The Devil in Ermine

by Martyn, Isolde

  ‘Holy Paul, Harry, I'll not let my poppet—‘

  ‘Merely to bait the hook, your highness.’

  He scowled, and took a draught from the goblet on the footstool at his elbow. ‘Do it, but let it be one of my nieces.’

  ‘Princess Bess?’

  ‘No!’ he snapped sharply. Bess, the eldest, was his favourite. ‘No, Tudor would not believe you. Offer him young Cecily. Ah, bad luck, Francis. Well fought, James!’

  Lovell staggered up to us with the sweat coursing off his scarlet face. ‘I'll have to lose weight,' he lamented. ‘I've not won a bout all week. Do not laugh at me, Dickon. Time you got down to some practice otherwise you'll start getting podgy like me.’

  ‘What, our hero of Barnet and Berwick?’ panted Tyrrell, scraping his shirt sleeve across his wet forehead. ‘Never.’ But Lovell’s words had fallen on fertile ground. Richard sprang up and began to strip off his cote.

  ‘Come on, Harry,’ he exclaimed. ‘If anyone needs to lose a bit of weight, it is you. Ever since we've come to London—’

  ‘No,’ I protested, appalled at the loathsome suggestion. ‘It is too friggin’ hot for a start and…’ But Tyrrell was tugging away my doublet. Lovell pushed the practice sword into my reluctant hand. It was not manly to refuse.

  I had been promising myself I would start daily lessons in sword play but I had been very slack in getting round to it. So, not at all prepared, I miserably saluted Richard before we stepped back and began to circle each other warily. Once the attendants scented what was in the wind, word spread and two earls, the Spanish ambassador and a handful of barons materialized from the buildings around the yard. Many of coronation guests had gone back to the country but there were still plenty of the northern affinity.

  Richard’s thin lips were parted in calculation, and I felt my throat go dry. To know I would be ignominiously defeated was unbearable. My only consolation was that his preferred weapon was the battle axe so perhaps he would not be quite so adroit with a sword. He was waiting for me to make the first thrust but seeing I would not, he launched an attack which I was able to parry successfully. Anyone who has ever fought in single combat knows that your reflexes are of the utmost importance. You have to defend, anticipate, act within the umpteenth of a second. You have to watch your opponent’s eyes, his hand, his stance, in order to block the deadly blade as it mercilessly whips at you again and again and again.

  I knew my cousin’s responses would be faster than mine; that, being lighter, he could move more lithely. It dawned at last on my poor beleaguered brain that he was being kind to me, deliberately slowing himself down to give me more openings to thrust at him. Sweet Christ, he was doing it so I should not make a fool of myself.

  His loving kindness stung me into a fury. Was I a child that I needed to be protected? I launched an attack on him that was both swift and serious. The fight was real: Richard metamorphosed into Dead Ned, Rivers, Dorset, Hastings, Ratcliffe, everyone who had underestimated Harry Stafford. A mutter rose from his war-scarred veterans and I knew I was doing well. The King of England was retreating, his blade flashing defensively. I laughed exultantly then found the tide had turned. Wave after wave of blows drove me back, pain lashed my arm and the sword whirled from my hand. My head crashed back upon the dirt and a blunt combat weapon jabbed at my breastbone. A roar went up. Behind Richard stood Catesby and Ratcliffe. smirking at my defeat.

  Richard flung the sword away and grinning hauled me to my feet. I was too breathless to speak and mustered as good-tempered a face as I could. All his affinity, save good-natured Lovell, were looking with smug delight at the straw and dirt clinging to my hair and hose. Reason told me that they could not do otherwise than cheer their royal master’s triumph but the serpent of jealousy writhed about my guts. Even though the royal arm was around my shoulder and Lovell was thrusting a cup of ale into my aching hand, I seethed against every one of them.

  On my prie-dieu that night, I pleaded with God to dash the cup of ambition from my hands, to stop events playing so easily into my outstretched cajoling fingers but there was only silence. The Devil drove the memory of the day’s shame again and again into my thoughts and I was possessed of so great a hunger for the crown, that my guardian angel could not withstand its fury. My survival through youth had been kindled by the determination to crush the Woodvilles for their mockery. Now I felt the same about Richard’s henchmen.

  Margaret Beaufort was not an easy person to find next day and when my duties permitted me some respite, I was forced to resort to asking Stanley where his wife was. I found him at his house, jabbing glumly at his dinner. Below the salt, his officers watched with interest as he invited me to join him. I sat down and agreed to a cup of wine.

  ‘Going north soon then, my lord?’

  He nodded, prodding a brace of partridges with a gingery-looking sauce congealing over them. ‘You here to discuss travel arrangements? I didn’t know you were Master of the Horse as well, Buckingham.’ I ignored that sling-shot.

  ‘The King desires me to have a quiet talk with Lady Margaret,’ I told him.

  ‘About what?’ he asked, sorting a bone out of his mouthful with his tongue and spitting it onto the rushes. ‘Am I included or is it about needlework?’

  ‘You are not involved, put it that way. In fact, I’d stay out of it if I were you.’

  He snorted morosely. ‘Happen I don't have much choice.’ He paused to extract another tedious bone. ‘Anyroad, she’s gone t’ Red Pale, lad.’ He raised doleful eyes to me and seeing my puzzlement, enlightened me. ‘The Red Pale at Westminster, that printer fellow, Caxton.’ He began once more to pick ponderously at his partridges.

  ‘Thank you.’ I picked up my hat and gloves and stood up.

  ‘She may choose to talk about it later,’ he warned me mournfully.

  ‘That is up to her, isn’t it?' I replied, wondering how in Heaven a woman of her quicksilver intelligence could bed with this exciting, cheerful lump of manhood.

  ‘I'll know it all sooner or later.’ He smiled dully. ‘Waiting doesn’t bother me, Buckingham.’

  CAXTON’S fellow printer, de Worde I think his name was, ushered me into the printing house while he went to find Lady Margaret. I breathed in the smell of ink and paper. It had been years since I had come with the rest of the court to gape at the new invention Dead Ned had imported from his sister’s court in Burgundy, so I watched the activity with renewed curiosity.

  Several apprentices were arranging metal letters back to front in frames. Another was using a large pad to ink a completed frame that had already been set in the great press and when that was done, he and another lad turned the great screw which pressed a sheet of white paper down onto the inked surface. After the print was made, the screw was twisted up again and fresh paper was inserted and the frame containing the next folio was carried over. It was a laborious process but faster than using a whole monastery of copiers. No wonder the Lord Bastard had sneered at the book of hours I had given him. I suppose he had paid many a visit here and regarded any book that was not printed as old-fangled.

  ‘Your grace, your presence does us great honour.’ Caxton himself emerged from the stairwell. He was a gaunt fellow with the slight stoop that so often characterises the very tall. His inky fingers left a stain on my glove. ‘My lady will be here in a moment. Have you had a look around yet, my lord? May I say your patronage would be an honour, and inquire if there is any learned work your grace would care to purchase or perhaps invest in? We should naturally dedicate it to you.’

  ‘A book on gardening perhaps.’ An astonished silence met my answer.

  ‘By St Anthony!’ exclaimed Margaret Beaufort, pausing on the bottom stair. ‘Now I have heard everything.’

  Caxton made no comment on her outburst, and promised to consider the matter if I provided the money.

  ‘Why do you not write a treatise, my lord?’ probed Margaret waspishly, as we left the bustle of Caxton’s shop behind us. ‘How to pluck a white rose at
the proper season. How to pinch off the young buds.’

  ‘You are very froward and ill-mannered for a noblewoman.’

  ‘Ill-mannered and agog with curiosity as to why the high and mighty Henry Stafford has sought me out in a printer’s shop. Is the palace on fire or is it something more important?’

  ‘Dear Aunt,’ I murmured sarcastically. We skirted two esquires playing palm ball.

  ‘By the Sweet Virgin, must you “aunt” me with every breath? It makes me feel guilty.’

  ‘Guilty?’ I echoed, picking up the leather ball that had trickled to my feet. I tucked in the wisps of hair that had forced their way out and threw the ball back.

  ‘Guilty that I never bought you a wooden horse that ran on wheels or a toy dagger to stick in your friends.’

  I gave a snort of amusement. ‘Heavens, my lady, when you visited us at Pembroke, your son and I were past such toys.’

  That made her haughty. ‘I am sorry. Life never gave me any practice at motherhood.’

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. God knows what filled her mind, honest guilt probably, but I was remembering my short sojourn at Pembroke Castle as a fellow esquire of her son Tudor. Those few months in William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke’s household were like Heaven after being Elizabeth’s errand boy. I found the Herberts a cheerful, loving family, who treated the esquires like welcome cousins, and it opened my eyes to the greed and calumny of the Queen’s household. Alas, the earl, God save his soul, was slain in the war with Warwick and I was summoned back to Westminster again.

  I remembered Tudor as a quiet, intelligent boy. Not a muscular, athletic fellow nor puny either. His mother’s visit for a week when he was ten meant all the world to him. I came across him sobbing into his pillow after she had gone. At least she visited him.

  ‘Can we start again, my lady?’ I sighed. ‘Is it to late to become friends?’

  ‘Who has friends?’ We circumnavigated a herbal bed on separate sides.

  ‘What was your business with Caxton?’ I asked as I rejoined her and we continued on the path towards the Tyburn.

  She broke off a sprig of lavender. ‘I should like him to print an English translation of a French book of devotion but he says he has too much work at the moment.’ Her dark skirts swished down the steps ahead of me. ‘Do not be taken in by Caxton’s bonhomie. He has not forgiven you for executing his patron, Lord Rivers.’

  ‘I must apologise to him, then,’ I countered witheringly. ‘Gloucester and I were not considering what damage the loss of Lord Rivers might cause to England’s literature when our lives were in danger at Stony Stratford. I should also point out that the Duke of Northumberland sat in judgment on Rivers, Vaughan and Grey, not I.’

  ‘But my husband tells me you were rather anxious for the Royal Council to condemn them. But no matter, expediency dictates that one must make allowances for the action of kings. By the by, Buckingham, this pleasant little walk you insisted upon is attracting a great deal of attention. My constant shadow over there is wondering what you and I have to say to each other and I imagine he will present exciting conclusions to the King your master. Or do Sir Richard Ratcliffe and Sir William Catesby control what King Richard hears?’ So she was singing that song again. No doubt she had her spies too.

  ‘I should be very wary of Catesby if I were you, Buckingham. He has already played Judas to Lord Hastings and I’m sure he’d like to make another thirty pieces of silver.’

  ‘Thank you for the advice.’ I pulled her aside to avoid a dog turd on the path. ‘Actually, the King is quite aware of what I wish to say to you. He is anxious for genuine reconciliation between the Houses of York and Lancaster. In a nutshell, your son is welcome to return to England.’

  ‘The King’, she replied, freeing her arm, ‘should advise you to save your breath.’ She stopped by the rail and rested her hands upon it, the lavender still clasped in her skewed fist. ‘What is it you really want from me?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘Trust.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘My terms are different from Richard’s,’ I promised, as she started down the stairs. ‘I shall stand warranty for your son’s safety. It’s better my way.’

  ‘Your way?’

  ‘You are planning a rising while our liege lord is in the north, aren’t you?’

  That brought her up short. She turned and stared at me though her features betrayed no sign I was correct. ‘All those rumours,’ I added. ‘It had to be you.’

  ‘I didn’t start them all.’

  ‘I started quite a few myself.’

  I had her full attention at last. She ran a finger round her pointed face to ease the hard white coif. ‘Why on earth should I organise a rising?’

  ‘Because it will be the first opportunity you have ever had. Let me see, you are going to tell the Woodvilles you will support them putting their little prince back on the throne and then when the Tower is raided, pfft.’

  ‘Pffft?’

  ‘The boys won’t be there. The Woodvilles and their supporters will say, “Alackaday, here we are with a rebellion, what do we do now?” and you say, “The princes have been murdered by a tyrant, so support my son, Tudor, instead.”’

  ‘And shall they be?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘No, of course not. Richard is taking them north with him. Anyway, let’s continue with my hypothesis, shall we? Before poor old Richard has a chance to trundle the boys south to prove his innocence, the whole of southern England is up in arms against his alleged tyranny. So when Henry lands on the south coast, all the southern lords flock to him as though he is – forgive the heresy – the Second Coming. Meantime, you have ordered your Cheshire men south so when Richard charges back down like a wounded boar, you have him caught between two thumbs.’ A boar between thumbs! I could not believe I was coming out with all that but maybe my babble had hit the nail upon the head. Margaret was staring at me as though I was a vision of Our Lady. ‘Well now, is that how you imagined it, my lady?’

  Her nostrils quivered as she took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Buckingham, when I was first widowed – Henry’s father, as you know, died when I was only thirteen – yes, I spent much of my time romancing that my baby son would one day become king and a great king too. At fourteen one’s ideals are so important but as one ages those fantastic hopes strive with practicalities and eventually one compromises with life.’ Her hooded eyes suddenly fixed upon my face. ‘Not only is my son barred from the throne by the 1407 Act of Parliament, but he is unknown to the English people. He has no captains, no army, no ships, and you believe I would encourage him to risk his life against such overwhelming odds? Try remembering what happened to Queen Margaret d’Anjou and her son.’

  Well, I could have pointed out to her that Edward Woodville was roaming the Channel with half’s England’s treasury available, but that was better left unsaid.

  ‘I can see your point,’ I agreed. ‘But, listen, it does not have to be that way. Just send him a sweet letter saying Richard wants to be friendly. Henry shall have his earldom back and one of Edward’s daughters to warm his bed. I promise it, my lady. Does my word mean nothing to you? I am second to the King, I hold more offices than any nobleman in history and yet you still seem to see me as some little boy strutting up and down in a paper coronet.’

  Her expression told me that was exactly how she had been seeing me but I sensed the wind had changed now. We moved in silence beneath the thick canopies of two venerable oaks, stepping over the roots that veined the ground. She stopped abruptly as a startled squirrel raced past us streaking for safety up the ancient trunk like a flame. I turned around. The human dog following us could not break cover to eavesdrop without being obvious. Margaret had not appeared to notice any longer. If her pebble eyes strayed over the bright summer leaves above her head, her thoughts were earthbound.

  ‘Let me ask you this, Buckingham. If King Richard should die, what shall you do? Stand as
Regent to his lad or make yourself king?’

  I glanced warily behind me, took her elbow and we reclaimed the path.

  ‘No question at all.’ I answered softly. ‘In those circumstances, I should claim the throne as the legitimate heir of the House of Lancaster.’ I looked her straight in the face. ‘Would you support me?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I would, and you would safeguard Henry?’

  ‘I should give him high office and a princess for wife.’

  ‘All very well, my lord, but we are speaking of ifs and maybes. The reality is we have a man as king now, not a child, and if I were not the doting mother of Henry Tudor, I should say you have given England a most excellent king. Our new queen has told me of all the changes he intends and they sound fair and just. Can you do better, Buckingham? Is total lack of scruple a regal quality?’

  I turned slowly, my face cold and implacable.

  ‘Crowns are not won by caution. Neither, tell your son, are earldoms.’

  CHAPTER 12

  It seems more than just a season ago I journeyed by barge to Reading and then took horse with my retinue along the road through the Chilterns. July was at her kindest; the warm air was drowsy with songs of bees and grasshoppers. About the villages, orchard trees stooped, overburdened with fruit, while the wasps feasted on the windfalls; and beyond the thickets of hawthorn and ivy, heedless of the scythes being whetted, the corn was ripening to gold and the meadows were knee-deep in buttercups. It was the time of year to tumble a willing girl in the long grass and to Hell with the consequences.

  Alas, my thoughts needed to match my destination. Oxford, city of rhetoric and unruliness. I lodged my retinue at a comfortable inn on the London road and next day after much deliberation I rode in clothed in my most sober doublet. It had been tempting to wear the emerald imperial doublet with a daffodilly stomacher – clerics hate wild wood green because it is arcane and redolent of anarchy.

  Hosted by Bishop Waynflete and President Mayhew at Magdalen College, my royal cousins had already spent a morning at the University Great Hall and were thoroughly soused in moral and natural philosophy when I joined them for dinner. I suggested we should go hunting in the afternoon but no, it was receptions at the other colleges, huzzahs from students with knobbed complexions and hand-kissing by shabby scholars unearthed from their library burrows. All very lofty. Mind, I have to acknowledge that my cousin is very well read and of course this monkish community adored his no-whoring-or-doing-anything-to-excess streak.