Sacrifice

by David Pilling

  God had also seen fit to take away his niece, Kate Malvern. The girl had died in the peace of Whiteladies nunnery in Staffordshire, not far from his family seat at Malvern Hall.

  Her loss affected him more than he could possibly have imagined. She had been a sweet, inoffensive little creature, if a trifle stubborn, and the only one of his kin he could stand to be near.

  Like Richard, Geoffrey was also in dire need of sons. He was getting old. Fifty loomed on the horizon. His first wife had died of a fever after giving birth to a stillborn daughter, and his second showed no signs of conceiving.

  I’m damned if I will leave Malvern Hall to one of my sisters, or their wretched spawn. I will burn the place to the ground first.

  His thoughts wandered, but the king’s harsh voice cut through the fug.

  “Malvern, are you attending? We have need of your advice on Lady Beaufort, if you would be so kind.”

  Geoffrey started. “Yes, sire,” he said hurriedly, coughing to smother his confusion, “my advice, of course.”

  The other councillors regarded him with amusement. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, Viscount Lovell, and Sir William Catesby. Richard’s old servants, summoned to London to fill vacant seats on the royal council.

  These three had inspired a satirical rhyme, scribbled by one William Collingbourne and pinned to the door of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Geoffrey secretly thought it rather droll:

  “The Cat, the Rat, and Lovell the Dog, rule all England under the Hog.”

  He did well to keep his admiration secret. For writing this lampoon, and (more especially) sending messages of support to Richmond, Collingbourne suffered the unspeakable agonies of a traitor’s death. Witty to the last, he was reported to have muttered “Oh Lord Jesus, yet more trouble!”, when the executioner tore out his entrails.

  Despite the influx of newcomers, Geoffrey had managed to retain the King’s favour. It was a brittle thing, royal favour, even more so since Richard’s moods had become wildly unpredictable. The slightest mistake could see Geoffrey’s career thrown into the dust, possibly along with his head.

  “Ah, Lady Beaufort,” he said, his mind spurred into action by the impatient drumming of royal fingers, “I wished to raise the subject of her confinement. In my opinion, Majesty, the safest course would be to bring her to the Tower.”

  Why Lady Margaret Beaufort, mother to the pretender Richmond, had been spared the punishment meted out to other rebels and traitors, was a mystery to Geoffrey. Her name was among those attainted at Richard’s parliament the previous February, and like the others she had forfeited her titles and estates. These were transferred to her husband, Lord Stanley, who was ordered to place Margaret under house arrest and keep a close eye on her correspondence.

  Geoffrey found the King’s trust in Stanley baffling. There was bad blood between Richard and the Stanleys, stretching back to King Edward’s reign, and Lord Stanley had recently been imprisoned. Far from intercepting his wife’s treasonous letters to Bishop Morton in Flanders, he was more likely to help her write them.

  House arrest, he thought with contempt. In his opinion there were few houses strong enough to contain the flint-faced old harpy for long. The Tower was one of them.

  “No,” Richard said firmly, “we have treated her leniently for good reasons of policy. Lord Stanley is not our friend, and we may have need of him in times to come. Ill-treating his wife will only further alienate him against us.”

  Geoffrey did not press the issue, though he would have much preferred to see Margaret’s head on display at the Tower. It would have plenty of company. The heads of many convicted rebels and traitors, including members of Richard’s own household, had recently been added to the throng.

  How many more will Richard execute or imprison? He can scarcely hope to rule England, alone, atop a mountain of skulls, with just a couple of trusted confederates perched on his shoulder.

  Richard needed the likes of Lord Stanley, and his brother Sir William. They, along with the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Northumberland, were the only major peers left in the realm. The dynastic wars had drastically thinned the ranks of England’s nobility, leaving just a handful of men clinging on to life and power.

  “To other matters,” said Richard, “and the war at sea. We understand the Duke of Brittany begins to regret his foolish actions.”

  “Indeed, sire,” replied Catesby, a thin-faced, darkly handsome man, “his fleets continue to suffer greatly at the hands of our privateers. Prizes are flooding into our ports. The duke fears we shall attempt a landborne invasion of Brittany, and has summoned all his subjects capable of bearing arms to military service.”

  “Excellent. Let the old madman stew. We would rather send troops to Hell than Brittany, but he should learn to fear us.”

  Richard’s anger with Duke Francis was borne of the latter’s decision to allow Richmond’s remaining followers to depart in peace from Vannes. He had even given them money to help them on their way to join Richmond in France.

  Upon hearing of it, Richard flew into a typically volcanic rage and hurled a goblet at Geoffrey’s head. Geoffrey, who had grown used to royal storms during King Edward’s reign, adroitly ducked the missile.

  “As for the pretender himself,” Richard added, “what of him?”

  Catesby ran a nervous tongue across his lips, and glanced at Lovell, handing the burden over to him.

  To Geoffrey’s amazement, Lovell seemed to have no fear of the King. “The latest is that Richmond’s court in Paris continues to attract dissidents,” he boomed in his deep tones, “one of them is Richard Fox. Your Majesty may remember that Fox travelled to Paris some time ago to study at the university.”

  “No surprises there,” grunted Ratcliffe, “Fox has ever hated the King, and preached against him. One minor clergyman more or less makes no difference.”

  Richard would not be comforted. He got up and paced restlessly back and forth, fiddling with the ring on his little finger.

  “Richard Fox,” he said, spitting out the name with venom, “Sir James Blount, Sir Edward Woodville, Edward Poynings, John de Vere, Jasper Tudor. Traitors all. My enemies multiply, while the list of my friends grows short.”

  “Tell me, my lords,” he added, turning to face the council, “have I not ruled well? Have I not tried to temper justice with mercy? Am I a bad king?”

  His councillors hastened to reassure him, Geoffrey’s voice among them. They spoke with conviction. Since Buckingham’s failed rebellion, Richard had been at pains to travel up and down the land, dispensing funds to religious houses and good laws to the people.

  Geoffrey appreciated the King’s shrewdness. Whether Richard acted through a genuine desire to rule well, or a cynical effort to gain popularity, would hardly matter to the average serf. Give money to the priests, and bread to the people, and he was unlikely to hear many complaints.

  “Your Grace, I had not finished,” said Lovell, “there is more news from France, none of it good. My agents in Paris inform me that the pretender gathers troops. James of Scotland has already sent him a contingent of five hundred men archers and men-at-arms.”

  “The Scots have broken faith?” Richard screamed, “King James is supposed to be our ally! We swore a solemn treaty of peace and friendship. His heir is due to marry our niece!

  Lovell spread his hands. “The alliance between France and Scotland is an enduring one, sire. Sad to say, but King James appears to prefer the friendship of the French to ours.”

  “So he sends five hundred of his rascals to aid the pretender. Very well. We shall not forget this. When the time is right, we shall lead our forces into Scotland and issue such a chastisement as shall have King James begging for quarter.”

  Richard spoke with courage, but the stark reality was undeniable. His foreign policy was failing on all fronts. Brittany had turned against him, and France, and now Scotland. He was encircled by enemies, within and without.

  Worse, his enemies had found a champion to send against him.
Geoffrey’s loyalty to Richard had not wavered during Buckingham’s rebellion – he was far too much of a coward to risk joining such a desperate venture – but he had his doubts.

  Richmond’s power was still feeble, and his army consisted of a handful of exiles and a few hundred Scottish mercenaries. Crucially, though, he had the friendship and support of the Marshal of France, Philippe de Crévecoeur, Seigneur d’Esquerdes, known to English sailors by the more manageable name of Lord Cordes.

  Geoffrey gnawed a knuckle. Lord Cordes had recently been appointed commander of the huge French military base at Pont de l’Arche in the valley of the Seine. The base was stuffed full of mercenaries, professional soldiers from all over Christendom. If he persuaded the French council to give a few thousand of them to Richmond…

  His thoughts wandered again. Geoffrey forced himself to concentrate. This was happening far too often recently. He slept badly, and sometimes felt as though a mist crept over his brain, smothering his thoughts.

  Getting old. It was high time to retire to his country estates and enjoy the fruits of success. Richard would not let him go until Richmond was destroyed, and so Geoffrey found himself in the strange position of longing for a battle.

  So long as he stayed well to the rear, of course.

  “Majesty,” he said, thinking it was time he made a contribution, “if we cannot rely on the goodwill of foreign powers, then we must look to the defence of the realm. I propose that Your Majesty withdraws from London to Nottingham, which has the advantage of being located in the heart of your kingdom. From there you can march to repel an invasion from any part of our coasts.”

  He sat back, pleased with himself and the impressed looks on the faces of his fellow councillors.

  Nottingham had the added advantage of being close to the north, where Richard drew much of his popular support. Geoffrey knew that the north country had a sentimental as well as practical appeal to the King, and deliberately played on it.

  Richard pulled at his lower lip. “Yes,” he said after a while, “well said, Sir Geoffrey. London is far too close to the sea. We shall go to Nottingham, and there await the pretender.”

  He balled his right hand into a fist. “Let him come soon. I shall cleave the Welsh milksop from chops to groin with my good axe. Then, my lords, we shall know peace in England.”

  His councillors broke into spontaneous applause. Geoffrey flapped his hands together with the rest, though with more forced enthusiasm.

  A storm is coming across the Channel, he thought fearfully, and we shall do well to survive it.

  Chapter 18

  Hammes, January 1485

  Martin was choked with rage. It drove him on, fuelled him, inspired him, filled him with a crazed, ghoulish energy that his friends found alarming. Gone was the selfish, embittered mercenary of old, determined to bury his past and live out his days in exile.

  In his place was a man shocked into action. The reunion with his niece, Elizabeth, had skewered Martin more effectively than any pikestaff. The image of her wan face, streaked with dirt and tears as she poured out her dreadful tale, would live with him until his dying day.

  Shame upon shame, guilt upon guilt. Martin had been ignorant of the fate of his surviving kin after Tewkesbury. Elizabeth told him everything. She was merciless, and every appalling revelation blew holes in his fragile shell of arrogance and pride.

  His sister, mutilated and confined to a nunnery. His last surviving brother, executed for crimes unknown. His niece, raped by Yorkist soldiers when just a child, and afterwards employed as a whore in a Southwark brothel.

  “I might have done something,” Martin said when she had finished, “but I ran away. I abandoned them all.”

  “Yes,” she replied flatly, “you did.”

  Martin’s first thought, after he had finished vomiting, was to kill himself. Suicide, he decided on reflection, was just another escape. His soul deserved to burn, and would in due course, but he had to make amends in this world first.

  Now he crept through the marshes south of Hammes Castle, sword in hand, his eyes fixed on the nearest Yorkist banners to the north-west.

  Martin was one of thirty men, under the command of Sir Thomas Brandon, despatched by Richmond to get the remainder of the garrison to safety. Brandon was another refugee from England, fled to take shelter in the pretender’s court.

  After the defection of their captain, Sir James Blount, the garrison had declared for the pretender. In response, King Richard ordered the loyal Yorkist garrison in Calais to retake the castle.

  Some three hundred men marched out of Calais and laid siege to Hammes. They were too few to surround the place completely, and Brandon had bravely volunteered to try and creep through their lines undetected.

  His men were also volunteers. In a bid to get away from his niece, whose very presence reminded him of his failures, Martin had been among the first to join.

  “If I die outside the walls of Hammes,” he explained to her, “at least it will be in the service of Lancaster. No-one can say I did not fulfil my duty at the last.”

  “I am coming too,” Elizabeth said fiercely, catching at his arm, “I will not be left alone again. Let us fight and die together.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, more harshly than he intended, “we will have enough to occupy us, without worrying about you into the bargain. Stay in Paris and keep my Diana company.”

  Her response frightened him. Martin could have coped with tears, but not this sudden explosion of wrath. She shrieked and clawed at her brother, denounced him as traitor and coward and worse.

  “I will not languish here in Paris, swapping jests with your Austrian whore!” she shrieked, “I have earned the right to kill Yorkists, just as much as you!”

  “She is my wife, not a whore,” he bellowed back, “call her that again, and, niece or no, I will have you flogged through the streets!”

  “Try it,” she snarled, reaching for the knife she carried everywhere with her, “I’ll carve your ugly face like a pie.”

  In the end Martin avoided further unpleasantness by agreeing to let Elizabeth ride with the expedition, but not as far as Hammes.

  “As soon as the castle is in sight, you will turn around and ride back to Paris,” he said, “that is my final word on the matter. I am your uncle, and your protector now.”

  “Protect yourself,” she retorted, but made no further protest.

  Secretly, he admired Elizabeth’s boldness. She possessed more courage than him, for all his brute strength and martial skill, and had suffered indignities that would have broken him several times over. She and Diana were kindred spirits, though his wife was far more circumspect, and saw Martin off to Hammes with little obvious sorrow.

  “Men call me your whore,” she said, pecking him lightly on the cheek, “though you made me your wife. Try not to make me a widow.”

  Martin was almost relieved to reach the dank marshlands near Hammes, and to hear the distant thunder of cannon.

  Brandon lumbered a few steps ahead. He was a huge man, not suited to moving swiftly and silently, and waded through the marsh with exaggerated caution. His men were strung out around him in loose order, making use of every scrap of cover.

  Fortunately there was plenty of it. Martin kept low, sometimes dropping on all fours, careless of the brackish water and wet, stinking mud. Soon he was splattered from head to toe in filth, but the castle was getting closer, and the Yorkists remained ignorant of their presence.

  He and his companions wore half-armour, breastplates and greaves over padded leather jerkins. This was no place for full harness. There were whirlpools and bogs hidden among the marshes. A man weighed down by too much steel might easily be sucked down into the depths.

  Brandon stopped suddenly, and raised his shaggy head, like a bear sniffing the wind. “See there,” he hissed, pointing at one of the towers, “the postern gate is just to the left. With luck, the garrison will see us and leave it open.”

  Martin s
trained his eyes, and made out a narrow wooden door, just beside the foot of the tower. Dreary winter sunlight glinted off a helm or two on the battlements above.

  They continued to plod through the mire. Martin gulped down his excitement as they drew ever closer. Now was the most dangerous time, when their goal was almost within touching distance. This was when men lost their heads, and threw away all their good work with one moment of rashness.

  A few of the men were getting too far ahead of the others. “Damn their enthusiasm,” he muttered, and looked to Brandon to call them back.

  The big knight did nothing. All his attention was on the castle.

  Martin swore under his breath. He had taken part in countless raids and ambushes of this sort, and so had the men of his Company. Brandon was acting like a rank amateur.

  Twenty-five of Martin’s followers survived the battle at Stink Hold, most of them loyal to him. He hanged the treacherous Casimir and three of his supporters outside the walls of the castle, which left twenty-one.

  Bound by Meurig’s dying oath, he had brought the survivors west, across the length of Austria and Germany and into France, to join Henry of Richmond.

  Martin found the pretender at Paris, and now found himself here, flirting with death in the marshes.

  He heard a crackle of gunfire somewhere to his left, followed by a scream. A man staggered out of the reeds, clutching his shoulder.

  “Yorkists,” the wounded man gasped, his face taut with pain, “they were hiding in the reeds. Run!”

  More gunshots split the air. Most of the bullets missed, but one hit him square in the back of the skull. His body jerked, eyes wide as the soft lump of iron blew his head apart, and he flopped, stone dead, into the mud.

  Soldiers emerged from the thick clump of reeds to the west. Martin hurriedly counted nine, armed with arquebuses and crossbows.