, I’ll see him in my private chamber.”

Moments later he stood stiffly while William Catesby knelt at his feet. He motioned him to rise. “What is Lord Hastings’s message?”

William Catesby flushed. “My Lord, it is not
from
my Lord Hastings that I come, but
about
him.”

“What do you mean?”

Catesby cleared his throat nervously. “This is not easy for me, Your Grace. Lord Hastings has been good to me. But I am a lawyer, and the law is all that holds back tyranny and anarchy. When men go wilfully against the law, no good can come of their actions…”

“Speak, man. What’s on your mind?”

“My Lord Protector, your life is in danger. There is a conspiracy by the lords Rotherham, Stanley, Morton, and Hastings to seize the government from you and put you to death!”

Richard felt the blood drain to his feet. It was the nightmare of Edward’s court reborn; all the licentiousness, the corruption, deceit, and hatred of faction against faction. That was what they wished to bring back—that misery, ugliness, and evil. God’s curses on them!

Then the heaviness in his chest receded, gave way to fierce anger. “Follow me!” He stormed back to his council. “Tell them, Catesby!” He stood seething while Catesby delivered his report. Gone were his doubts. To avert civil war, to save his life, to uphold the will of the dead King against the faction of power for power’s own sake, he had to act, and act quickly, as he had at Stony Stratford. That single stroke had undone the Woodvilles without a drop of bloodshed, for it had been sudden as the fall of an axe. There was no other choice.

~*^*~

Chapter 20

“the Powers who walk the world

Made lightnings and great thunders over him.”

On Friday the thirteenth of June, the Feast day of Corpus Christi, Richard strode into the White Tower and took the stairs up to the council chamber only a few doors from young King Edward’s royal apartments. The Thames sparkled brightly in the fine summer sunshine, making his eyes ache, and the church bells that solemnly clanged the hour of ten heightened his unease. He had summoned the plotters to a meeting. They were all present when he entered: Hastings, Stanley, Bishop Morton, and Archbishop Rotherham. Richard was in no mood for preamble. The events of the previous day weighed heavily on his mind and he had barely slept, for the dragon of his childhood nightmares had returned with its red eyes and fiery breath to keep him tossing and turning through the night. He took his place at the head of the table without a word while his friends, Buckingham, Howard, Francis, and Rob distributed themselves among the empty chairs. With a rustle of gowns and a crosscurrent of greeting, everyone took their seats.

“My Lord of Gloucester, you seem quite pale this morning. Are you unwell?” inquired Morton. “Perhaps these strawberries will help. I brought them for you from my garden.” He indicated a silver platter of large red strawberries at the centre of the table.

This slippery cleric sounds so genuinely concerned
, Richard thought,
I’d be fooled if I didn’t know better
. He ignored Morton and his strawberries, looking instead at Hastings’s broad-carved face sitting at the opposite end of the table. Bright sunlight slanted over his brother’s friend in uneven rays, making his expression hard to read. Hastings was fifty-three now, his hair heavily sprinkled with silver, yet he was still a fine looking man, erect and broad of shoulder, his eyes still clear blue and his smile rakish. Richard wondered if he had come fresh from mistress Shore’s bed. His mouth thinned with disgust.

Hastings shifted in his seat and his face came suddenly into sharp focus. He had no smile. His eyes were hollowed, his mouth twisted. His normally florid complexion had taken on an odd greenish tinge, as if he were going to vomit.

He hates what he’s done
, Richard thought with a momentary softening of resolve. Then he stiffened.
But he would have killed me anyway
. Richard rose to his feet. Abruptly, he said, “Good men died at Barnet and Tewkesbury, at Towton, Sandal, Ludlow, and St. Albans. I need not name all the battles; you know them as well as I. But I will tell you why they died. They died because of greed—greed, which is the root of all evil. Greed, which breeds injustice, jealousy, ambition…” His mouth contracted. His eyes travelled around the table and rested on Hastings. “And treachery.”

“Your Grace, with all deference,” Morton said, “while I concur wholeheartedly with your sentiments, we came this morning to council, not to church.” He gave a chuckle. Old Rotherham’s sour mouth curled in his long narrow head and Stanley leaned back into his chair, but Hastings made no reaction. He was staring down at his hands and seemed distracted.

“What exactly, my Lord, is our first order of business?” demanded Morton, shifting his large mound of blubber in his seat.

“Our first order of business, Dr. Morton, is exactly that.” Gripping the edge of the table forcefully, he directed himself to Hastings. “
Treachery
.” Hastings jerked up his head. Their eyes met.

“A conspiracy has come to light against the government,” he resumed. “Bess Woodville and her adherents are the ringleaders. Chief among these is Shore’s wife.” Hastings’s face twitched with pain and he looked away. “There are others.” A deadly silence fell. “You, Stanley, and you, Morton… and Rotherham here…” He swung on Will Hastings. “And you, Hastings, have plotted with the Woodvilles for my downfall!”

Stanley went a blotchy red, Rotherham squirmed in his seat like a worm exposed to sunlight, and Morton sat still as a beached whale, his stony dark eyes on guard, watching carefully.

“Nay, my Lord!” Hastings gasped. “I deny it!”

“You fought with me at Barnet and Tewkesbury, my Lord Hastings. You even fought at Towton, and still you were willing to plunge England back into the black strife of civil war!” Richard dug his fingernails into his palms so tightly he drew blood. “If I didn’t have proof, I never would have believed that you, of all men, could, for greed, throw in your lot with the Woodvilles when you know what they are, what they’ll do!”

The colour drained from Hastings’s face. He rose heavily. “What proof can there be? I am no traitor. My entire life has been devoted to York.”

“The others I can understand,” Richard went on as if Hastings hadn’t spoken. “We all know their mettle! But you…”

From Stanley’s side of the table there came a shouted curse and a shuffle as he reached for his dagger. Francis was too quick for him. Lifting his arm, he struck Stanley’s wrist from below, sending the dagger flying into the rushes on the floor. In the motion of rising, Stanley lost his balance and fell, striking his head against the edge of a chair. The others sprang to their feet. Rob flung the chamber door open with a cry of “Treason! Treason!” Armed men rushed into the room. There was a brief scuffle. Stanley was pulled to his feet and Hastings was seized, along with his fellow plotters. Richard said, “You demanded proof. Catesby is my proof.”

Hastings’s mouth fell open and all his breath came out in one audible gasp.

Richard felt a sharp, sudden anguish. “How could you, Will—how could you do it?”

“I had no choice. You gave me no choice, Dickon.”

“I see. In what way, exactly, was I responsible for your treason?”

“You shut me out, you listened only to Buckingham—a man as twisted as George ever was, and as hungry for power.”

“Jealousy has driven him mad!” Buckingham cried. “Traitor, how dare you?”

“You and your glib tongue and your pretty ways—you’re carved in George’s image and you’ll bring naught but misery to those who trust you!” Hastings turned his tortured eyes on Richard. “You wouldn’t listen to me, Dickon, and you haven’t the craft to rule yourself. You see only black and white—you’re as Edward said you were: naive, too damned honourable, blinded by ideals. You can’t accept that those days are over, if they ever were at all. You’re like the unicorn—rare and admirable—but you won’t outrun the dogs!”

“And you, Will? When you did become one of the dogs? Once you had ideals yourself—you understood loyalty. Never did I think that you, of all men, could end up playing traitor!”

“And I never thought to see the day come when you, of all men, could end up plucking the crown from your brother’s son! Tell me, Dickon, which of us is the traitor here?”

Richard went rigid. He looked along the table into the sudden silence, into Hastings’s eyes, staring accusingly back at him, into the faces of the others. The room seemed to fracture, shatter into fragments, then it steadied, pieced together. He stared along the table and the blood pounded in his head, his heart hammered in his breast, sweat trickled down his brow. His eyes went to the captain of the guard standing at Hastings’s side. In a tone hard as flint, he said, “Take this traitor away and strike the head from his shoulders.”

A horrified gasp went around the room. Hastings cried, “What about a trial? I’m entitled to a trial!”

“You’re entitled to nothing, traitor!” seethed Richard, his face a glowering mask of rage. “You stand convicted by your own words. There is no need of trial.”

Hastings jerked around in his captor’s arms, turned his terrified eyes on Howard. “Jack, for God’s sake, tell him I’m entitled to a trial—speak for me!”

“My Lord, I pray you reconsider,” pleaded Howard. “What need is there of such haste?”

Richard slammed a fist hard on the table. “There is need! There is…” A sudden, agonising pain shot through him. With great effort he lifted his throbbing hand and motioned to the captain of the guard.

Hastings squirmed. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came, only a terrible choked sound. The captain hesitated. “My Lord Protector—where shall it… it be done?”

“The green!” barked Richard.

“But… but we have no scaffold…”

Slowly, ominously, Richard turned his head, his grey eyes stormy. “Then use a log,” he muttered.

“Aye, Your Grace, aye!”

Hastings was hurried from the chamber and the others taken into confinement until it could be decided what was to be done with them. Richard fell into a chair. Dimly through the open window he heard shouts calling for a priest. An unnatural quiet fell. Memories flooded him: Hastings laughing with Edward, making fun of Henry at Middleham; Hastings in Bruges, at Barnet, at Tewkesbury. Hastings, his beloved Edward’s loyal friend. Everyone liked Hastings. He liked Hastings. That’s why it hurt so much, why it was so hard. Why it had to be done quickly. For if it were not done quickly, he could not do it at all.

An eternity passed. More shouts arose in the courtyard. No one moved but Buckingham, who went to the window as Hastings was led to the green by the Tower chapel and his head rudely thrust onto a log intended for repairs. Buckingham watched the axe rise, and watched it fall, marvelling as he always did at the quantity of blood that gushed from a man’s severed neck. He waited until Hastings’s body had ceased its ghastly twitching, and then looked at Richard. He had slumped over in his chair. He went to him and rested a hand on his shoulder.

Word of Hastings’s execution reached Crosby House within the half-hour. Concerned for Anne, Rob Percy galloped to tell her. He found her in the hall standing at the window with her ladies, looking anxiously at the crowds that had gathered outside the walls. Without a word he took her elbow and steered her into Richard’s bedchamber. His look sufficed as dismissal for the servants. The door thudded shut. Anne stared at Rob’s ashen face, full of hard tidings. She stiffened, instinctively reached for the bedpost. Rob delivered his report.

“Richard… he’d never… never do such a thing,” Anne managed, “such a terrible thing… You have it wrong, Rob. Putting a man to death without trial—Hastings is kin, my aunt’s husband! No, Blessed Virgin, he couldn’t do it! It’s not possible…”

Rob was looking at her with pity. She tore her eyes away from him and her frantic glance went to the window. “No!” she cried. “Not without a trial, with only a log to serve as block…” Her stomach heaved. She felt the bedpost slipping from her grasp. Rob’s strong arms seized her, held her, steadied her. “How could you let it happen?” she whispered, breathing hard. “Why didn’t someone stop him—why didn’t you, Rob?”

“I wanted to, Anne. We all wanted to. But we couldn’t. It had to be done, for the sake of the realm. If he’d waited, he could never have done it. He knew that himself. He acted in anger, but it was the only way. Hastings would not stand by and let Richard take the throne, whatever Richard’s right. He was mounting a powerful resistance and the land would have been torn by fighting. Richard couldn’t let that happen. He had no choice, Anne.”

“But—but can he live with what he’s done?”

Rob made no answer.

~*^*~

Chapter 21

“Ay, ay, O, ay—a star was my desire”

An hour after Hastings’s execution, Richard sent a yeoman of his household to fetch the Mayor of London, Edmund Shaa, to the Tower. After appraising him of events, he had John Kendall draft an order for the executions of Anthony Woodville, Richard Grey, and Thomas Vaughn. Taking the pen with his left hand, Richard dipped into the black ink and carefully signed
Richard of Gloucester
in his strong, clear, evenly spaced script. He entrusted the death warrants to Sir Richard Ratcliffe, the loyal knight who had discharged himself so well the previous week when he’d borne Richard’s letters to supporters in the North. Happily, there had been no need for those reinforcements after all. London had stayed calm. “Anthony Woodville is to be informed that, because of his sister’s plotting, he is condemned to death,” said Richard.