Richard looked at the man he’d nicknamed “The Friendly Lion” in childhood. “Lord Howard, what say you?”
All eyes turned to the portly magnate in dark blue brocade. The hero of the Scots invasion rose to his feet. If Richard was the first general of the realm, Howard was its admiral, but though the sea was his coinage, he fought like the silver lion of his blazon both on land and sea, and it was Towton that had distinguished him. That, and his unwavering loyalty to York for over two decades.
“It can be done,” said Howard. “And I know just the man for the job, my Lord.”
The hint of a smile tipped the corners of Richard’s mouth as he voiced the name. “Edward Brampton, who captured St. Michael’s Mount from Oxford.”
Howard hitched up his gilt-embossed girdle from below his ample belly and grinned. “Indeed, my Lord. There’s ne’er a sea dog in the land as hardy and resourceful as Brampton. He’ll pull it off, by God!” He winked. “And if anyone wishes a wager on it, my lords, I’ll give ’em ten to one odds…” He looked around hopefully. No one accepted his wager. His acumen in turning a profit was too well known. He not only fought in ships, he traded in them. Over the years, he’d managed to grow many a penny into a pound.
By the end of the week, in a dazzling display of swashbuckling bravado, Brampton managed to get the message to Woodville’s men, who then plied their guards with drinks, overpowered them, and sailed for London. Edward Woodville, left with only two ships, fled to Brittany. But he took with him half the King’s gold.
During the course of the next few days Richard confirmed many appointments and made new ones. Hastings kept all his offices. He was still Captain of Calais and Lord Chamberlain of England, which gave him ready access to the young King’s ear. Hastings’s messenger, William Catesby, who had served them so well during the momentous events of the past weeks, was appointed chancellor of the earldom of March.
But unknown to Richard, Hastings chafed.
He had expected to be Richard’s right arm, as he had been Edward’s. Had he not stood alone against the Woodvilles? Had he not risked all—his very life, in fact—to warn Richard and prepare him to thwart the Woodvilles? But for him, Richard would not be Protector. And now that he was, Richard had turned all his favour, all his attention, all his trust, to that upstart, that rash, brash, ebullient, unstable George-like Buckingham. In council Buckingham was the dominant voice. Wherever Richard rode, Buckingham rode at his side. Richard had loaded Buckingham with titles, lands, and offices. Buckingham was Commissioner of Array and Constable of all the royal castles in five counties, Steward of all royal manors and demesnes. Buckingham was Chief Justice and Chamberlain in North and South Wales, Governor of those regions, Constable, Steward and Receiver of most of the Welsh castles. The list went on and on, the result being that Buckingham was the virtual ruler of Wales, the Marches, and most of the West Country.
And Hastings was not happy.
Even Jane Shore, for whom he had hungered all these years, and who had finally come to his bed after Dorset’s disappearance, could not console him with all her beauty and all her wit.
~*^*~
Chapter 17
“—a man of plots,
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings—”
“I bear dire tidings,” said the black-clad messenger from Middleham. “My Lord Protector, I regret to inform you that your gracious nephew, George Neville, is dead.”
Richard felt as if his breath solidified in his throat. “How…?”
“He was thrown from his horse. His neck was broken.”
Slowly, heavily, Richard let himself down into a chair and listened to the man’s report. Riding to Nappa Hall near the falls at Aysgarth to visit their neighbour, old Metcalfe, and hear his tales of Agincourt where he had fought with Henry the Fifth, George’s horse had stumbled. He had been flung headlong to his death.
“Leave me,” said Richard.
There was a sudden commotion at the door. Rob’s voice called out, “Richard…”
He looked up with bleary, unfocused eyes. “What is it?”
“Are you ready to see them now—the petitioners, I mean? The hall is full. The line reaches almost to the river.”
“Tell them to go away and leave me in peace. In peace, do you hear!” He leapt to his feet and pushed past a stunned Rob, making for the chapel.
First the father; now the son. Richard’s head throbbed. He fell to his knees before the altar. For most of the day, a dismal rain had been falling. He stared up at the gilt cross glinting in the gloomy light and remembered the cross at Hadley Church. He had stopped at Barnet on his way to London. It had been the fourth of May. George had died that sunny morning. Maybe even as he was passing through Barnet; maybe even as he had stood gazing up at the cross at Hadley Church.
A shiver ran down his spine. He found the knowledge ironic, and horribly unsettling.
Arrangements for the coronation moved forward. Under the watchful eye of the Keeper of the Wardrobe, tailors fashioned splendid costumes for the young King and his household. Meanwhile, the full council continued to meet formally in the Star Chamber while smaller committees assembled in the Tower to issue the writs and bills necessary to the state’s business, or met at private homes for informal consultation.
Richard’s own intimate circle of advisors gathered at Crosby Place. They included Buckingham, Francis and Rob, Howard, Conyers, and the Lords Scrope of Bolton and Scrope of Masham, who were Neville kinsmen and had been good friends to John. There was also one newcomer to court: Richard’s nephew Jack, the young Earl of Lincoln, his sister Liza’s son. He had grown up since the day he’d won the prize of a pup sired by Percival for committing to memory verses written by his great-grandfather, Geoffrey Chaucer, and he was now twenty years old, anxious to help his uncle in any way he could.
The pace of these days was gruelling; the tension draining. Crosby Place bustled with Richard’s household staff, his growing number of supporters, and the daily procession of men with special grievances or hopes for favour. In the city he had always hated, there was no joy for Richard without his family, but duty called, and Richard had never failed the call of duty—even in the face of grief.
Late on a Thursday evening, exactly a month after George’s death, Anne arrived at Crosby Place, escorted by a pale and drawn George Gower. Rain had been pouring all day and she shivered in her wet clothes. Richard removed her soaking mantle and embraced her. He rested a gentle hand on Gower’s drooping shoulder, met his pained eyes. “We’ll miss him, Gower.”
“Aye, my Lord,” Gower managed.
Richard swallowed his sorrow and led Anne into the solar where a fire glowed. “How is Ned?” He was distressed to find her looking thinner, her eyes red-rimmed. Young George’s death had exacted a heavy toll.
Anne shook her damp curls. “I wish I could say he was well, Richard, but he misses George… Ned fell ill on his birthday, you know, two days after George…” She broke off, struggled for composure. “That makes two fevers in one month. It is so worrisome.”
Indeed, young George’s death had reminded them of the fragility of life. Richard caught her hands in his own and looked steadily into her eyes. “Remember what I keep telling you, my little bird?”
“‘Richard liveth yet,’” Anne repeated dutifully. “I realise you were a sickly child, and so was I. But ’tis… difficult, Richard.”
“I know, my love.” He drew her to him and smoothed her wet hair. “Yet all will be well in the end, God willing.” He kissed her on the brow. “Now eat and get some rest. I have to take care of business for a bit, but I’ll hurry along as much as I can.”
“Oh, Richard, must you? You look tired, my love. Can you not take this one night off?” Indeed, he looked quite exhausted. He was pale and hollow-cheeked. If he had lost weight during these two months, he had also lost sleep, for there were bags under his eyes. She traced the line of his jaw lovingly. “We can curl up before the fire and take a bath together.”<
br />
Richard was sorely tempted. Gladly would he have dismissed everyone and committed to the morning the business that remained, but he could see that Anne was more fatigued than she knew. Rest was what she needed, maybe even more than he needed the comfort of her arms.
“Nay, my love, I can’t,” he said gently. “There is business I must attend tonight.”
Forcing a light note into her tone, Anne said, “Then you owe me.”
“Will you accept a promissory note?” Richard grinned.
Anne smiled, stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cleft in his chin.
Richard stood warming his hands at the hearth in his bedchamber for there was a chill in the air though it was summer. He’d spent nearly the full day in council attending affairs of state and so busy had he been that his meals were brought to him. As a result, he hadn’t seen Anne all day, but it was precisely to spend time with her that he’d pushed himself so hard. Now it was past Vespers, candles had been lit, and the remains of dinner cleared. Almost all the urgent business had been concluded. Only one other matter remained.
As he waited for Buckingham, Richard poked the glowing embers with a cherry branch, Hastings on his mind. He didn’t wish to believe that the man with whom he was linked by so many memories, with whom he’d shared the desperate flight to Bruges and the bloody battle in the fog of Barnet, that the man who’d hated the Woodvilles as much as he and loved his brother as much as he, was now turning against him for jealousy of Buckingham.
Once Richard had thought that he could never forgive Hastings that night in the Leicester brothel and the death of the maiden he’d abducted and raped. He realised now that he had forgiven him long ago, and the subtle change in Hastings’s behaviour troubled him. Hastings must have been troubled himself. Four days earlier he had requested a private meeting at Westminster in a secluded chamber far from the main passageway. Dismissing the servants, he had shut the door carefully before airing his concerns. Strictly speaking these were not in the plural, for they all reduced themselves to one problem: Buckingham. What began as an amicable discussion ended with both of them shouting at one another. The turning point came when Hastings said it was a damn fool thing Richard did, to entrust so much power to Buckingham.
“I can’t understand how you can be so blind to the faults obvious to everyone else! Why do you think Edward never gave him responsibility?”
“Because Buckingham hates Woodvilles and Bess had Edward’s ear.”
“Because Buckingham’s ambitious and he can’t be trusted!” Hastings had declared.
“He’s given me no reason to doubt him. He’s stood by me from the first.”
“So have I!”
“And he didn’t vote against me on the matter of the Woodvilles.”
Hastings was taken aback for a moment. “Aye, I did vote with Morton, for the same reason as the others. Because young Edward is King, and by executing his favourite uncle I’d be condemning myself in his eyes. That I’m not willing to do. When you’re in a marsh, you take care where you step. It’s a matter of survival. What’s commonly known as statecraft!”
“I’ve heard that word before. It doesn’t replace principles.”
Hastings looked at him strangely. “As Edward said, you see everything with a moral squint. He once accused you of being naive. That alone can be deadly where you stand. To that, I’ll add another charge. You’re a bad judge of character, Dickon, and too loyal for your own damn good. You trust the wrong people and don’t see their faults until it’s too late!”
Richard was enraged. Hastings had attacked him on two fronts: his honour, and his loyalty. “Admit it, Will—you’re jealous, that’s the real problem here!”
Hastings’s face had changed. “There’s no more to be said.”
Richard had watched him leave.
Relations between them had been strained ever since. Not until then had Richard realised that he cared for Hastings—Hastings, who had proven his loyalty to York all the years of his life, who had loved Edward as much as he himself, and who had managed with his humour and his generosity to win Richard’s own heart in spite of himself.
Voices in the stairwell interrupted Richard’s thoughts. He heard Buckingham’s merry laugh. He put down the cherry branch and turned to see him stride into the room. Carefully, in a manner reminiscent of Hastings at Westminster, Buckingham shut the door and met his eyes. When Buckingham’s first words gave voice to his own fears, Richard knew he could not run from his concerns any longer. “I must warn you, Dickon, Hastings has something afoot.” He threw his cloak aside and reclined on the settle.
“Our spies looking for Dorset report that Hastings has been meeting frequently with Rotherham, Morton, and Stanley. The meetings are at night and kept so secret our men have been unable to learn their purpose… One thing is sure, though. It’s not to conduct the business of the council. Hastings has never been one to sacrifice his leisure for affairs of state.”
True enough, thought Richard. And neither are Morton nor Stanley.
“What troubles me is that Rotherham is included in these meetings. He’s the Queen’s man. I’ve no idea why you went so easy on him, Dickon.”
Richard threw Buckingham a sharp glance. If Buckingham had his way, everyone would go to the block. Richard had warned him to watch his temper and not to be so high-handed with the others. As expected, Buckingham hadn’t liked it much and had a few hot words for Richard himself. Now he acted as if he’d forgotten the whole episode. Richard decided to ignore his remark. Buckingham could be volatile and stubborn, and sometimes he didn’t listen, or he heard only what he wanted to hear. It would be pointless to confront him now and indulge in old arguments when so many new troubles awaited.
“Rotherham’s a Woodville dupe, but I’m more concerned about Morton,” Richard said. “He’s a man of plots and venom. Yet we must win them over, for the sake of the realm.” He stroked the embers again. The years since Picquigny had confirmed Richard’s opinion that power, not God, drove Morton. Edward had trusted him, and for Edward he had performed well. Morton had imagination and a clever mind, and the vast experience of his sixty-odd years, which had taught him when to be bold, and when to be prudent. But there was something about him that reminded Richard of Louis XI, that sly, wily, devious master plotter. He put the cherry branch down. “Then there’s Stanley.”
Warwick’s erstwhile brother-by marriage, Lord Stanley, was a survivor, a man who had deserted his allies time and again, yet always managed to wriggle back into favour. Marguerite, the Duke of York, Warwick, and Edward had all shared the dubious honour of having been betrayed by Stanley, not once, but several times. Each time they not only forgave him, but heaped him with honours.
“Stanley stands for Stanley. One thing we can rely on, as surely as spring follows winter, is that Stanley will ride at the winner’s side, no matter what his sin. Not for nothing is he called the Wily Fox… Aye, Harry, I know what they are, those three. But Hastings…” Richard gave a sigh, shrugged his broad shoulders. “He’s profligate. He was responsible for my brother’s debauchery. I’ve long despised him for that. Yet I like the man, Harry.”
“Everyone likes Hastings. That’s why he’s dangerous.”
“We must not be rash. Let me think on it.”
“Don’t take too long.” Buckingham rose from the settle. “They’ll no doubt make their move before Parliament meets on June 25th. That’s less than three weeks away.” He picked up his cloak and strode out.
Richard went to the window and gazed at the dark night. Torches appeared in the court, followed by men’s voices and the clattering of horse hoofs as Buckingham trotted out. The gate banged shut. Richard sighed inwardly. Another decision to be made; so many all of a sudden, and no time to reflect, to weigh the pros and cons. He had always hated making hasty decisions, yet now there was no time for anything but haste. A gentle touch on his arm interrupted his thoughts and a soft hand slipped around his chest. Warmth suffused him. “Anne,” he whi
spered, turning to enfold her in his arms. She had slept late this day and the rest had done her good. A touch of colour had stolen into her cheeks and her eyes were brighter.
“I’m calling that promissory note you gave me yesterday.” She smiled. Her arms encircled his neck and she pressed her soft curves into the hard, lean contours of his body.
“Anne… Anne…” he murmured, his mouth crushing hers hungrily. “How I’ve needed you… How I’ve missed you.”
Anne shivered with a giddy sense of pleasure. Roughly he swept her up into his strong arms and carried her into the bedchamber. A burning sweetness engulfed her and she returned his kisses with the same growing desperation. Richard blew out the candle by the bed and his lips recaptured hers, more demanding this time, and they made love with an urgency they had not known before. They were, Anne thought as she sank and resurfaced in the flow of passion, like two drowning souls in a violent rainstorm of vivid lightning and wild winds. Then her thoughts fragmented and she abandoned herself to the turbulence of passion, clinging to him in the darkness until all was still again.
~*^*~
Chapter 18
“The world’s loud whisper breaking into storm.”
Late the following evening Lord Scrope of Bolton knocked at the door of the royal apartments with the announcement that Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, wished a word with Richard on a matter of utmost urgency.
Anne’s violet eyes widened. “At this hour, Richard? But it’s almost Compline.”
“I assure you, if the old man has dragged me away for anything less than a treasonous plot, I’ll wring his scrawny neck.” Richard grinned as he rose, but Anne drew him back to the settle.
“Why would Edward’s old chancellor wish to see you now? You showed him no favour after Edward took away my uncle’s chancellorship and gave it to him. Stillington was no friend to us.”
The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny Page 13