by Ade Grant
‘I don’t believe his Grace would have appreciated such words about a woman he favoured,’ Richard snapped as he entered. Immediately Hastings and Stanley leapt to their feet, grins still locked in place at whatever joke had been told, though Richard noted, Hasting’s smile was pure mummery. Beneath the veneer his eyes were careful.
‘My apologies, Lord Protector. You know how I loved our late king.’
Richard tried to read the man closer and discern any hidden meaning in his countenance, but mostly Hastings was silhouetted by shadow. The window behind him supplied most of the light for the room, the view offering sights across London in all its filthy majesty.
‘Lord Protector,’ Archbishop Rotherham said as he too struggled to his feet, the last in the room to do so, no doubt through some calculated slight. ‘Will King Edward be joining us today?’
‘Prince Edward will not.’
Rotherham twisted his mouth. ‘As expected, then.’
‘And thus a pointless question.’
‘Any word of the other prince, the Duke of York?’
Rotherham had asked the pointed question, but it was Hastings who seemed to yearn for the answer. ‘My other nephew is still with his mother at Westminster Abbey,’ Richard answered carefully, ‘where he has been since I arrived in London. I have no desire to trouble the child.’
‘Then I suppose the soldiers you have placed outside the abbey are simply there for his protection. A kind gesture from his namesake uncle.’
Rotherham was all smiles and embroidered pomposity, but his insinuations were barely concealed. Yet another sign of how flimsy Richard’s position was amongst the lords of the realm. As of yet no one had openly criticised the securing of Prince Edward and his attempts to prise the younger brother from his mother, but he could see the condemnation simmering in their eyes.
Hastings cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps it would be best for the young prince to remain at the Abbey,’ he said in clear revolt. ‘Within the sight of God.’
Richard rounded on him. ‘Is God so blind that he can only peer beneath a spire? I cannot think of a spot more of interest to our lord in heaven than the seat of the King of England.’
‘And yet we have no king,’ Rotherham persisted. ‘Lord Protector, I beseech you, let us have a coronation. And until then, bring the young prince into the White. The Garden Tower is not appropriate lodgings for one of his station.’
‘There will be a coronation,’ Richard said, eyes locked with Hastings.
If Rotherham picked up on the tension, it was masked by his own surprise at the confirmation. ‘Good,’ he said, frowning as if he did not believe it. ‘Yes, very good. So in the meantime, let the prince sit on the council and learn the affairs of state.’
‘No.’ Richard’s voice was firm. When all is said and done, he is just a boy.
You lie to yourself, Richard.
‘No,’ he repeated as if quibbled in the present. ‘His current lodgings are entirely appropriate: secure, comfortable, and once his brother joins him the two will be able to play in the gardens. When his kingdom is safe, then he shall play at the state.’
Lord Stanley snorted with amusement. ‘Oh come now, my lord. There is no rebellion! Where is this threat to come from? Look out across the city, there are no masses marching on the Tower, no French force off the coast.’
‘The Woodvilles…’
‘The Queen is a dove, my lord,’ he continued, as if half the court hadn’t heard of his seditious whispers with the Queen. ‘If ever there was a plot it was neutered by your presence. Your brother ended our civil wars and as we speak he is being rewarded in Heaven, but if his son is to continue to heal the wounds the Lancasters inflicted upon us, then we should begin his tutorage immediately.’
‘Why, I do believe Lord Stanley is correct,’ Rotherham added, clearly pretending not to have orchestrated this intervention in Richard’s absence. ‘It does strike me that the country is indeed secure enough already. Let us start with the boy today; he could be made aware of the royal finances at the very least.’
Even Hastings felt bold enough to add his name to the cause, speaking gravely. ‘Yes. Why shut the prince away? Let the country see their king.’
Is that it old friend? Are you so eager to join my brother?
In many ways, William Hastings had been the brother to Edward IV that Richard could not. In the tumultuous time after his father’s death when the Yorkist cause had fallen onto the shoulders of Edward, Richard had been but a boy growing up in exile. It had been Hastings who had helped Edward wrestle the crown from the poisoned Lancaster dynasty, providing swords when all Richard could do was pray.
So where did Hastings’ loyalty lie now? When Edward had been alive it had been simple, they’d both adored the man and stood side by side in his devotion, but now? How do you honour a ghost?
‘My lords,’ he began, examining each of his councillors in turn. ‘To what duty have I been sacredly charged?’
The room tensed. Suddenly the presence of the guards Richard had brought with him was keenly felt. Rotherham and Hastings frowned, whilst Stanley had still to grasp the shift. ‘You are Lord Protector, Richard,’ Hastings said. ‘You guard the realm.’
It was as good as done.
‘Correct, Lord Hastings. I protect the realm. From treason,’ and upon the word the guards drew their swords. ‘I guard the realm from treason.’
The trap had been sprung. You should have fled, old friend. You should have kept your mouth shut. Hastings straightened, eyes aflame. ‘I am no traitor, my lord.’
Lord Stanley backed away from the table, hand to his side as if for an invisible blade. ‘Outrageous. William, a traitor? I do not believe it for a moment.’
‘He plotted to kill the King.’
You cannot mean to, Hastings had implored him the night before.
I must. For England, I must.
‘He has sought the downfall of our beloved Prince and seeks to steal the throne.’ The lies left his lips with alarming ease, though they fooled no one. It didn’t matter. The guards followed Richard alone.
‘Preposterous,’ Stanley bellowed. ‘My Lord, whoever has fed you this rot hasn’t the least shred of honour or truth to his person. Summon this liar before us so we may question him.’ He turned to his ally. ‘Fear not, William, your trial will be swift; half the kingdom will speak for you and the other half will be shamed into silence.’
‘There will be no trial, the conspiracy ends here.’
Now even Stanley faltered, his rage dampened by fear. ‘As a Lord, William is entitled to have his case be heard by his peers.’
‘A traitor has no peers.’ Richard’s words were frost within stone. ‘Other than his conspirators.’
Rotherham had been silent throughout the exchange, perhaps hoping to be forgotten, but he spoke now with a voice resigned. ‘And who are these co-conspirators, Lord Protector?’
‘Why my lords, the pair of you, of course.’
Stanley roared and fought, but was unarmed and outmatched, quickly struck down by the guards. Rotherham and Hastings knew better than to fight. They submitted; Hastings with dignity, Rotherham with whimpers and pleas.
Richard turned to leave, but Hastings spoke up. ‘This is madness, Richard. You know me to be innocent. You know these men to be innocent. If you have grief with me then have at it, but let them go. They have no quarrel with you.’
He paused, but did not look back. He didn’t want to meet the eyes of his last true friend.
‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘Detain Lord Stanley and Archbishop Rotherham.’
You cannot mean to.
‘But this man’s guilt is certain. Take him out onto the Green. That is where we shall take his head.’
The courtyard, usually bustling with as much activity as the city beyond its walls, was strangely quiet. Word had preceded the funeral procession and by the time Hastings and his captors emerged from the White Tower all those who could make themselves scarce had done so. Witn
essing an execution was usually popular sport, but William Hastings was well liked throughout the land, and Richard’s wrath feared as far.
In contrast to the abandoned courtyard, London went on undisturbed. The distant ringing of bells and braying of beasts drifted over the walls. Richard wondered how sound could penetrate the stench of the place, a thick cloying cloud of stink that inhabited every last breath in this cramped city, a miasma that no amount of oils and herbs could dismiss. It was not so in the north. There, chill air kept such pestilence in check.
The green was situated to the north, outside the church of St Peter Ad Vincula. Richard led the way, pointing to an exact spot. ‘Here,’ he said, gesturing towards the church. ‘Let God look upon us and see that this is justice.’
Fear not, Richard. God shall see.
‘Yes,’ he said, agreeing with the voice that no-one could hear. ‘God knows that I would have it any other way. This is your doing, William, not mine.’
Hastings nodded, eyes pleading. ‘Of course, Richard. Of course this is not how you’d have it. There is still time to find a better way.’
Back in York, Richard had been notorious for his sense of justice, the rule of law, the importance of a defence fairly heard. So strange that here he was, discarding that reputation like a Roman dictator of old, and not even to slay an enemy, but to condemn a friend.
‘We are out of time, William,’ he said in a voice little more than a whisper. ‘But put your faith in me and I can spare you. Think on what we spoke.’
Hastings pulled back, his features hardened. ‘You may have lost your way. I have not.’
‘Very well,’ Richard said. ‘Death it is.’
‘Might I be permitted a priest? I believe I have the right to confess my sins and cleanse my soul before I go.’
No good can come of this, Richard.
‘A confession?’ He hadn’t figured of that. He’d been so keen to keep the man from speaking at a trial that he hadn’t contemplated what might be uttered to a priest. If allowed to converse, however briefly, what secrets could he spill? ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think not.’
Hastings sagged. The man knew he was facing death, had been ever since the two men had sparred with words the previous night, but to die with a stain upon the soul? It was a betrayal even he had not foreseen.
Be brave my son, his mother had told him as Richard pulled at her arm and pleaded for them to hide. So desperate for her to agree, the young boy had listed off every secret hidey-hole he’d gathered, giving up all his prized secret passageways. His mother had remained resolute in the face of his tears. The duchess had been stoic, prepared for her fate.
We are of York, she’d said. We do not hide.
But Father has! Father’s fled and Edward both!
She’d stroked his cheek, her fingers unusually tender and warm, and he’d been lulled into closing his eyes, the exhaustion of his panic hitting him all at once, but no sooner than the lids had touched than she’d slapped him hard across the face. Your father will return and when he does he’ll find that we honoured his name. He’d looked back in mute appeal. She’d never struck him before and to do it then, not from anger but a stern melancholy, was more disorientating than all the commotion outside.
And then, sympathy crept into her stony features, and he realised that behind the façade were tears, tears she was too strong to shed, and it struck him that the cost of holding back all that water must be very dear indeed. You resemble your father in a way your brothers do not, she’d said. No one can deny that you are a son of York. Promise me, Richard, that when the time comes you will not turn back. You will not hide.
But before he could speak the door burst inward. The chapel was breached. The Lancasters had arrived.
‘Condemn my flesh without trial if you must, but you condemn my soul as well?’
Richard blinked, momentarily giddy by the pressing of the past. For a moment he caught his fingers rubbing the cheek that had been struck all those years ago.
But before he could deny Hastings any further, a voice rang out across the courtyard.
‘Uncle!’
Hope flashed across Hastings’ brow at the sound of the boyish tone. Richard turned, seeking for what could be the source of his prisoner’s relief but only saw a small contingent of northern soldiers standing amongst the flowers of the Tower Garden. But then, between them he saw the small frame of his nephew, Prince Richard, younger brother to the heir and second in line to the throne.
The boy was still young, too young to understand the political struggle unfolding about him. While others might have realised that his escort left him little choice of movement, he was still naïve enough to think of them as a voluntary guard, a gift from his benign uncle. In truth, the soldiers Richard had positioned outside Westminster Abbey had been conducting a miniature siege, a waiting game with the boy’s mother, temporarily protected by the sanctuary of the holy walls. It appeared the woman had finally surrendered, and whilst the child happily waved his arm, those soldiers shifted, recognising an execution when they saw one.
Richard tried to keep his body between the boy and the dark tableau as he approached. On the surface, this nephew was the least built for kingship of all the York men. Timid, small-boned, with an amiable temperament, the youngest Richard of York was quick to like but too blind to the machinations of others. Should the throne pass to him he’d make a kind king, maybe even a good one, but subtlety was beyond him. His would be a court of powerful councillors, each fighting for the naïve king’s favour. Even now, with an armed escort and tension in the air, only the faintest glimmers of concern graced his face. For him this was a pleasant family visit, a temporary parting from his mother, to whose arms he’d soon return.
‘I’m glad to see you, uncle,’ he said with a toothy smile.
Richard dropped to a knee and embraced his kin. ‘As am I. Are you well?’
‘Oh yes, though glad to leave Westminster. What of brother Edward, is he well?’
A wave of nausea swayed him. ‘The prince… yes he is well. He resides within the Garden Tower, which has more than enough room for the both of you.’
‘What about mother?’
‘The Queen will not be joining us. She has… important affairs of state to address. This is a special time for the three of us. I want to get to know my nephews better.’
The prince smiled and nodded away, though every so often his eyes would dart over Richard’s shoulder to the small gathering on the green. Two of his guards had moved in front of Hastings to try to hide his presence, but the large man’s broad shoulders and thick red hair couldn’t be wholly concealed. There wasn’t a soul in court who didn’t know William Hastings on sight and the boy’s mounting concern was clear. ‘Uncle, is something amiss?’
It was commonly said that Prince Richard shared much in common with his namesake uncle, not just in temperament, but appearance too. It was as if all the York vitality flowed into the eldest sibling and neglected the last. What was it his mother had said? You resemble your father in a way your brothers do not. Rumours about his brothers’ parentage had begun from birth, accusations of bastardry from some hidden tryst. Indeed, of all four brothers, only Richard had shared his father’s frame and face.
But to look now on his brother’s son, the lie was clear. Three Richards: grandfather, uncle and grandson, all alike, saplings from the same seeds. Though perhaps it was not the blood alone. Perhaps the name itself forged the resemblance. Was it any coincidence that the Edwards in the family grew tall and handsome whilst the Richards quiet and slight? If this boy had been named for any other, would his lot in life improve?
Hail Richard, King of Nothing!
‘I’m sorry?’
The prince giggled, misunderstanding Richard’s distraction for jest. ‘I said, will you dine with us?’
It had been an eternity since Richard had been invited to repast out of anything other than political manoeuvres. Such a sweet, well-mannered boy. He didn’t deserve the p
ath ahead.
‘My young Prince!’ Hasting’s voice rang clear across the courtyard, robust voice seeming to shake the very stones themselves and break out into London beyond. ‘Return to your mother dear Richard, flee this place!’
Richard twisted his back and winced in pain. He was caught, trapped between a rebellious prisoner and a child he must keep calm. The boy recoiled, already trembling from the dire warning.
‘Uncle, what does he mean?’
‘A cruel jest.’ Richard grimaced, hand instinctively upon his dagger. ‘Lord Hastings is drunk and in a troublesome mood. I wouldn’t pay any heed to it.’
He tried to smile, but the lie was undernourished and withered. ‘Flee Richard!’ Hastings continued as the guards put a blade to his throat. ‘Whilst you still can, flee!’
Tears filled the boy’s eyes and for one cruel moment Richard felt he should slap him. ‘Uncle, why is he saying these things? Is there something wrong here?’
‘There is nothing wrong!’ Richard struggled to his feet and snapped his fingers at the escort. ‘Show the prince to the Garden Tower and then leave him be. I shall check that he is settled when my work is done. Go,’ he said, and then repeated with fury, ‘Go!’
He rounded on Hastings. ‘That block there,’ he yelled, pointing towards a wooden building slab positioned nearby. ‘We need no scaffold, bring it here. It shall serve as his final pillow.’
Two guards carried it between them and, once it was placed in front of the knight, a third bent him double. A quick tug at Hastings’ shirt exposed his neck.
‘Do it.’
You cannot mean to.
‘I command it!’
But the soldiers just stood there, gawping at the doomed lord as if struck dumb. It all felt wrong, Hastings knew it, Richard too, and even these loyal northmen could see the crime. ‘I am the Lord Protector and I command this traitor executed!’ he screamed at the nearest, but when the man only flinched, Richard pulled the sword from his hands.