Was it a hint to George to behave? Or was it, as he was soon telling anyone who would listen, a conspiracy to bring him down? First his wife died of poison, then his associates were falsely accused of one of the gravest crimes in the Calendar... Poor, foolish, pathetic George made things as bad as he could for himself. He rushed into a Council meeting with Doctor Goddard and ordered the latter to read aloud Burdett’s dying claim of innocence – and this was the Doctor Goddard who had proclaimed Henry VI’s title to the throne back in 1470!
Still the matter might have died down, but George was thorough. Soon he was arming his men as if for war, and sending out proclamations that the King himself was a necromancer. He even managed – shades of ’69 and ’70 – to raise a rebellion over in the east. And dear Louis of France added the final touch by informing Edward that his spies told him George’s seeking to marry Mary of Burgundy had indeed been only the first step towards overthrowing Edward.
It was the end of the King’s precarious patience. By the end of June 1477 George of Clarence was a prisoner in the Tower, awaiting trial for subversion of justice and high treason.
He would be tried before the January parliament, but by November his entire family was converging on London. Because by now we knew that George’s life hung in the balance.
Eleven
1478
Westminster stank. I suppose the palace had had the usual quarterly sweetening not long before, but still it smelt. It stank of the Thames, of too many people in too small a place, of wine, of the piss of people too lazy or drunken to reach the garderobe, of sex. Call it my fancy, but it stank of corruption. Even my beloved London seemed changed – small, crowded, dirty, its people strident and greedy. I had been too long in the north, where the air is clean and people speak their minds without resorting to abuse.
And the King had changed. In France two years before I had noted he was heavier and seemed harder, but now there was no trace of the handsome, slim, lively Edward of my youth. In his place was a coarse, fat, red-faced, almost gross man, who only put down his wine-cup to seize one of the whores who surrounded him. The days of discretion were over; all was licence, every appetite indulged. I’m no prude, and I’d not care to have my every action made public, but Edward’s court disgusted me. It was venal. It had gone rotten. And, again, the Woodvilles were riding high, as if Edward had ceased to care, or had lost the ability to strike a balance.
That said, I felt some sympathy for the Queen. Over forty now, at first glance she looked barely thirty, but a closer look showed the heavy face-paint over sagging skin, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the discontented droop to her mouth. She had borne ten children, and it showed in her thickened figure and plump jaw. She was still better looking than the average, but now people said not, ‘Isn’t she beautiful!’ but, ‘She must have been pretty.’ Perhaps she yet retained some of her earlier fascination for Edward, for she had borne a child that year – ironically named George – or perhaps now he used her merely as a brood-mare and took his real pleasure with other women. Openly.
For I give you my word that the first time he saw Richard privately – I should say ‘privately’ – Edward had one of his bawds sitting on his knee, and his hand burrowed inside her gown while he talked to his brother. Richard’s nostrils pinched with distaste until he resembled a buzzard, and at last he said, ‘Perhaps, Your Grace, the lady could be excused while we talk?’
‘Excused? Why, what’s she done?’ Edward roared with laughter at the feeble joke. I thought it a toss-up whether Richard would lose his temper or vomit as the King wheezed and squeezed. (I was there, officially, to carry the gifts Richard had brought for the King and Queen; of course I was really there, unofficially, as a witness.)
To her credit the whore slid off Edward’s lap and said, ‘His Grace of Gloucester is right, Edward.’ (‘Edward’, to the King, in public!) ‘With your permission?’
‘Oh, very well. Run along, Jane.’ She curtsied smartly and ran along. Edward looked dotingly after her. ‘That’s Mistress Shore. Divorced her husband for impotence. Can you imagine, with a girl like that? Poor sod – or perhaps he really is. Prefers boys, I mean. Isn’t she the most fetching little thing you ever saw?’
‘Extremely fetching,’ Richard upheld the truth against all odds. And it was true. Jane Shore wasn’t beautiful, but her heart-shaped face with its snub nose held a charm that Helen of Troy might have envied. Blonde, slender, small, pale-skinned, she was not unlike the Queen in her youth (which, as my wife pointed out when I told her, was only a further insult to the Queen). To be honest, I rather liked the look of Jane Shore. Shore the Whore. But there was something sweet about her, a quality that, odd though it may sound of a tart, was close to innocence. And although she had quite openly sized Richard and me up, assessing the length of our purses and no doubt of our pricks, she had had the decency to make herself scarce.
‘Now, Edward,’ said Richard, ‘I must speak to you about George.’
‘No.’
‘But, Edward – ’
‘But me no buts, Gloucester.’ Hell-fire, the King had said ‘Gloucester’ – not Richard, not Dickon.
‘Your Grace, I must insist – ’
‘‘Must’ and ‘insist’ are not words to use to monarchs, my lord duke. Up in the north you might rule: here you do not.’
Richard looked as if the King had hit him. Never, ever, had Edward spoken to him like that, as if to a crawling, insignificant stranger who had taken a liberty. Stiffly he said, ‘I do not believe I do, Your Grace.’
‘Good. Because I can take away your powers, my lord duke, I can break your might with a word.’
Perhaps a simple cry of ‘Ned!’, an appeal to brother-hood, might have been better, but Richard was so furious, and so flabbergasted, that he said, ‘Of course you can do that – if you want England overrun by Scots.’
‘Other men can guard my kingdom.’
Name one, I thought.
With a change of tone Richard said, ‘I am, as always, nothing but Your Grace’s humble servant. And brother.’
Something flickered in Edward’s eyes. In another man I would have called it sheer misery. ‘Yes,’ he said, and his own voice had changed. ‘Yes, I believe you are. And as my servant, humble or otherwise, your duty is to rule the north for me.’
Richard was sheet-white. Keep your temper, I silently urged him. As if he had heard me he said, ‘And so I do. Always. And I do it well for you, out of duty and love. I only wish to ask you as your brother what you intend with George.’
‘I don’t know,’ Edward admitted, and the tension eased a little.
‘He has been unwise – but that’s George.’
‘Unwise – he’s a fucking traitor!’
‘Ten years, eight years, ago, he was that. Now he’s guilty of much but surely not of treason?’
‘Breaking England’s laws is not treason? You of all people say that? And how can you plead for him after what he did to Anne back in ’71?’
Richard let it go. ‘Edward, Your Grace, in fairness, Isabel’s death sent him half out of his mind – ’
‘Not difficult.’
Caught unawares, Richard couldn’t stop a laugh. Edward grinned too, and for a moment it was like the old days. Except that in the old days none of the preceding conversation would have taken place, and Richard would not have been kept standing like a supplicant before the King.
‘Yes,’ Richard went on, ‘but he genuinely seems to believe in the poisoning story, and isn’t it natural for a new widower to blame anyone, everyone, for his wife’s death? Take that into account.’
‘I do.’
‘Well, then?’
‘Is a mad traitor better than a sane one?’
‘Surely he’s not a traitor. Edward, he has had months in prison. Let that suffice. If you wouldn’t act against him when he was neck-deep in treason years ago, surely you can be lenient now. Take Isabel’s death into account. You know George, he does eventually see sense.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘If I talk to him, he’ll – ’
‘No.’
‘Sire?’
‘No talking to him.’
‘But surely I may see him?’
‘No.’
‘Edward! For God’s sake, he is my brother!’
‘No. And that’s final. Push me no further, Richard.’
Richard opened his mouth. Shut it. Bowed. Edward lifted his hand in dismissal. I put the gifts on the table. Bowed. We left.
~~~
Outside, the Queen’s son Thomas Grey – now the Marquis of Dorset – was lounging about the anteroom with a bunch of his cronies. At the back of the room Jane Shore played chess with Lord Hastings. She was studying the board; he was studying her with open, yearning lechery. The room stank of wine.
‘So. Gloucester,’ said Dorset. Insolent bugger. Like his mother, whose pearly colouring he shared, Dorset looked less than his age. He was about a year or so our senior, but could have been eighteen to our twenty-five; that’s the soft life of a Court favourite for you. I used to wonder if he put his hair in curling-rags at night, like a woman.
Richard stopped. Looking Dorset up and down he said, ‘So. Dorset.’
‘Enjoy your chat with the King?’ Dorset smirked. His cronies giggled.
‘Thank you, I did. My brother and I understand one another.’ That wiped the smirk off Dorset’s fat face.
In retaliation he glanced at me and said, ‘Must you always take your bum-boy with you everywhere?’
‘Dorset!’ snapped Hastings, appalled.
Richard gave the Marquis the enchanting smile of pure rage. ‘Jealous, darling? Don’t I remember you applying for the position when you were younger and prettier?’ Dorset went white. Tell you the truth, I had once or twice wondered about him when we were boys together. Perhaps others had too, for Hastings wasn’t the only one laughing at the jibe.
On that wave of laughter a pleasant voice said from the doorway, ‘Your Grace of Gloucester! I did not know you were here! Greetings, cousin, and to you, Sir Martin.’
‘Harry! Good day to you.’ Richard was relieved and pleased to see the Duke of Buckingham – and if a royal duke, cousin to the King and next in rank to his brothers, can observe protocol, how much more should an upstart like Dorset?
‘Had I known you had arrived I would have called,’ said Buckingham, walking with us down the corridor. ‘Where are you, at Crosby Place on Bishopsgate? You’re hiring it still?’
‘Yes, but my mother is at Baynard’s Castle, I seem to spend most of my time there. Not that I’ve been in London more than a day or two.’
‘I shall call on my lady aunt, I’ve not been here long myself. I wonder – would you two care for a drink with me? Sample London’s inns as you used to?’ Under his breath he added, ‘And wash the taste of Westminster out of your mouths.’
At the Boar’s Head, drinking excellent ale, Buckingham said, ‘I used to envy you two back in the sixties, for being old enough to go out drinking and for being able to do whatever what you liked.’ He didn’t have to say, ‘And for not being married to the Queen’s sister and kept under the Woodville eye’.
Gently Richard said, ‘Had we known, we would have smuggled you out with us. Though I suspect the King kept us on a tighter rein than we knew; a little roistering, all very well, but any sign of bad company or of getting a taste for drink and we would have felt the twitch of the tether.’
‘Yes, he used to worry about you. About all of us youngsters. And I remember you used to take me riding.’ Flicking back his bright fair hair Buckingham said bluntly, ‘That scene in his rooms – that’s typical now. He drinks too much. Too many whores. Too much of everything. He’s thirty-five and looks fifty. I take it you met Jane Shore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about her, she’s the pick of the bunch.’
‘She struck me,’ said Richard without much disapproval, ‘as the sort who’d fuck a snake if she could hold onto its ears.’
Buckingham laughed and said he wasn’t far wrong. ‘But she’s not vicious, Richard. She likes sex, but that’s not the worst sin in the world. And she loves the King. I’m at Court quite often, as you know, and I keep my eyes and ears open. My wife is much in the Queen’s confidence.’
Ah, we had reached the nub of the matter. Richard murmured something polite about looking forward to seeing Buckingham’s wife again, they must come to dinner.
‘In between Council meetings and preparing for the wedding,’ said Buckingham.
‘Yes.’ Slate-blue eyes gazed into sea-blue ones. ‘So many people are in London for the business. The marriage of the King’s son is a great event.’ The King had secured the hand of Lady Anne Mowbray, heiress to the Dukes of Norfolk, for his second son Richard. The marriage was a great one, for the little girl – she was six; her bridegroom four – would inherit enormous wealth, and would bring the prince the Dukedom of Norfolk in addition to the York one he already held. ‘I hear that the Prince of Wales is coming up from Ludlow for the wedding.’
‘Yes, with his uncle Anthony and half-brother Richard Grey.’
‘All the Woodvilles, in fact.’
‘Precisely.’ Even in the private room of a London inn it was wise to be discreet. ‘My wife tells me that her family are much concerned for the – the safety of the realm. They fear the King may grow slack about guarding against such dangers. It is not long since we learned, painfully, how easily treason spreads. My wife’s family would have the King be severe with anyone who spreads slanders and stirs up treachery. They fear the King is too easily swayed by – by those with an older and in its way closer claim upon him.’
‘Perhaps they should reflect on the danger of creating new enemies.’
Buckingham slammed down his cup. ‘Is there,’ he said through his teeth, ‘anyone left to become a new enemy of the – ’
‘Harry,’ Richard’s tone warned him back to discretion. Buckingham sagged back on his bench. I refilled our cups.
Turning his between his fingers the duke said, ‘The people you saw today – the way they behaved – take the hint, Richard. They’re riding high, they think they can treat the royal blood as they like. The King is... undecided.’ His voice changed to reflect his smile. ‘Now, Hastings is a good chap, isn’t he? Of course you are old friends and comrades-in-arms; I needn’t tell you. And the Howards. And it’s always pleasant to see the Herberts at Court, young William’s a splendid chap too. Plenty of... of the old people about. Well! My wife will be looking for me, so if you’ll excuse me –?’
‘Of course. I trust she is well? Please give her my compliments and say I shall have Anne invite you soon.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. Perhaps we can do this again, it’s good to have a quiet drink with friends. Good day, Sir Martin.’
~~~
We arrived back at Baynard’s Castle to find that Richard’s sister Elizabeth, Duchess of Suffolk, had arrived. With her were her ineffectual husband and her eldest son John, Earl of Lincoln, a lively, pleasant lad of about twenty.
‘Richard!’ Elizabeth descended on him like a ship in full sail ramming a smaller vessel. She was one of the tall ones of her family, and bearing several children in the bucolic life of Suffolk had given her, at thirty-three, the sort of figure best described as Juno-esque. A handsome woman, fair and blue-eyed, unlike her namesake the Queen she used no face-paint and probably would have scoffed at the idea. She had no need of it, for her husband might have been dull but he plainly adored her.
‘Liz, my dear.’ Richard kissed her fondly. As a child he had hardly known her, but as adults they had become deeply fond of each other. I always liked her greatly; I would have liked her for my elder sister. ‘How lovely to see you. You are all well?’
‘I always am.’ Elizabeth gave me an absent but very sweet kiss. ‘Suffolk does not change.’ The Duke stood by, smiling, rocking on his heels, unchanging. ‘Jack, greet your uncle.’ Lincoln, who had b
een trying to do just that, jumped and looked furtive. Richard almost burst out laughing. They embraced, grinning in shared affection for the overpowering Duchess. ‘Now, Richard, what’s to do? This business of George, I mean. Poor Mother is very worried. As am I.’
‘We all are, Liz. I’ve just come from the King.’
‘I know, Mother said. And?’
‘Hmm. Difficult. On edge. Angry. Implacable.’
‘That’s bad,’ Elizabeth said at once. Her Suffolk accent blurred her words – thass baad. ‘Yes, that’s bad. Ned has a temper, and an unforgiving streak. Heaven knows George is the biggest fool in shoe-leather, but why must Ned wait until now to punish him?’
‘That’s what I asked.’ Richard sank into a chair, gratefully taking a cup of wine. Anne sat beside him, absently stroking his neck. ‘Not that I got any answer. I think the King has simply run out of patience with him. And who can blame him? After all, Liz – subversion of justice... There is no excuse for what George did in the Twynho business.’
‘But he has imprisoned George for treason!’
‘Stirring up rebellions – ’
‘Which came to nothing!’
‘Mother,’ Lincoln put in, ‘whether they come to anything isn’t the point. Uncle George actively rebelled against the King. He thoroughly deserves a spell in prison; anyone else would have had it long ago.’
‘I agree, and that was my point: why now?’
‘I think,’ Richard wearily repeated, ‘that Edward has simply run out of patience. High time George learnt his lesson.’
‘Well, yes,’ Elizabeth admitted, ‘but surely we, his family, have the right to know exactly what Ned intends? There must be a clear penalty – mustn’t there? The King must announce how long he means to keep George in prison?’
Richard didn’t answer. Suddenly losing her composure Elizabeth said, ‘But if – if Ned wouldn’t tell you... Dickon, I’ve heard he means to try George for high treason. Surely he cannot kill his own brother!’
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