Sons of the Blood: New World Rising Series book 1

by Robyn Young

  ‘It is, I concur, unfortunate.’ A pulse in Catesby’s jaw revealed a twinge of anger behind his cool exterior. ‘Stillington has more nerve than I gave him credit for.’

  ‘And you have less prudence than I gave you credit for.’ Richard slammed his palm on the desk. ‘God damn it!’ He felt furious – furious at Catesby for devising the plan and involving the bishop, furious at himself for going along with it. It was one thing to be the man who stepped in to save the realm in a moment of crisis. Quite another to be the one who usurped the throne on the back of a lie.

  His mind worked through the implications. Could he go to Hastings? Convince him it had been a misunderstanding? Could he return to the point, days ago, when he had played the role of dutiful Protector, planning his nephew’s coronation? Push his desire back down inside him to be swallowed like a bitter pill?

  Catesby had been quiet, allowing him to think. Now, he shifted, coming closer to the desk, resting his hands on the surface. ‘Henry Stafford will follow your lead, my lord, as will your allies in the north. You have the strength of arms. You can still do what we have planned. You only need contain Lord Hastings and the bishops. That is all. Hastings is your only impediment.’

  ‘And Stillington? You said he was the best man to reveal the contract, given his closeness with my brother at the time of the affair with Eleanor?’

  ‘I can induce his true commitment.’

  Richard thought of his father, the Duke of York, moving to press his claim to the throne after the Lancastrians were defeated at Northampton and King Henry VI was found drooling and muttering in his tent. He had heard the story: his father marching up to lay a hand on the throne in Westminster Hall, turning in triumph to his followers. And the dead silence that had greeted him.

  No one, not even the mighty Earl of Warwick, had been willing, then, to overthrow their king. In the end, an Act of Accord had promised his father the throne when King Henry died and the duke had grudgingly accepted. But four months later his father was dead, slain with his eldest son – Richard’s brother – at Wakefield. His father’s head had been hoisted on a pole by the hateful Lancastrians, adorned with a paper crown.

  Richard sat back, meeting Catesby’s gaze. ‘Set up a council meeting for tomorrow. At the Tower.’

  Chapter 7

  The Tower of London dominated the south-eastern corner of the city, its vast complex of buildings encircled by a moat and protected by a double line of walls, set with great towers. First built by the Conqueror, the fortress served as royal residence and mint, armoury and prison and had stood for four hundred years as an assertion of absolute power. Westminster might be the heart of royal authority and Windsor the jewel in the crown, but the Tower was pure stone might; a fist hammered down on the banks of the Thames. At its centre, the White Tower was as pale as bone against the storm-dark sky, its whitewashed walls gleaming, slick with rain.

  One by one, the men arrived after the city bells had rung the close of Mass. Some of them came by barge. Others rode in, escorted by knights and squires, iron-shod hooves clattering off wet cobbles.

  Among them was Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, dressed in a turquoise doublet, the slit sleeves of which revealed scarlet silk beneath, like slashes of blood, his broad slab of a face upturned to the jutting bulk of St Thomas’s Tower as he was rowed into the shadow of the water-gate’s arch. The riverside walls were still scarred in places where supporters of Richard’s father, the Duke of York, had bombarded it with cannon from across the Thames. After Buckingham came Francis, Viscount Lovell, in a black cloak and jewelled collar, the badge on his cap displaying a silver wolf. Next was Sir James Tyrell riding in through the new Bulwark Gate with a company of men-at-arms, their cloaks darkened by rain. A stocky, steel-eyed man with a scarred and rugged face, Tyrell kept his gaze forward, not once glancing at the scaffold on Tower Hill, where his father had been executed twenty years ago, accused of conspiracy against King Edward. There followed Thomas Rotherham and the hawk-nosed John Morton, and, a short time after the bishops, William Hastings.

  Leaving their escorts outside, these men – some of England’s chief ministers – filed into the council chamber on the upper floor of the White Tower, where Richard, Lord Protector of the Realm, was waiting for them. The summer storm, which had cracked white whips of fire across London and trembled thunder through the church bells, had now passed, but its bruised darkness remained, filling the chamber with shadows. Two pages moved to light more candles as the last few men arrived.

  Richard watched them enter from his place at the head of the table that dominated the rectangular chamber, which was supported by two columns of wooden pillars painted green with gold stars. With him, already seated on the benches, were William Catesby and Robert Stillington. The Bishop of Bath and Wells was pale and subdued from last night’s interrogation, during which he admitted speaking to Hastings and confirmed that the baron was now moving to prevent the spurious marriage contract being used to invalidate young Edward’s claim to the throne. Richard noted that the bishop’s bloodshot eyes remained downcast as Hastings entered. Catesby, it seemed, had executed his intimidation tactics satisfactorily. Whatever hold the lawyer had over the bishop had been enough to break his will.

  For his part, Hastings kept up a good pretence, greeting Stillington and the other bishops as if he hadn’t seen them in some time, nodding courteously to Lovell and Buckingham. But Richard had known the baron for too many years – had shared strategy and broken bread in too many war camps – for Hastings to disguise from him the tension in his body: the stiffness to his broad shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, the alertness in his eyes, which flicked around the table to land on Catesby, where they sparked with wrath before he looked away.

  When the last man sat and the pages moved in to pour honeyed wine, Richard leaned forward, his hands on the table beside his untouched goblet. ‘Welcome. I thank you all for attending this council at so short a notice. With arrangements for our king’s coronation progressing well, I wanted to keep you informed.’

  As he spoke, Richard scanned the table. James Tyrell and Francis Lovell met his gaze easily. Tyrell was one of his most trusted men and Lovell his closest friend since childhood, when they had both been granted in wardship to the Earl of Warwick, to be raised at his estate in Middleham. Rotherham, the Archbishop of York, looked away when Richard’s eyes fell on him, but Morton maintained a steady gaze. Buckingham, Richard noticed, had the twist of a smirk about his mouth. The duke knew, as did Tyrell, Lovell and Catesby, what was coming. Richard cursed his smugness, hoping the arrogant cock didn’t give anything away.

  ‘I have,’ he continued, ‘sent word to Lord Neville and to Northumberland, requesting troops from the north. They will aid my cousin’s men,’ he added, eyes on Buckingham, ‘keeping the peace in the city. They will also prevent my enemies from seeking to usurp my authority or betray my person.’ Richard caught Thomas Rotherham glance quickly at Hastings. The baron didn’t catch the archbishop’s gaze, but kept his eyes on Richard and took a sip from his goblet. As Hastings set the goblet down, Richard glimpsed the scar on the older man’s wrist that disappeared into the silk line of his sleeve. He remembered, well, the day he got it, thirteen years ago.

  They were in exile in Bruges with King Edward and a ragged band of men; all that was left of their army, forced to scatter in the face of the insurrection led by the Earl of Warwick, which had seen King Henry reinstalled on the throne. Hastings, to cheer the king’s mood, had led a hunt with their host, the Governor of Holland. Late in the morning the dogs caught the scent of the boar they had tracked and the men followed their pursuit, blowing their horns and shouting excitedly as they spurred their horses through the woods.

  Richard and Hastings had been first out of the trees, riding hard across a meadow beyond. The waving sea of grass concealed a treacherous marsh and Richard’s palfrey ploughed headlong into it. He remembered the violent jolt, his horse pitching him into the bog before crashing down on t
op of him. Hastings, riding close behind, wasn’t able to react in time and he too had gone down in a thrash of limbs and a burst of mud. Richard, encased in the steel bulk of his coat of plates, hadn’t been able to move. Pinned, painfully, beneath the weight of his horse, the black mud had sucked him under. He recalled, acutely, the panic he felt as the stinking marsh water slipped coldly up over his mouth and nose, while his useless body twisted helplessly. Then, strong hands on his shoulders hauling and heaving him free; a feeling like being born.

  With Hastings’s help, Richard had struggled through the marsh to firmer ground, where they both lay panting, the distant calls of the king and his men coming closer. It was then that Richard had seen the cut on Hastings’s wrist. Perhaps his dagger, or something buried in the marsh – neither of them knew – had slashed through his glove and the skin beneath. The wound was deep and bleeding profusely. He remembered thinking, as his brother rode up behind them, how much it must have hurt Hastings to pull him free.

  Catesby’s cough brought Richard back into the present. He realised he had been staring at Hastings while the men around the table were waiting expectantly for him to continue. He felt beads of sweat prickle on his forehead. The extra candles in the chamber had created light, but also warmth. His chest was tight, restricted. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. He felt a twinge of panic – that mud again. He stood, his chair scraping back on the floor. ‘Please excuse me, gentlemen.’

  Leaving the men glancing at one another, Richard strode from the table. As the usher pushed open the doors, Catesby hurried up behind and followed him through into the Chapel of St John. At the far end of the chapel, Richard saw a dozen men gathered in the gloom. Most wore the badge of his white boar, the rest Lovell’s wolf. All were armed. There were, he knew, a dozen of Buckingham’s men on the opposite stairwell that led from the council chamber. The plan had been arranged last night in the early hours, his messengers hastening through deserted streets to the manors of his supporters. He saw some of his knights start forward in anticipation, but he held up a hand to halt them.

  ‘My lord,’ murmured Catesby, following as Richard moved down the aisle, away from the armed men. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Leave me.’

  ‘My lord, I . . .’

  Richard halted, his dark eyes fixing on the lawyer. ‘I said leave me.’

  Catesby paused, then inclined his head and stepped back, leaving Richard to walk alone to the altar.

  Thoughts swarmed in Richard’s mind. He had hoped to go forward with Hastings’s support, but now he knew the man’s undying loyalty to the king extended to his son and heir. Already, Hastings had brought Rotherham and Morton in league against him. By tomorrow, who else? Catesby was right. He had to deal with this today, or suffer the consequences. But this crossroads was a place of doubt. There was a road ahead from which there was no return. Richard looked up at the figure of Christ, hanging from the cross, a crown of thorns around His head.

  Over the years, he had sentenced many men, but this was different. Hastings was his blood. The man had lived and fought alongside him for years. Had saved his life. Richard thought of Edward ordering the death of their brother, George, Duke of Clarence, who had betrayed him beyond the point of mercy. George, found guilty of treason, had been thrust head-first into a butt of Greek wine, drowned here within this very fortress, the walls of which were jaded witnesses to daggers slipped between many a noble rib; lines ended, crowns seized. But that one order, Richard knew, had weighed heavy on Edward’s soul thereafter. Sometimes, he wondered if that guilt was what had driven his brother, in the last years, to the bottom of every jug of wine and the bed of every woman. Did he want to bear such a burden?

  Richard closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw his fair-haired nephew ascending the steps of the dais in Westminster Abbey, walking towards the coronation chair, Scotland’s Stone of Destiny encased within. He saw Lady Elizabeth waiting in the wings, her Woodville kin gathered in close around her; parvenus who would tarnish the great dynasty of the House of Plantagenet and plunder the realm for themselves.

  Opening his eyes, he fixed again on the Christ, hanging above him from the rood loft – the bloody hole in His marble side, the holes from the nails leaking painted blood from hands and feet. Sacrificed to save mankind.

  Turning, Richard headed back down the aisle, under the stone gaze of the saints. Nodding to his waiting knights, he gestured Catesby to follow him back into the council chamber, the men watching him return with a mix of expressions.

  The meeting continued for some moments more. Then, Richard banged his fist down on the table, toppling two goblets and making half the men start. ‘Treason!’ he roared. ‘Treason!’

  At the signal, the usher thrust open the doors to the chapel and the armed men, waiting on the other side, rushed in. Lovell, Tyrell, Catesby and Buckingham rose swiftly, backing away from the targets. Hastings leapt to his feet. He let out a shout, calling for his men, but no one came to his aid. The retinue he had come with had already been dealt with, quickly and quietly. Thomas Rotherham raised his hands as the blades were turned on him. John Morton lunged for the stairwell, but was brought up short by three of Buckingham’s men, who emerged through the doors. He backed away slowly. It was all over in a matter of moments.

  Hastings turned to Richard as his arms were seized and bound with rope behind his back, a sword at his neck to keep him from struggling. The bishops were similarly manhandled, both protesting. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ When Richard didn’t answer, Hastings glanced at Stillington. The bishop was the only man left sitting at the table, his hands tightly clasped. He didn’t look at Hastings. As the baron glanced from the bishop to Catesby, who was watching his arrest coolly from a distance, understanding dawned across his face. ‘So, a worm and a snake is it?’ he spat, eyes glittering with rage. ‘Betrayers, both of you! Damn Judases!’

  ‘It has come to light, Lord Hastings,’ said Richard, ‘that you and others here have been acting against me. You have conspired with my enemies – the queen-dowager and her family – in an effort to deprive me of my authority as Protector of the Realm, in defiance of my brother’s last will and testament.’

  ‘God damn you,’ murmured Hastings, seeing he was being bound up in the very same web of lies he had helped the duke spin around Earl Rivers and Thomas Vaughan. ‘God damn you, Richard!’

  ‘There is only one punishment for the seriousness of this crime.’ Richard nodded to his knights. ‘Take him down.’

  As Hastings was led, forcibly, from the chamber, he jerked his head towards Catesby. ‘Catesby, you serpent, I made you!’

  William, Lord Hastings, king’s chamberlain and one of the most powerful men in the kingdom, was powerless to do anything but curse and spit as he was marched away. Leaving the bishops to be taken into custody, Richard followed his men down into the yard outside the White Tower. The area, where repairs were being made to one of the walls, had been hastily cleared that morning. The grass was sodden with rain and the men’s boots squelched in the wet as they led Hastings to where a piece of timber had been placed.

  Hastings twisted in the grip of his captors, turning to Richard. ‘Your nephew is the rightful king. Not you. You cannot take the throne on a lie!’

  Richard didn’t speak, but motioned to one of the Tower guards, waiting nearby. The guard came forward, brandishing an axe, the blade of which gleamed in the stormy light.

  Hastings fell silent, seeing the block on the grass. His eyes widened in terror as he realised he wasn’t destined for any prison. ‘Richard, please, see reason! I only have the best interests of our realm at heart! This you know!’

  ‘Is it whetted?’

  The guard nodded. ‘Sharp as a razor, my lord.’

  ‘I want it done cleanly.’ Now Richard did meet Hastings’s gaze. ‘One stroke only.’

  ‘Cousin,’ breathed Hastings.

  The men marched him to the block where he was made to kneel, the mud soaking through his h
ose.

  ‘May God have mercy on your soul,’ Richard told him.

  Hastings stared at him in silence, before he was forced forward, his neck resting on the timber. The executioner loomed behind him, steadying his stance and his grip on the axe. Richard sensed Catesby and Lovell moving to stand beside him, but didn’t take his gaze off Hastings, as the guard raised the weapon.

  ‘Long live King Edward!’ roared Hastings.

  The axe swung down.

  After it was done, Richard closed his eyes and said a prayer. As he moved back towards the White Tower, he glanced up at the high windows where his nephew was being held. He had taken the first difficult step on that road, but it wasn’t the last.

  The flow of blood was just beginning.

  Thomas Vaughan emerged from the hall of Pontefract Castle, blinking at the brightness. It was a blustery morning in Yorkshire. Clouds raced across the sky, sunlight flashing in and out. It was cold for late June and Vaughan’s thin shirt did little to shield him from the gusts of wind. His grey hair whipped about his face, stinging his eyes.

  After almost two months in a cell without daylight, fed a peasant’s rations, he was weak and feeling the age in his bones. His damaged knee twinged with every step, stiffened by lack of movement. Despite his attempts not to, he found himself having to lean on the two guards who escorted him, clad in the colours of Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland, who had presided over the trial yesterday afternoon. Trial? The earl’s court had made a mockery of the word. There was no justice served here. Treason was the judgement and what man could stand against that charge, however false?

  There was one sliver of light, which had come when Vaughan caught a snatch of conversation between the earl and Ralph, Lord Neville. They had been discussing the muster of troops requested by Gloucester and the invitation to the coronation of young Edward. The latter had given Vaughan hope. Perhaps he had suspected wrong – perhaps his young charge, whom he had spent these past ten years grooming for a destiny even greater than a crown of gold, would yet sit upon the throne of England? He prayed, fervently, this would be so, even though he would not be there to see it. His execution had been sealed last night.