by Nigel Green
‘Convenient, I would have said.’
‘But the fact is he’s a bishop.’
‘A man of God,’ Ratcliffe eagerly broke in.
‘And has been for some time.’
‘A truly holy man,’ Ratcliffe added quickly.
‘But the point is that he’s prepared to swear that the story is true. Now I accept that the tale is a little weak at times, but given that it is the end result that matters and not the means which we use…’
A sudden smile from Anne Neville interrupted my narrative, so I paused for a moment.
‘Go on, Francis, you’re beginning to make sense,’ she encouraged me.
I drew a deep breath.
‘Well, under the circumstances, is it possible that you are being a little over-critical, my lady?’
The three of us looked at her apprehensively as she absorbed the criticism, but a moment later she smiled and raised her hands.
‘That was bravely said, Francis, and I agree with you, but if we are to push on with this ridiculous tale of yours we must hurry.’
‘Why is that?’ Richard asked.
‘Because, in the circumstances, my lord, I would imagine that Bishop Stillington’s recollections will probably need to be referred to the ecclesiastical courts before your own claim to the throne can be entertained – and that is an issue best avoided. Also, of course, Clarence’s son probably has a better claim to the throne and we don’t want people dwelling on that now, do we?’
Anne Neville turned briskly to Ratcliffe and me.
‘We’ll keep your plan but we need to think of other convincing reasons why the sons of King Edward cannot rule. In fact, the more reasons we have the better. Now, Sir Richard, spare no one’s feelings and slander whomever you need to, regardless of rank, family or reputation. Better still, get the rainbow-coloured Catesby working on it while you step up your rumour-mongering to denigrate the Woodvilles still further. Is that clear? Good.’
She turned to her husband.
‘Now my lord, there are other matters which require your instant attention. Might I suggest some appropriate stratagems?’
Once more, it seemed appropriate to withdraw.
With Anne Neville’s arrival in London, Ratcliffe’s campaign intensified. Rumours abounded about the evil-doings of the Woodvilles. It was already common knowledge by now that the queen and her family had attempted to seize the government of England. As a result, they now skulked guiltily in sanctuary. Until now though, no one had known that they had looted the treasury after King Edward’s death. Nor was it fully appreciated how many of the late king’s mistakes were caused by the folly of the Woodvilles and how, indeed, his brother Clarence’s death could be wholly attributed to their vindictiveness. Yet still they had their supporters. Stillington’s nephew was given the task of ensuring that they could neither escape from sanctuary nor be rescued. Within days, John Nesfeld had Westminster sanctuary blockaded by land and river.
With the Woodvilles effectively neutralised, Catesby was given the task of attempting to win over both Hastings and Lord Stanley to the idea that Richard should be king in place of his brother’s eldest son. But even he had no success, neither Stanley nor Hastings would support Richard.
‘I believe that they would oppose our peaceful Duke of Gloucester with their lives if need be,’ an indignant Catesby told me. ‘Of course they could probably muster 10,000 men if they had to. But is it not incredible that, given the danger facing England at this moment, they could both be so selfish?’
He wrung his hands in frustration.
‘I used to view my Lord Hastings as an honourable man who served his master and his country. But now, Francis, I see the truth – clearly he is a self-seeking man, concerned only with holding onto power, caring nothing for anyone except himself. Why, there is talk that he will even ally with the Woodvilles!’
He chewed his lip in worry.
‘I know my Lord Hastings; even now he’ll be plotting against Gloucester and looking to strike against him. Tell him to have a care, my lord.’
I reported his concern to Richard and his wife. Richard was clearly disappointed, but Anne Neville merely shrugged.
‘Then we have no need to dissemble further,’ she remarked briskly.
‘Why is that?’ Richard asked.
‘Currently the Woodvilles are weakened, my lord,’ Anne Neville observed quietly. ‘But it would be best to finish them off as a threat once and for all. Send Ratcliffe to the North; he should dispatch Earl Rivers and the queen’s younger son, Thomas Grey. Let him also speak privately with Northumberland so that he can bring his troops south to overawe the Londoners. Now, Francis.’
‘My lady?’
‘To date all attempts to persuade Elizabeth Woodville to release King Edward’s second son from sanctuary have been unsuccessful. It would appear that our flamboyant Duke of Buckingham is less persuasive than he imagines. Yet, for as long as that child remains outside our protection, he may serve as a figurehead for those who oppose my husband as England’s rightful sovereign. Go and see Thomas Bourchier.’
‘The Archbishop of Canterbury?’
‘Of course, Francis. He should see Elizabeth Woodville without delay. Tell him to make the following points. Firstly, the boy is required for his brother’s coronation. Secondly, King Edward’s son is a child; he should not be in sanctuary since, being young, he cannot have committed a crime. As such, he can be forcibly removed from sanctuary without an offence being committed and undoubtedly he will be. Finally, tell Bourchier to offer his personal guarantees for the boy’s safety.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Thank you, Francis. Now with the Woodvilles finished and both young princes held safely, it will be time to deal with the final threat of Lord Hastings and his allies. It is essential that they are dealt with before they incite trouble and civil war. Indeed, as my Uncle Montague was known frequently to observe, it is far better for one man to suffer than many. So we’ll strike at Hastings first, before he can land his own blow.’
I was not with the Earl of Surrey22 when, in friendly fashion, he called at the house of Lord Hastings that Friday to suggest that they walked to the council meeting together. But when Surrey entered the small room in the White Tower, where I was waiting with my men-at-arms, one look at his face told me that he had been successful.
‘Hastings didn’t suspect a thing,’ he chuckled softly. ‘It was probably unnecessary to ensure that he actually came today…’
‘Well, he has no reason to be suspicious,’ I pointed out. ‘The council is only continuing the routine business they began yesterday, and Gloucester’s manner has given nothing away.’
‘I suppose so.’ Surrey began to arm himself. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Gloucester’s men will summon us. You make sure that Lord Stanley is secured. Pilkington here will get Bishop Morton and I’ll make sure of Hastings.’
We relapsed into nervous silence, but, a short while later, I heard footsteps and glanced at Surrey.
‘Ready?’
As quietly as it is possible in half armour, we followed Richard’s man along the corridor. About twenty paces from the open door, I gestured to our men to wait. Carefully I listened until I heard Richard’s ringing accusation that Hastings was a traitor.
I gestured to Surrey and we rushed into the room. I snatched a blurred glimpse of a group of elderly men, some seated in frozen immobility, others rising to protest at our intrusion. Frantically, I searched out Hastings, who was to be found seated next to Stanley. There was frantic confusion as scrolls were thrown about and chairs overturned. Shouts of fear and cries of surprise filled the room, but we grabbed Hastings and bustled him from the room.
A short while later, the men-at-arms brought out a white-faced Bishop Morton and a bleeding Lord Stanley. I signalled for the guards to seal off the council, as a stern-faced Richard glanced at my captive.
‘Tower Green!’ he snapped. ‘Confine the other two.’
A short while later, Catesby and I stood on the lush grass overlooking the Tower of London, while at our feet Hasting’s decapitated body twitched spasmodically.
‘Such a speedy solution to our problem,’ Catesby observed coolly.
Clearly the sudden demise of his former master had caused him little concern.
‘But how do we explain Hastings’ death to the Londoners?’ I asked him with concern. ‘He was popular among them.’
‘Fear not, Francis!’ Catesby’s heavily padded shoulders shook with merriment. ‘He was plotting with the Woodvilles, of course. I’ve already drafted out a story for the herald to tell the people. Why it’s so convincing you would have thought it one of Ratcliffe’s fables! And my Lords of Gloucester and Buckingham will give suitable reassurances to the leading citizens that Hastings was planning to overthrow the government.’ His green eyes glittered feverishly as he looked at me. ‘There’s nothing to stop us now, is there? Both the Woodvilles and Hastings are destroyed.’
I stirred uneasily. He was correct, of course; Richard could take the throne now and save England from descending into anarchy. Something didn’t feel quite right though. Surely Catesby should show some remorse for the death of his former master?
Almost unbidden, an extremely nasty thought came to me; was it possible that Catesby had engineered the death of Lord Hastings to advance himself in the new regime? Certainly, by detecting Hasting’s plot Catesby had made Richard’s future more secure, but he had also done himself a lot of good in doing so. Come to think about it, how real had Hastings’ plot actually been? I thought back. Hastings had told Catesby that he would not support Richard, but then not supporting was not exactly the same as threatening to oppose him by force. Then again, we only had Catesby’s own report on the vehemence of Lord Hastings’ refusal to back Gloucester. No one else had actually overheard or witnessed it. But then none of us knew Hastings as Catesby did.
On the other hand, I was hardly in a position to prove that Hastings had not been plotting. Indeed, his unswerving support for King Edward’s son, combined with a desire to remain in power, made it entirely logical that he would have rebelled. If you took that point of view, then not only was Catesby’s story entirely consistent, but he had done Richard a considerable service in identifying Hastings’ plot so early. In all probability Catesby had been embarrassed by the scheming of his former master, I decided, and doubtless he sought to conceal his grief at his death by feigning indifference. He needed my help not my suspicion.
‘It is just possible that some of Lord Hastings’ former supporters might wish to take revenge on you,’ I said awkwardly. ‘It would be best for you to acquire some protection.’
Catesby nodded sadly.
‘It pains me that men might wish to do me harm for merely doing my duty. But I too am a realist, my lord.’
He gave a piercing whistle and two men stepped out of the shadows of the walls of the Tower. The older was short and white-haired but broad. The metal bands on his arms glittered as he hefted his double-handed axe.
‘Here is Bracher, and this is his son, also called William,’ Catesby explained proudly. ‘It’s really very surprising that even with a squint he’s so quick in combat. The scar on his mouth is amusing too, isn’t it? It makes him appear as if he’s always smiling.’
The two Brachers scowled at me malevolently.
Catesby smirked as he saw my look of revulsion.
‘Every cat should have his own dogs,’ he whispered as he tapped the spotted cat badge, which he always wore on his tunic. ‘I do hope that you like mine.’
‘Filthy wine this!’ Broughton observed. ‘But I’ll try some more.’
I grinned at him. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed him. Indeed, come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him since before the Berwick campaign. I pushed the wine flagon in his direction as he gazed round the tavern in disgust.
‘It’s not much better in London,’ I told him.
Northumberland’s army was camped outside the walls, and entry to the city was forbidden to the soldiers.
‘So what happened after Hastings’ death?’ he asked.
Broughton was totally trustworthy so I told him everything. He listened carefully and then groomed his wild beard with his finger.
‘So Richard of Gloucester becomes king because his nephews are bastards. But, on top of that, Dr Shaa and Friar Penketh are saying that his brother, King Edward, was illegitimate as his mother had an affair with an English archer.’
‘You haven’t been listening, Thomas! They didn’t say that; Buckingham primed the other preachers to say that.’
‘The others!’
‘Mm… I’m not sure that they didn’t put in the bit about the Woodvilles using witchcraft to ensnare Edward into marriage too. Anyway, the Duke of Buckingham addressed the lords and gentry at the Guildhall and told them how far the country had deteriorated under King Edward and, with the threat of civil war, they should accept Richard as king.’
‘Were they enthusiastic?’ he wanted to know.
‘Not particularly,’ I replied truthfully, ‘but they saw the sense of it.’
Then I remembered something else.
‘Even Lord Stanley has accepted the situation; he’s carrying the Lord High Constable’s mace at the coronation procession.’
I smiled at Broughton across the table. To be truthful, it was a relief to have Richard’s coronation organised, and to be able to look forward to an era of peace and tranquillity for England.
‘It’s all settled now, Thomas.’
But Broughton frowned at me.
‘Maybe you’re right, Francis, but I’m not so sure. I can understand why Richard needs to be king, but I rather wonder if everyone else will.’
I put his statements down to the wine.
‘If the aim is correct, Thomas, do the methods really matter?’
Thomas put his mug down with exaggerated care and looked at me owlishly.
‘Francis, it might be the best thing for England if Richard of Gloucester takes the throne, but it doesn’t seem right.’
‘Why not?’
‘Kings inherit the throne from their fathers; that’s the way of things and always will be. But this business of tales of bastardy and witchcraft doesn’t seem natural. It just seems…’
He tugged at his straggly beard in frustration as he sought out the right word. At last, he lowered his hand and looked me straight in the eyes.
‘It’s like theft, Francis; it looks like Richard is stealing his nephew’s throne.’
CHAPTER 15
Oddly enough, Broughton’s comment seemed to sum up the mood of the whole of London at that time. Despite the glittering splendour of Richard’s coronation, there was a curious air of sombreness in the city.
‘You’re starting at shadows!’ Ratcliffe snorted angrily when I raised the matter. ‘There’s nothing to fear. People need time to accept the change, that’s all.’
He must have seen my dubious expression.
‘Listen, Francis, people are bound to be a bit bewildered. They were used to King Edward and his ways – it’s only natural considering he ruled for twenty years or so. But, within a mere three months after his death, his wife’s family have been disgraced and his children declared bastards. It’s hardly surprising that men feel slightly disorientated. Give it a few months and everyone will accept the change.’
‘You sound pretty certain.’
‘Of course I am. In six months’ time, no one will remember any king other than Richard.’
‘The people seem resentful.’
‘Sweet Christ, Francis! What does it matter if the people are a little unhappy? We’re the ones with the power. We can count on all the major lords to support Richard – Buckingham, Norfolk, Suffolk, Northumberland. Of course Stanley’s backing Richard now, as is everyone in the North.’
‘Mm… I suppose you’re right.’
‘Of course I am. Now look on the positive side; Anne Neville has an
ingenious idea of taking the king out of London and showing the new monarch to his people. The way I’ve planned it for her is that the royal progress will be so magnificent that folk will speak of it for years to come. Of course, in the early stages Anne Neville will remain here so as not to take any of the focus away from Richard, but she’ll join him at Warwick and then they’ll journey triumphantly up to York together.’
The vision of Richard and Anne’s magnificent tour cheered him immensely, as he leapt to his feet and grinned at me.
‘We’re in the ascendancy now, Francis! Put away your fears of sulky southerners and imaginary enemies, and start enjoying the fruits of victory.’
I was temporarily reassured, but this feeling was put to an end when I found myself alone with Catesby. I remember seeking him out in the castle at Windsor just before we left to commence the royal progress.
He listened attentively to my proposed plan for Richard’s personal security on the progress and made a couple of useful suggestions, since he was familiar with the country in the West of England and I was not. I thanked him for he was clearly extremely busy. The large number of scrolls on the table of his chamber indicated as much. But, to my surprise, as I rose to leave him he asked me to remain.
‘I understand that Master Ratcliffe believes it unnecessary to watch the situation in the South while we accompany the king on his royal progress,’ he said softly.
‘Correct.’
He pursed his lips.
‘A mistake, I would have said, Francis. The Woodvilles still have some support, as do the young princes. It would be prudent to take precautions.’
I thanked God for his loyalty and his foresight.
‘I agree with you.’
We spoke of arrangements which would be required to monitor events while we were away. A great deal of work was required and I wondered in exhaustion whether we would not be better off abandoning the royal progress altogether. But Catesby was quick to point out that this would be construed by all as a sign of weakness.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I told him.