The Stolen Crown: The Secret Marriage That Forever Changed the Fate of England (44 page)

“Stay as long as you need, your grace,” he said kindly. “Now, come and lie down for a time. You must be exhausted. I’ll have some food brought to you.” He shook his head. “You look like two miles of bad road.”

“More like seventy,” I said, smiling. It was good to hear some friendly words.

Bannaster led me to his own chamber and sat me down before the fire.

I had not realized until then how worn out and cold I was, and when a pallet was brought out for me, I wanted nothing but to settle down into it

t h e s t o l e n C r o w n 3 0 1

and sleep my life away. I hardly wanted the wine or food that was served to me, but Bannaster insisted. “Take some refreshment, your grace, or you’ll be weak when you awake.”

In my exhausted state this made a good deal of sense to me. I sipped the wine and felt it go to my head at once. Bannaster took the cup from my fingers as I yawned and curled up on my pallet. “Want—sleep,”

I mumbled.

My host draped a blanket over me and settled a pillow under my head.

“Sweet dreams, your grace,” he said as I mumbled my thanks.

There was someone standing over me, but I refused to let this interfere with the dream I was having about Kate, who was stripping to her shift and smiling at me all the while. I pushed my head deeper into the pillow and gathered the blanket around me more tightly. It was chilly; the fire had gone out.

“Come, your grace. Your little game is up.”

I rolled on my back and stared up irritably. There were a dozen men, all armed, surrounding me. “I don’t understand,” I said sleepily.

“Aye? You’re under arrest, for high treason. Now do you understand, my lord of Buckingham? It doesn’t get much plainer than that.”

And then I recognized the speaker: Thomas Mytton, the sheriff of Shropshire. I sat up and looked around. At the edge of the circle of men was Ralph Bannaster, staring at his feet. “You betrayed me,” I said. “Why?”

Ralph shrugged. “What do you expect a man to do when a thousand pounds walks inside his home and plants itself at his hearth? You made it too easy.”

“That’s what you think,” I said, rising to my feet and reaching for the dagger that hung at my side. But it had been taken from me while I slept.

No matter; I had some pride left in me. I lunged at Ralph and landed a blow on his jaw, then tried to break away from the sheriff and his men and run for my life.

3 0 2 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m It was a futile gesture, of course; there were too many of them. In a matter of minutes I was shackled and led outside.

It all goes downhill from here. Wrapped in the rusty black cloak I’d been wearing for days, I was taken to Shrewsbury and held prisoner there, and on All Hallow’s Eve two of Richard’s men, James Tyrell and Christopher Wellesbourne, came to conduct me south, where Richard and his army had gathered. We moved quickly: today is the first of November, and I am in a guarded room at the Blue Boar Inn in Salisbury.

It could be worse, I told the guards when I saw the place. It could be the White Boar Inn.

Rather late in life, I seem to be developing a sense of humor.

Hastings, Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan, all innocent men, died without trial or with only the mockery of one. I, guilty as charged, receive one, after a fashion at least. As Constable of England, it would be my job to conduct this trial, and I indeed suggest saving some time by doing this—a joke that falls flat with my guards. It might appeal more to Richard’s sense of humor, I think.

Well, perhaps not under the circumstances.

In lieu of my own services, Ralph Ashton conducts the trial. It is a short one, and the only thing in doubt is whether I shall die the traitor’s death of hanging, drawing, and quartering or the nobleman’s death of beheading.

Nobility wins out, and I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving, for it is hard enough to contemplate being cut open while still alive, and harder yet to think of my wife and children learning that I died such a death.

After that, I am taken back to my room at the Blue Boar Inn, outside of which construction of my scaffold is proceeding apace. The workmen, though busy, nonetheless find leisure to converse and joke among themselves, which strikes me as less than tactful under the circumstances, but no

t h e s t o l e n C r o w n 3 0 3

doubt they are delighted at the chance of earning some unexpected wages.

I hope they are suitably grateful to me.

I have assumed that these last hours would hang heavy, but I find much to do. First there is my will to write. As an attainted traitor I will have no possessions to leave, but I can list my debts in the hope that Richard sees fit to pay my creditors, and I can make some bequests for the good of my soul with the hope that he may honor them. The debts take the better part of the afternoon to list; my life has not been an inexpensive one.

Then there is Kate. I specify a jointure of a thousand marks for her, as was promised upon our marriage. It will be enough to keep her comfortable and, I hope, to attract a good husband for her, for my sweet Kate is not the stuff of which vowesses are made. I wonder what sort of man she will marry; whoever it is, I know, will serve her better than I have in the past few months.

I sigh and go on writing. When one of my guards returns, I ask, “Did the king return an answer?”

“He’ll not see you. You should know that by now.”

I have been begging since my arrival at Salisbury to see Richard, who is in the city, though he was not present at my trial. Not to plead for my life—I know that is beyond hope—but to plead for the well-being of my wife and children. I would remind him that although I betrayed him, I served him faithfully in the past and loved him dearly, and I would tell him how well it would become him to treat a traitor’s wife and children kindly and allow them to prosper. I would remind him of the times that he was kind to me when no one else was, as at that miserable day at Tewkesbury when my uncle was executed, and I would beg him on my knees to remember that and to repeat it.

I would spend the rest of the afternoon on my knees before him, if it suited him, if I could die with my mind at ease about Kate and the children.

But it appears that I shall never get the chance.

3 0 4 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m The landlord of the Blue Boar offers to make me a last meal. I hesitate at first, remembering the false hospitality shown to me by Ralph Bannaster.

But there is nothing to gain from drugging me now, I realize, so I ask for chops and ale, Bannaster having put me off wine for life, or the little I have left of it.

My last meal is delivered, and is delicious. Perhaps my cause had a sympathizer at the Blue Boar. I think to myself that the next time I am in Salisbury, I must make a point of stopping at this inn.

Well, no.

Each time the door of my chamber bangs open, I perk up, hoping against hope that it is a message from Richard, but it never is. This time, it is Francis Lovell, with a run-down of what I may expect tomorrow. I will be shaven and shriven, in that order, which relieves me, for I am vain enough to want to go to my death looking my best, and I desperately want to make my last confession. I will be given a clean shirt and hose, which is also soothing. At around ten I will be led to the scaffold, where I may make a short speech if I please. “Nothing treasonous, mind you, or you’ll be put to silence more roughly than you might like.”

“I know. I might be about to lose my head but I haven’t lost my mind.”

Lovell snorts, almost in laughter, and starts to leave. Then he turns. “Why did you do it, Buckingham? He gave you everything. Was there some mean office, some half acre of land he omitted that made you rebel?”

I long to tell him that it wasn’t greed, it was the boys. But what if he is asking Richard’s question? “Allow me to see Richard, just for a few moments, and I will tell him all. I would like to do so, in fact.”

“Nice try, Harry. He won’t see scum like you. He has better things to do. Like taking a piss. Or a crap.”

Doomed men are hard to insult, I am finding. “If he changes his mind, I’ll be here.”

Lovell slams the door and thumps down the stairs.

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I should have asked Lovell where my body will be taken; in my will, I requested burial with my parents and brother at Pleshey, but I doubt that my wish will be honored; most likely the king will hand me over to the Grey Friars. Pleshey makes me think of my poor mother, who lost all of her kinsmen to the ax or to battle, and I am grateful that she did not live to see my death as well.

The guards inside my chamber being occupied in a game of dice in the corner, I practice my last speech under my breath. It shall be a short, simple one: a warning for others to profit by my example, a plea for forgiveness, and a plea for mercy toward Kate and the children. Yet even as there is little to remember, I worry that my nerves will overcome me and that I may omit or repeat something. I would not want to look foolish.

It is a foolish thing, I grant you, for a man whose severed head is about to be held up by the hair for all of Salisbury to gawk upon to worry about looking a fool in public, but there you have it. And I hope they remember the clean shirt as well.

There are two schools of thought, I suppose, about whether one should sleep before one’s execution. The first group reasons that one is about to sleep for eternity, so why bother? The second is that one should get a good night’s rest before doing anything of importance, including dying. I turn out to belong to the latter, for when my scaffold is complete and the streets of Salisbury fall silent, I decide to lie down for the night.

In another part of Salisbury, Richard might be doing the same. Or is he going to stay awake? He might; he once loved me as a brother, or at least he said he did, so perhaps his mind is too troubled to sleep. I shall never know, I suppose.

My guards curtly agree that I can retire. The shackles on my feet jangling, I kneel beside my bed and curl my fingers around an inexpensive rosary, the only personal possession that was not taken from me when my captors searched me. I tell the beads and pray for the dead: those whose deaths of

3 0 6 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m which I was guiltless and those whose deaths for which I must share the blame. Then I pray for the living. When I am done with my prayers and am lying in my last earthly bed, blankets pulled tightly around me to keep out the cold, I fall fast asleep and do not wake until dawn.

Lovell spoke true: just as the barber leaves and I pull a clean shirt over my head, a priest enters. There is no need to repeat what I tell him; you have heard it all. I am forgiven my sins, and for the first time (and the last time) in my life, that knowledge moves me to tears.

And at last, men come into my chamber and bind my hands tightly behind my back. Trussed securely, I am led out of my chamber and to the scaffold.

On this Sunday, All Souls’ Day, there is a good-sized crowd in the marketplace of Salisbury; after all, one doesn’t see a duke die every day. From the scaffold I can see Lovell and many other of Richard’s men, but there is no sign of Richard himself. Strangely, that no longer bothers me. All is out of my hands now. I must trust to the Lord’s mercy.

I make my speech. I don’t falter, just like I did not falter that day at the Guildhall, but today I speak to a better purpose. When I am finished, I kneel and place my head on the block. Like the scaffold, it is spanking new, and the pigeons, I am pleased to see, have left it alone. I turn my mind to higher matters and begin repeating my prayers.

There is a blow, and some shouting, and then a long, long darkness.

Then there is a burst of light, and a man is standing beside me. “Well, Harry,” he says, grinning at me in welcome. “You certainly did make a fine mess of things, didn’t you?”

“I can’t argue with that,” I say sheepishly.

My uncle Edmund Beaufort laughs kindly. “Come. We’ve all been waiting for you,” he says as he links my arm in his and leads me to kneel before my Savior.

xxiii

Kate: October 1483 to

January 1484

The day after Harry left, Richard de la Bere, accompanied by Harry’s uncle by marriage, William Knyvet, took little Edward away to Sir Richard’s manor at Kinnersley. Dressed in the shabby little coat his father had had made for him, he looked at me tolerantly as I fluttered over him and kissed him again and again. “It’s
fine
, Mama.”

Sir Richard, dressed as shabbily as his charge, finally parted us by lifting my son in his arms. “Don’t worry, my lady. We’ll do all we can to conceal his identity.” He glanced at Edward, who was fair-haired like myself but otherwise, with his delicate face, could have been his father as a small lad.

“If worst comes to worst, we can dress him as a lass.”

Edward’s face scrunched up into a look of utter disgust. “A
girl
? I don’t want—”

“Hush, Edward. Sir Richard and Sir William know best, and you will do as they tell you. Think of it as a great adventure.”

Edward grumbled and submitted reluctantly when I gave him one last kiss.

With our party at Weobley down to me, Cecilia, a couple of other ladies, and Hal and his nurse, I kept mostly to my chamber. Sir Walter was not unfriendly—to the contrary, with Harry gone, he was quite gracious—but I felt keenly my awkward position here, as a fugitive’s wife who did not dare go to one of her own homes to stay. Knowing that there had been risings scheduled all over the south of England and that Henry Tudor was set to invade, I could only hope that even without Harry, King Richard

3 0 8 s u s a n h i g g i n b o t h a m would be overthrown and I would be welcoming Harry home soon—from wherever he was.