The Devil in Ermine

by Martyn, Isolde

  Can gentle Christ find forgiveness for me? But what I have done to earn his mercy? A camel against the smallness of the needle’s eye?

  The chaplain witnesses my will and I remember to give him the HS ring for Ned and the letter for Richard.

  ‘God bless you, my son, rest assured I shall return in good time tomorrow to confess you. Remember, as I have said to you, the Son of Man has power on earth to forgive sins. Spend the hours left to you in prayer so you will be in a state of grace to enter Our Lord’s kingdom.’

  Father, I have no intention of departing this life tomorrow.

  Aloud, I thank him. Providing he sees my letter safely delivered, all shall be well.

  LIFE HAS become very simple. Left alone, I realise I have no material possessions left. Only my under drawers are mine. Actually, I still owe payment on my finery for the coronation. There’s a thought! I wonder if my debtors lit candles on the eve of the rebellion? Lord help me, by now Vaughan must be strutting in my cloth of gold mantle back at Tretower. I hope his balls rot.

  Ha, it will be a hard task for the King’s creatures if Vaughan and his whoresons have burnt my rent rolls. My smile is gleeful.

  I imagine Cat must be spitting. I suppose she will have to survive on some meagre pension like Lady Oxford. No chance of a chantry for me, I’ll wager. But my little children concern me. Shall they become royal wards, never permitted to mention their father? That thought stabs me in the gut and twists the blade.

  Tomorrow’s duke! Ned, my tousled son. Oh Sweet Christ, shall his head be smitten off when he is grown to manhood because he is a threat to Richard’s blood?

  My breath forms vapour. I cannot stop shuddering. This lousy blanket is plaguey thin, and someone has tugged my shirt from the grille.

  What if Richard won’t give me a reprieve? What if he doesn’t believe my warning? Christ! Maybe he thinks I murdered the princes. Maybe he did. Maybe the boy has died from illness joined with melancholy? Maybe the boys aren’t even dead and I have jumped to a terrible conclusion. Well, that might be so, given my capacity for stupidity these last weeks.

  Stupidity with an ‘S’ as high as a Colossus. What a fool I have been, envious all my life, wanting to show the world I am more magnificent, clever, wittier, eloquent, powerful. Stupid! Stupid!

  I swear like a peasant and kick the palliasse as if it has ribs to be broken. At last, out of breath, I stand still, my heart lurching.

  I let Richard have a kingdom; surely he can let me have my life?

  THERE ARE voices just above the grille. A Salisbury woman bantering with her swain. They must be watching the carpentry in the square, my platform of death being banged together. They are teasing each other in gentle tones, purring like a tabby and a tom – lovers.

  Meg, would she light a candle for me? Had she cared for me at all? If she chose to dally with me, neglect her children, what price her love? Oh God, if only I could have had a loving wife, maybe she could have tethered my restless ambition.

  But I did it for my children, Yes, I did. Not just for me. For my little princess, Bess. I fall on my knees whispering my little darling’s name. Shall I ever hold her in my arms again?

  Oh, God, what have I done?

  Is this the beginning of contrition? Are you listening, you holy saints? This is your feast day after all. Dare you intercede for me and move my cousin’s heart? Else what is there? A millennium in Purgatory, the eternal scourge of Hell with Hastings wielding the lash or shall my soul be blown out by the breath of God? No, what’s done is done. Is a kingdom worth eternity in Hell?

  Richard, cousin, I shall be waiting for you.

  ‘ROUSE up, my lord!’

  ‘What is it? Who’s there? What time is it?’

  ‘Six o’ the clock, my lord, the Feast of All Souls.’

  ‘My doomsday already?’ The carpenters have worked all night by torchlight, hammering between my thoughts. The flickers of torches play through the grille and caper round the walls like merry demons.

  Voices come from the stairs. Yorkshire voices. The change of guard at sparrow’s fart.

  ‘No end of beasts lost, they reckon…down far as Bristol. Buckingham’s flood, they are calling it.’

  ‘And how is our gobbing traitor? Practising his speech for the scaffold?’

  ‘Crazed in the night, I’m told. Kicked his bed to bits.’

  Bread and cheese and a jack of ale are left at my elbow.

  I MUST HAVE slept again, despite the hardness of the floor beneath my ragged blanket. Outside there is a rattle of keys. The door to my grand chamber creaks open and Ratcliffe steps in.

  ‘There is no reprieve.’ Richard’s rat tosses my letter still virgin onto the floor then he prods my untouched platter with his bootcap.pol ‘The Last Supper, eh, your grace?’ With a wolf’s gleam of teeth, he smiles at me then he lopes off back to his master.

  No reprieve! Pah, Richard is toying with me! They cannot truly intend to chop my head off. But if Richard hasn’t fucking well read my letter, then, well, fucking damn him for a fool!

  Oh God, are they going to kill me in the marketplace. The noises from the marketplace tell me people are gathering.

  There is still time for mercy. Surely?

  CHAPTER 17

  Someone has come in. I suppose at first it is the chaplain. The man’s shoes halt just inches from my nose and I see that the tongues are embroidered with eagle’s claws. Stanley is looking down at me, running a hand over his newly shaven jowls. He cocks an eyebrow up at the iron bars no longer wefted by my clothing.

  ‘I’ve brought you a clean shirt, Harry. You allus like to look your best, eh?’ He toes the platter. ‘This breakfast doesn’t look too bad. You’ll be hungry by noon.’

  It will not even be digested.

  I turn my face to the wall. I want to bawl, and with an obscenity learned from Lacon Farm, I tell the whoreson to go, but perversely he stays, stooping down to set a hand upon my shoulder.

  ‘Come, Harry, eat. It is something to do.’ There is kindness in his voice. In the doorway, the soldiers are watching me. He tells them to wait upstairs.

  ‘Here.’ He draws out a leather flask from his breast, unstoppers it and holds it out. I sit up scowling, hoist it between my bound hands and take a swig. The liquid fire is welcome but I do not want his charity.

  ‘No, keep it.’ He straightens up and folds his arms. The fur trims on his sleeve cuffs bump gently against his knees. ‘You worked things out, didn’t you?’

  Now he has my attention. Is he talking about the boys, the princes?

  ‘Did I?’ I knuckle the moisture from each eye and try and find the truth in his face.

  First he glances beyond the door to make sure we are not overheard.

  ‘As I see matters like, you’d win prizes for being the most transparent felon in t’ country, Harry Stafford, an’ it’s only because old Dick has got his head down his own hose that you’ve survived this long.’

  Is this why Stanley is here? To gloat?

  ‘Where you went wrong, my lad, was to think you were the only two-faced scoundrel round t’ place.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you are jealous of my reputation?’ I retort sweetly. I heave myself onto my knees and splash the water left in the ewer onto my face.

  He is clearly busting to share something. ‘Anyroad,’ he continues, ‘you know what the biggest jest in all this is? I’m the new High Constable of England, Harry, starting tomorrow. Summat, eh?’

  I stare up at him, the icy water running down my face. Richard has done this? Oh this is too cruel. I can’t even find a jest to prick the bladder of Stanley’s vanity. My throat feels dry, corroded. I just stare at him in disbelief. Slowly, slowly the air settles once more between us like castle dust after a bombardment.

  He stoops, his face close to mine, his voice a whisper.

  ‘Whatever’s happened int’ Tower, you are going to get the blame. Well, first away at anyroad.’ He straightens, sticking his lower lip out like a jug. ‘Re
ckon by next week old Dick will think he’s done the right thing, lopping you this morning, eh.’

  This sniggering old Judas is going to nail the children’s murder on me. That’s it, isn’t it? He knows they are murdered, and by his bloody wife.

  ‘What’s more, Harry…’ I flinch at the familiarity as he steps closer to my rigid back like a gloating Mephistopheles.

  I am trying to close my mind but my ears are rebels to my wishes.

  ‘I’m to be the wife’s gaoler,’ he whispers. ‘Yon simple Dick is handing all Margaret’s lands over to me.’

  I turn my head, my expression contemptuous.

  ‘Nay, lad, it’s God’s truth.’ He is grinning, his fingers playing with the gilded claw upon his chain. ‘I’ll let Margaret meddle again. This year, next year, when the fancy takes me. All easier now wi’ you, Old Dick’s great friend, out o’ road. Great help to us you were. You pulled down the Woodvilles, you destroyed my good friend Hastings and finally you’ve put Greek fire up your own arse.’

  ‘Count on nothing, old man,’ I sneer. ‘You think Margaret’s lily-livered boy can best Richard? I hear the craven bastard never even disembarked.’

  ‘Nay, his fleet set sail right enow but the storm that upended you, scattered ’em. His ship reached Poole Harbour an’ he hung around waitin’ for the rest but only one other vessel made land an’ what wi’ the King’s men waving banners and pretending they were loyal to the Woodvilles, he pulled up anchor an’ got out of there ‘afore they could send their ships to grapple. Still no matter, gave the lad some experience at any road. Next time, eh? And he won’t have you cluttering things up.’

  I snort. ‘The lad may die of the sweating sickness before the year is out or Richard will pay the Bretons to hand him over.’

  Stanley chuckles and rubs his hands. ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I’ve convinced Old Dick he’d better rely on me to prop his throne up, otherwise he’s only got grizzled Howard and young Lovell left to lick his bootcaps among the great lords. Needs me like a whore needs customers, he does.’

  ‘And you’re so experienced in licking, Stanley.’ He doesn’t like it, the disdain.

  ‘Oh, I’ll die in my bed, I promise you that, Harry.’

  Part of me wants to be rid of this preening old timeserver but the conversation is a distraction from my noon day arrangement and he does not seem to be in a hurry to leave.

  ‘You know what,’ he says, ‘as we were ridin’ down here, I was tottin’ up how many lords and their sons have died in these bloody feuds betwixt t’ royal Houses an’ I’m not talking about newcomers like the Woodvilles. How many do you reckon?’

  I shrug.

  ‘At least sixty of the friggin’ fools. But not the Stanleys, never the Stanleys.’ He nods. ‘We allus hang back lad, watch which way the wind blows.’

  What does he want? Applause?

  ‘Well, if I have my way,’ I assert, ‘I’d unite the Houses of York and Lancaster.’ I pick up his flask and take another swig to ease my rusty voice. ‘Richard’s son married to my daughter. That would have settled things down, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Stuck in your craw, did it?’ His stare is crawling over my face. ‘Was that what flipped you over like a pancake?’

  I do not answer him. I cannot be bothered. I want to gather the blanket round my shivering shoulders.

  ‘Of course, taking things into consideration…’ His gloved hands rise like a priest’s at the Eucharist. ‘Admit it, you were daft not to flee with Morton.’ He is thinking of more pellets to lob at me. ‘An’ the rebellion, lad, too hasty, too hasty. People like things done slow and gradual. You need to prepare ’em, see. Margaret’ll manage it eventually an’ have ’em burnin’ like hell to get rid o’ the tyrant.’ His gargoyle smile revolts me. ‘Aye, we’ll daub old Dick the blackest villain since chronicles began.’ He nods to himself, his lips disappearing into his mouth like a tight seam. ‘Aye, that’ll be two kings he’s murdered. Old King Harry back in ‘71 and now his nephews.’

  So they will use gossip and calumny, my old weapons, and continue the malevolence that I began. That I began. Oh God, Richard, you have to let me speak with you.

  A market barrow creaks past the grille. It reminds Stanley to keep his voice soft.

  ‘Old Dick will blame you for the princes’ murder but the people of England will blame him and when the time comes, no one will mind him getting his come uppance.’

  The villainy of it poisons the air I am breathing. Bastard!

  I turn away from him. ‘I have heard enough. You may go.’ I say haughtily and I am surprised at how calm I sound, but the old rogue is still enjoying his sport with me.

  ‘You haven’t eaten anything, lad—’

  I pick up the plate and consider how the potage will stain his velvet mantle.

  ‘No, truly,’ I maintain, with as much hauteur as I can muster, ‘I’ve had enough of this conversation and I do have a last speech on the scaffold to consider.’

  That at least needles him. ‘Nay, don’t you try accusing the wife with some lofty speech ont’ scaffold neither or I’ll—’

  I raise my eyebrows and look down my Stafford nose at him.

  He sticks out his lower lip and bares his claws. ‘Or I’ll make certain tomorrow’s Duke of Buckingham, your precious son, hears it was actually his da who murdered his royal cousins.’

  ‘Get OUT!’

  I hurl the platter as he runs for the door. I think the gravy spattered him but the gobbets missed. I watch the fatty meat slide slowly down the wall.

  Pershall was right, damn him!. I have kicked away the cornerstones from the House of York and ripped away the garland of honour from my cousin. No matter that the Lords and Commons made him king, no matter that Canterbury crowned him with England’s diadem and anointed his brow in holy oil, the world already prefers the tastier tale of the wicked uncle.

  Cousin, cousin, if only you can sidestep Margaret’s snares. You are blinded by her piety and gulled by her gender.

  Can you forgive me! I was blind as well.

  THE WHISPER of the chaplain’s chasuble rustles down the stairs and Holy Church knocks upon the door of my life and is come to shrive me. Nothing I can do now will scrape away the past or change the future unless Richard can find forgiveness.

  For all my confessor’s mouthing, it is hypocrisy to believe I can wriggle into Heaven on my belly just because I say I am sorry for my life’s sins. So maybe I have some nobility of mind left, after all, for I am not going to choose the easy path of Christ’s compassion. Instead I shall welcome the thorny path that leads to God’s throne on Judgment Day for His justice is pure and I betrayed my greatest friend.

  Kneeling, I confess my greed, my ambition, my envy and my hate. My forgiveness is for Bannaster and most of all for Richard. Only in that can I better him, and if I could gain from him an absolution then his loving mercy would speed us both unto the very door of Heaven. I shall meet you in hell, my cousin, for blood is upon both our souls.

  ‘Pax tecum, fili.’

  ‘Wait, father, I pray you light a candle this day for me in the cathedral in the chapel of our Lady.’

  ‘Of course, my son.’ But he looks reluctant. After all, I am a condemned traitor.

  ‘Not for me, but the woman I love. I promised I would light a candle to her every day of the rest of my life.’

  And today is the last day.

  THE MORNING AIR is so crisp it drives the shadows from my mind. All my senses are sharp. I can see every leaf, every pebble, the untied tag upon a child’s points, the freckles on a woman’s arm, the stain on the hose of the pikeman marching in front of me. The cathedral bells are tolling across the meadows by the river and the drumbeats pound. There are obscenities. There is spittle. I am deliberately trying not to keep in step but it is too majestic a measure to deny.

  I do not expect the dog jumping up at me, knocking me back into my guards, trying to lick my face. Loyaulté! I cannot fondle you, last and honest friend,
because my hands have been tied behind my back. Oh Christ, surely Richard has not come to watch? Has he? My eyes search fearfully for him among the cluster of scarlet, as my guards thrust the dog away and, cursing, close about me. He is not here, thank God, his face like rock above his high fur collar. Thank God, thank God.

  But there is still time for him to forgive me.

  I climb the wooden steps with a confidence I instantly regret, seeing the silver edge of the resting axe, the strangely familiar grain of the block. It is already stained. Bile rises in my throat. I was in control till now.

  ‘It is the block used for Lord Hastings, my lord. It has been brought from London.’

  ‘On whose orders? The King’s?’

  ‘No, my lord, not the King’s.’

  There is something in that. The ruthlessness of the idea is significant, but there is no time to pull the meaning out of it, to assume it is Stanley’s doing. The only conclusion now is that of my life. And there is no word from Richard, no change of heart. It should not end like this. Surely he will…

  They are leading me to face the crowd. I am supposed to make my last speech. I hold up my freed hands for a hearing. The marketplace is full. There are jeers but then they hush, waiting for a witticism to outlast my rotting corpse. I have them in my palm just as I had Parliament, that wonderful listening silence. But a gesture to my left distracts me. Stanley has his arm raised and as I draw breath, he lets it fall and the drummers savagely snatch the moment from me.

  Now my guards are jerking me away from the edge of the scaffold. I am turned and pushed me to my knees. I can hear the gasp of the crowd’s breath beyond the pounding of my blood.

  The wood is hard against my cheek. I have to lie my head sideways.

  O Sweet Christ, Richard, it will be too late.

  Then the drums go silent and I can hear…

  I can hear the sad straining whine…oh God have mercy…Loyaul—