The Devil in Ermine

by Martyn, Isolde

  But these prejudiced judges were not listening. Grey, brown and fair, their heads were together. ‘We shall reassemble in an hour,’ Assheton announced.

  ‘If it please you, do so,’ I added courteously, ‘but this is ill done. A duke may only be judged by his peers. The lords of England will see this court as a mockery.’

  NOTHING had changed in the upper room except the shadows when they marched me in again. My three judges awaited me bleakly, brooding hawks upon a naked branch.

  Assheton read out the verdict:

  ‘Henry Stafford, late styling yourself Duke of Buckingham, you are found guilty of High Treason and I hereby sentence you to execution by beheading.’

  Like Hastings? I stared at the row of gargoyles in utter horror. Beheading? They are going to behead me?

  ‘No! This court is not lawful!’ I roared, rushing forward and slamming my bound fists down upon their table.

  My head spiked on London Bridge like a traitor’s?

  ‘No, no, you cannot do this!’ I screamed at them. ‘I am the loyalest of King Richard’s subjects. You would none of you be here if it were not for me. I shielded you from the Woodvilles’ vengeance. I made him king!’

  Their faces only tightened like fists, and my anger chilled to pleading. ‘Ask the King! How can he forget the dangers we have faced together? He will understand how it was.’

  But Richard is not in Salisbury yet. They have not asked him.

  I CAN hear the fanfares and the bells. Is this my cousin come in a flurry of fur and velvet?

  I wrench my shirt down from the grille. It is not easy on my wrists to haul myself up on the bars to look out. All I can see are hooves and feet. The air stinks of wet leaves and horses; their turds dapple the marketplace. Surely there are the dog’s slender legs bounding beside the feathery fetlocks of my cousin’s destrier? Thank God! This gives me hope.

  For an instant, I glimpse the rider’s scabbard hanging below the horse’s white belly and the spurs spiking out from behind the cloth guard on his stirrups. Richard?

  I swear at my helplessness. I’d shout if he could hear me but a forest of legs is hastening towards the horses, and here I am like a hare in a burrow.

  The weight of my body has me gasping. I drop down and then heave myself up again.

  I can hear the dog’s playful bark. It sounds like Loyaulté. He always frisks and barks when his master dismounts. Yes, so it has to be Richard. But this rider’s knees are not lapped by fur cuffs or the kiss of velvet. Instead, steel greaves encompass his legs, and as he disappears behind a palisade of pikes and halberd poles, I realise this is an enemy commander’s retinue, hungry for vengeance.

  An enemy?

  Then surely he must see me if only to smash his glove across my face? I shall talk him into seeing sense.

  But how soon?

  Tense, I pace and pace.

  Footsteps are coming. Richard! Richard?

  Yes, I have a visitor. Francis, Lord Lovell. Good. Perhaps he brings a life-line from Richard.

  Lovell’s skin is tanned from summer riding but his fair hair is clipped for a helmet and he has aged since I saw him last. The boyishness has fled and spider lines web out from the corners of his eyes. He is in half-armour with a breast plate buckled across his leather jack.

  I gesture him to the only stool in my little demesne and take the palliasse for myself but he does not sit down. I try not to show him how desperate I am to see Richard.

  ‘Why did you do it, Harry?’ Beneath the blond stubble, his handsome face is compassionate. At last I have an advocate.

  ‘I haven’t committed treason, Francis,’ I mutter.

  My rebellion was no more treason than Richard disinheriting his nephews.

  ‘Will he see me?’

  ‘Who, the King?’ To my astonishment, he is indignant. ‘Of course he will not see you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘By Heaven, man, how can you expect it of him after what you’ve done?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Damn you, Harry, when Delabere’s news of your treachery reached us, Richard was utterly distraught, almost destroyed. I tell you it was like King Edward’s death all over again.’

  ‘Delabere?’ I echo, appalled to learn of my henchman’s betrayal. So he was my Judas. God-damned traitor! I need time to digest this but Lovell is in too great an anger.

  ‘By Christ, Harry, Richard gave you everything he could but, no, you wanted his crown as well. The “most untrue creature living,” he reckons you, you malicious fool.’

  ‘Oh, I’m an untrue creature, am I? I suppose he planted his spies in my household waiting for me to set a foot wrong so he could kick me away the moment he chose.’

  ‘That is bollocks and you know it.’

  I hold my fists to my lips. I’m confused, outraged. Delabere has Ned is what I’m thinking!

  ‘My son!’ I demand, searching his face. ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘Your boy is safe.’ He dismisses the matter with impatience. ‘Tell me why, Harry!’

  Tell him what?

  ‘Answer me, God damn you!’

  Such rare anger from Lovell shocks my heart into inner panic. This is not going right. Maybe honesty is the only way from now. I swallow, rise to my feet and pace to the wall.

  ‘It was Brecknock, Francis. I hate the place. I get these black days, these megrims. It’s…it’s like I’m at the bottom of some monstrous dark well and I can’t get out. Away from him, from the King, I can’t get out.’ I turn. ‘You have to understand when I arrived back in Brecknock, it was as though the kingmaking had never happened, as if no one believed me. I felt…’

  ‘Go on.’ The cold command underscores his ebbing patience but I stumble onwards.

  ‘I felt…well, like a little boy again trying to make myself heard, but no one has ever listened – except Richard. He should not have let me go to Wales, Francis. He should have kept me by him. I should have been all right then and—’

  ‘Wait! You are telling me this rebellion was Richard’s fault?’

  I nod, pleased that Lovell now understands. I long for him to put his arms about me like a brother and forgive me. Perhaps he sees that in my face because he leans away, recoils from me.

  ‘You’re talking through your arse!’

  ‘No,’ I argue swiftly. ‘Upon my soul, it’s true, Francis. You see, when I went to see Morton, he treated me like a man, who had achieved something. Believe me, he can say day is night and you can swear it’s gospel. That’s what happened.’

  ‘By Our Lady!’ Lovell strides back and forth now, his arms clasping his elbows and swirls round on me. ‘So all your confession about luring out the King’s enemies was a nonsense?’

  ‘Yes…no. I cannot…I cannot reason when I am in the dumps.’ But Lovell walks away from me, his face is working as though he is struggling to restrain himself and something nameless begins tying itself into a tight knot in my belly. ‘That is truly how it was, Francis,’ I plead. ‘Please, please tell him what I said. I beg of you. Ask him if he will see me. And ask him to spare my son.’

  ‘Spare your son? What do you imagine—’ He turns abruptly and draws so close to me that I can feel his breath upon my beard. ‘You see him? You are not worthy to come within ten miles of his bootcaps.’ His fist explodes into my belly like a cannonshot and the pain drives me staggering back across the mattress.

  He steps back panting with rage. I stare up at him and then as if he sees me as a frightened child, the anger in his eyes gives way to shame, and he smites on the door for the guards and turns his furious face on me.

  ‘You brought me down to your level, curse you! I never did that before to any man.’ And then he deals me the coup de grâce. ‘But you are beneath a man!’

  I AM still reeling from his lack of understanding when the tongue of the door lock withdraws again. It is Thomas Stanley who is escorted in. For an instant, I suppose he is to share my prison but he tells the guards to wait upstairs. I am
appalled. How can he be free to do this? I have named his wife the greatest traitor in the realm and yet here he is wearing his fine collar of Yorkist sunnes again. When I get out of here, I’ll see it changed to a noose.

  Warm in his fur-lined mantle, he looks me up and down. I am conscious of my untrimmed beard, my goose flesh showing through the lacing of my badly fitting gippon. I hope the salt of tears is not staining my cheekbones. I do not want him to see my weakness.

  ‘Come down to Salisbury for my execution?’ I ask cheerfully.

  He nods dourly, looks round for a seat worthy of his buttocks and finding none, grunts briefly and stands.

  One must be well mannered. ‘May I offer you a cup of congealed gruel, Lord Stanley?’

  ‘I see they haven’t yet ripped out that golden tongue of yours, Harry.’ He notices the pail in the corner and wrinkles his nose.

  ‘So, did the northern progress go well?’ I ask pleasantly, folding my arms and leaning back against the wall.

  ‘All right.’ He whirls his little finger round his right earhole. ‘Pity old Dick had to cut it short.’ He inspects his gingered nail with satisfaction.

  ‘And the Lords Bastard? Safe in some northern fortress, I suppose?’

  Stanley seems surprised at my question. ‘Nay, the older lad was sick, toothache, trouble with his jaw, like, so Old Dick left ’im int’ Tower. As t’other lad…’ He shrugs.

  I stare down at Stanley’s complacent features and suddenly in my head, I hear Nandik’s promise: the King shall die. And wouldn’t some men argue there are in truth two kings in England? And if one king is here in Salisbury, still alive, then Prince Edward…. God’s mercy, is it his death written in the stars? Here’s matter to chew. I need to think hard about this, keep a shrewd head.

  I clear my throat. ‘So, enlighten me, Stanley, did you actually know anything of the rising?’

  He smiles slowly: ‘It would be too dangerous to know, wouldn’t it? Me being kept right close to Old Dick, but I didn’t blab on you if that’s what you’re thinking, lad.’ He pulls a sheepish face that may pass for gleefulness. ‘Too many in’t secret, eh?’

  ‘Lucky Richard took you with him then, else you’d be a head shorter.’

  Like I shall be if I don’t talk myself out of this chaos.

  ‘Aye.’ His eyes tell me he understands my precarious situation. ‘Morton got away then, did he?’

  ‘Oh yes, as far as I know. He came with us as far as Weobley.’ I feel like spitting but I do have some manners left. ‘So you haven’t seen Margaret yet?’

  ‘No, that pleasure to come. She’ll have to keep her head down and do some embroidery for a change.’

  What am I dealing with here? I close my eyes and run my thumb and finger down my nose, still thinking about a prince with jaw ache. If I wrote out the safe pass to the Tower for Dr Lewes to take to Elizabeth, what became of it? Could it still be used? Was it used? I open my eyes and look hard at Stanley.

  ‘How far will your wife go to make her son king?’ I ask aloud.

  Suddenly he is standing still, very still. ‘What are you witterin’ about, Harry Stafford?’

  ‘I’m not sure, in all honesty, Thomas.’ I begin walking to and fro like a lecturing divine, my mind frantic.

  My plan for the rising was that when the princes could not be found at the Tower, we should spread the news that they were murdered so that Richard’s enemies would see me as their rightful king.

  But one of the princes was there.

  And I gave Bray the cursed pass.

  Is Stanley watching the blood draining from my face? I put out a hand to the wall to steady myself.

  ‘Better hie off, eh?’ His Lancashire voice grinds through my frantic thoughts. He is looking at me like he knows. ‘Can’t have Old Dick thinking I’m commiserating with traitors, like.’ The timbers of the door shake beneath his fist.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to intercede for me, Stanley?’

  He shakes his head. ‘You haven’t a hope, lad.’

  THE GUARDS are binding my wrists together again. My fingers are inkstained.

  I have written my will and, more importantly, a letter to Richard informing him I know something of importance which I will only tell to him. It has taken me all afternoon, and at last it is ready. You see, I am certain both the princes are dead and that Margaret has had them murdered using the pass to the Tower with my signature.

  I have requested a priest, as is my right, and shall ask him to carry my letter to the King.

  Surely forewarning Richard will earn me a reprieve?

  RATCLIFFE is visiting me, looking down his eagle nose with hate. He wears his dislike of me like a livery now.

  ‘I am here to advise you that you are to be executed at noon tomorrow morning.’

  The priest has not come yet. I wonder if I dare trust the letter to Ratcliffe and decide against it. I know he is impatient for the world to heave me off its back.

  ‘Did you hear me, Stafford?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply diffidently as though he is a servant. ‘I shall endeavour to keep the appointment.’ But when he turns to go, my control shatters. ‘Will he see me?’

  As Ratcliffe shakes his head, my hands pluck his collar. ‘He must, he must!’

  Lord help me, I don’t mean to sound like a whimpering idiot.

  Calmly he unfastens my fingers. ‘So you can stick a dagger in him, you scum, like the one you had hidden in your bootcuff? Rest your lying tongue! There’s no clemency for you tonight.’ He runs a disinterested eye around the shadows of the room, impatient to go.

  ‘Listen to me, damn you, Ratcliffe! I have to warn him. He is in such danger!’

  Danger of being nailed in his coffin as a tyrant and a child murderer.

  ‘Save your fuckin’ breath, you Judas!’ He shakes his head at me, as unmoved as the Earth itself. ‘Even if Christ Himself were to intercede for you, Stafford, I doubt the King would let you have your life.’

  He slams the door against my following. I rattle the ringlock, yelling: ‘Ask him where his nephews are, Ratcliffe. Tell him to show his nephews to the people!’

  The key pulls back the bolt. I step back, pleased, but this time it his sinewy fingers that seize the worn neck of my doublet.

  ‘Just what do you mean by that obscenity?’ He is half-choking me. But his mind is clicking. ‘Have you had the boys killed? Have you? Have you, you bloody murderer?’

  Me? Oh, God! I have to see Richard.

  ‘No! No! Don’t you see? It’s not about me any more. It’s about Richard. Oh Sweet Christ, how can I make you understand, Ratcliffe? Use your head! It’s still possible to put things right.’ I cradle my shivering body, wondering how far a cunning mother will go to make her only son a king? How ruthless is bloody Margaret Beaufort?

  ‘W-warn him, Ratcliffe! Let him look to his son. Warn him for the love of God! Poison, I’d say. A woman’s trick. The bitch is so clever, so plaguey clever and patient. That’s what he must beware. The bitch’s patience, her fucking patience.’ Are my words tumbling out all scrambled? Or this ruffian is not even listening?

  Devil roast him! Can he not see? Richard is pitched against a mind that has more twists than any rope.

  ‘What in Hell are you babbling about, Stafford? Elizabeth Woodville’s a spent force.’

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  Haven’t I made it clear to him that it is Margaret Beaufort? Pious, plain, little Margaret, disguised by works of charity, hiding the ambition of a man and the mind of a murderer behind her woman’s face. She wants the throne for her son and she’ll kill and kill.

  It’s then I remember the kerchief Margaret gave Anne at the coronation. ‘Warn the Queen about Margaret Beaufort! They must take care of their son.’

  I’m losing my objective here. I have to use this news to save my life.

  ‘But I can explain all this to the King, that will be easier. He will understand then. By Christ, Master Rat, even you never smelled her out. You must
guard him.’

  He lets me go, sneering, ‘You’ve lost your mind, Stafford.’

  The door closes behind him and I am locked in with my fears.

  I have not lost my mind, but God has snatched back my golden fluency. The stone is cold against my knees, the door timber unfeeling against my burning forehead. How have I failed to make Ratcliffe understand? I who could sway the Lords of Parliament? Yet God Himself has taken away my eloquence and I am naked now. What have I done to Him that I must pay so dearly? I am History’s jester.

  IT MUST be hours now that I have crouched here in the greyness, my head on my knees, sobbing like a beaten schoolboy silently so that the soldiers cannot hear. My limbs are stiff as I stagger to my pallet, my throat is sore and I am empty and so utterly alone. Words spill out of my memory, the debris of thirty years now. I try to laugh but the sound comes out harsh and brash. I must keep my sanity. Only I can do that and I must keep control, but Jesu, I am terrified.

  I am frightened of the coming dark. At thirty, my bones do not promise the nearness of Death that gentles the aged back into passionate prayers and hours of genuflections.

  A PRIEST is come at last. He is the Salisbury gaol chaplain, he grandly tells me. He promises to ensure my letter reaches the King, and we talk about redemption between the hour bells.

  If I can warn Richard against Margaret, is that not some form of redemption? A way to right the harm I’ve done? Even if my cousin lets me have my life, I’ll probably spend my days chained up at Middleham or Pontefract, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of seeing Margaret hobbled.

  Redemption, yes.

  Ah, I am trying to find belief but it hangs beyond my reach like a haze of midges on a summer lane. You see, I thought I had no need of God this summer or rather I thought that I was become His favourite. I set up my mirror up as a graven image and the Devil is waiting for my soul.