Treason

by Meredith Whitford

  There was more, of course – thanks for conveying his letter to his mother, and a good deal about Harry Buckingham, but the above is all that matters. It was very late when I received the letter, but I hurried around to Hastings’ house. He was at Westminster, a servant told me, so off I went.

  ‘You’ve heard from Richard too?’ he greeted me. ‘Yes, I had his letter, and so has the Council. Martin, what a relief! We’re safe now.’ Relaxed and less tired – less of Mistress Jane, I imagined – he was the Lord Hastings I remembered: lively, assured, confident. ‘We have done the thing, Martin! The King’s safe and so is his government. And good for Richard, not that I ever doubted he would do it properly – why, if you had cut your finger there’d be more blood shed than over this business! Though – do you hear that din?’

  Of course I did. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s our innocent, well-intentioned Dowager Queen and pretty-boy Dorset scurrying into Sanctuary.’

  ‘Sanctuary! Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Guilt. And they know they’ve lost. Played – and played dirtily – and lost. The minute they heard Richard had secured the King they were off. The Queen is taking all her goods and chattels with her, they’ve had to break down a wall to get it all in.’

  We looked out at the scene: scurrying men bent double under loads of goods; a bed being carted holus-bolus; servants with chests and carpets, bolts of cloth, furniture, boxes – all in the flare of torches. I saw the Queen once, her face twisted with fear or fury, shouting with no regard for dignity to hurry the servants on. Dorset even had his doublet off, working in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘They’re stripping the Palace bare! Can’t you stop them?’

  ‘How?’ Hastings said simply. ‘Not without a standing fight between my men and theirs. I did go and see the Queen, I tried to talk sense to her but she gibbered at me and fled.’

  ‘What about Prince Richard and the girls?’

  ‘Being bundled in with Mum. Martin, I know it’s not right but what can I do? Everyone has the right to take Sanctuary without hindrance. They’ll come out again when they realise they’ve made fools of themselves.’

  I could only agree – but the Woodvilles made fools of us in one way. Dorset somehow got access to the Tower treasury, and stole the Royal treasure. Worth, you may note, hundreds of thousands of pounds. And he gave a third of it to his uncle Sir Edward Woodville, who promptly took the fleet out to sea with it. The rest the Queen and Dorset divided between them. Most of it was never seen again.

  ~~~

  Early the following day John and I set out to meet Richard. It was May Day. The Maypoles were up and girls were coming in from the woods and fields with armfuls of May flowers. In St Albans we watched the Morris Men, hailed Robin Hood and Maid Marian, then rode on to the King’s inn. John slid off to watch the merry-making, and I looked for Richard.

  The first person I met was Buckingham. To my pleasure he remembered me and greeted me kindly. He was full of high spirits. Richard looked tired, I thought – well, no wonder – and he was content to sit with a cup of ale and let Buckingham talk. Born to talk, was Harry Stafford, or perhaps he had picked it up from living among the Welsh; his lands lay in Wales and he had lived at Brecknock much of his adult life. But he was entertaining and witty, and he obviously thought the sun shone out of Richard.

  I told them about the Queen scuttling into Sanctuary. Richard swore, but admitted there had been nothing anyone could do to stop it. ‘Is all the Tower treasure gone?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Will they stop at nothing! Because I don’t suppose they’ll meekly hand it back to the King when he arrives.’

  ‘Hardly. Richard, where is the King? I should greet him.’

  Richard’s face closed over. ‘I believe he is resting.’

  ‘Sulking,’ Buckingham translated, ‘for he loathes us, doesn’t he, Dickon? Sulks and spite and sullen silence are all we get from him.’

  Smiling gently at Buckingham Richard said, ‘It’s to be expected. He loves his Uncle Anthony, and he has met me, what, twice in his life. I arrive out of nowhere, throw my weight around, and hustle his uncle and half-brother into prison. He doesn’t know who to trust any more.’

  ‘Yes but Dickon, he could be civil!’

  Now, Richard didn’t like being called Dickon. He tolerated the old family nickname from his sisters, but it always reminded him of being three years old. None of his close friends used it, yet here was Buckingham Dickoning away like, well, the dickens. Still, Buckingham was his cousin, which perhaps made a difference. As we talked on, they describing the action in Northampton and Stony Stratford, I elaborating on my visit to the Duchess and what I had seen in London, I realised Buckingham was more and more reminding me of someone. When he made a rude but very funny joke about Rivers, and Richard laughed aloud, I had it: George! Oh, there was no great physical resemblance, or no more than you’d expect between cousins – in profile he and Richard were alike, and they shared a certain bearing and even some mannerisms. No, he was like George in the indefinable things: the glancing humour that often had a sting to it, the eagerness, the confidence – and, to be fair, in his obvious affection for Richard. For I think I have made it plain that despite everything there was great affection between George and Richard. Losing his last brother so suddenly, Richard must have felt, even yearned for, the similarity and the easy family liking.

  But I found that a little of Buckingham went a long way, and so, to judge from their expressions, did Rob and Francis. The horrid thought occurred to me: were we actually jealous? We had known Richard so long, yet in comes this new friend... I took my drink over to the window and looked idly down into the garden. Butts had been set up and two boys were shooting.

  ‘Richard,’ I said over my shoulder, ‘what does the King look like?’

  ‘Tall, very fair, thin – ’

  ‘Like two yards of pump water,’ laughed Buckingham, and Richard couldn’t quite suppress his own laugh.

  ‘Then it’s he John is shooting with in the garden.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Having the time of their lives, it seems.’

  Everyone rushed to look. Happy as you like, evidently on the best of terms, the two boys were engaged in some impromptu contest. The King’s shot went wide, and John shouted as he might to any of the Middleham boys, ‘Ha ha, missed! My turn!’

  ‘You think you’re so clever...’

  ‘And that’s my orange you’re eating. Watch this!’

  But John also missed. The King jeered companionably and they clapped each other on the back as they retrieved their arrows.

  Richard came away from the window. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it! The boy’s human.’

  ‘Richard, he is a boy. He’s twelve. Everything has suddenly changed, he must feel lost and helpless – and he’s only a child.’

  ‘I know,’ Richard sighed. ‘But I keep thinking, if it were one of my boys... I’ve tried being friendly, remote, crisp, submissive, paternal, gentle, authoritative, avuncular, humble – nothing works. He sees me as an enemy.’

  ‘That’s inevitable.’

  ‘I know, and it’s foolish of me but it hurts. I wanted to love Edward’s son. And he knows nothing of his father’s family. I bet he knows every detail of Alexander or Julius Caesar but nothing of Mortimer’s Cross or Barnet.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s probably inevitable too, for his mother’s family made no great contribution. Give it time, Richard. Perhaps John will do the trick – for I bet the King is the most learned boy in England but he’s never been a boy, a child, never played with friends in an ordinary way and Innogen said that if one more consignment arrives – ’ Just in time I had heard the two boys coming in, and we rose for the King. ‘Oh hello, John, dear. Your Grace, God’s greeting.’

  The two boys were flushed and sweaty from their games. The King lost his smile and stiffened up at the sight of us, although he acknowledged our bows. ‘Edward, I mean Your Grace,’ Joh
n prattled, ‘this is my stepfather, Lord Robsart, and he’s a really good shot. Papa, the King needs a longer bow.’

  ‘To draw at a venture? Well, there’s no difficulty. Shooting, were you? A contest? Who won?’

  ‘I did,’ both boys said. Everyone laughed, and suddenly things were easier.

  ‘The best thing,’ Richard said, ‘is to get your armourer to make a bow to fit you. We shall see to it in London; meanwhile you could borrow Lord Robsart’s, he’s about your height. You take after your father, and even as a boy he had to have all his weapons specially made for him.’

  ‘I keep just missing the gold,’ the King confided. His voice was still a child’s, high, rather soft and husky. I guessed that this was the first personal remark he had made to Richard; certainly the first admission of a fault or difficulty.

  Richard nodded seriously. ‘If your bow’s too small, that will do it. Or if you aim too directly, not allowing for wind or the way the arrow drops in flight.’

  ‘Papa, could we use yours?’ John asked.

  ‘Of course. Though you may need to adjust the pull.’

  And soon we were all out in the garden happily competing as we had so often done at Middleham. When at last we went inside the easier feeling continued, and John’s eager chatter led to talk of battles. The King was genuinely interested, and we refought Barnet and Tewkesbury on the tablecloth, with knives and bits of bread standing for the different positions. The King’s eyes shone whenever we talked of his father. Clearly Edward had been, although a remote figure to him, a heroic one, and he couldn’t hear enough about him. That a hero, a king, can do inglorious or ordinary things was a surprise to him; he laughed until he cried at the story of our escape to Burgundy in 1470, with Edward having to sell his cloak to the ship-masters, and he listened enthralled when Richard steered the conversation to Ludlow and his first meeting with his big brothers.

  ‘That reminds me, Father,’ John broke in. ‘Edward, I mean the King, wanted to ask you something, there’s a tutor he had at Ludlow and he wonders if he could have a rectorship he wants?’

  Disentangling the pronouns Richard said, ‘A rectorship for your tutor? Highness, of course.’ Risking a smile he added, ‘You have only to say, you know. You are the King. What is the man’s name?’

  ‘John Geffrey. He was chaplain at Ludlow.’

  ‘We’ll see to it in the morning, I’ll show you how such instruments are drawn up. Does Master Geffrey want any particular place?’

  ‘He said, Pembrigge.’

  ‘Then you write to the Bishop of Hereford.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  ‘As simple as that. Of course there’s a customary form of words for these things, and it’s as well if you know that kind of minutiae, but it’s straightforward. I remember your father told me once that when he and Edmund were boys at Ludlow they loathed their tutor, they wrote to our father complaining bitterly.’

  The King laughed, yawning. It was after nine o’clock, and he had been kept to such a strict regime at Ludlow that to him nine was the middle of the night. Saying goodnight – and of course he had perfect manners – he called Richard ‘uncle’ for the first time, and asked if John could share his room.

  ‘Of course, Sire.’ As he would to any of John’s friends Richard added with mock severity, ‘But no talking all night, mind!’

  ‘We know.’ John rolled his eyes. The King looked shocked (and rather interested) at the impertinence, and although Richard raised an eyebrow he couldn’t repress a smile. ‘Sorry, Father. Goodnight. Goodnight Papa, Your Grace, gentlemen.’ John flung his arms around Richard then me for his usual goodnight kiss.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Richard kissed him, then with a hesitation only his friends would notice, he gave the King a kiss. ‘Goodnight, Edward, my dear boy. Sleep well.’ The King liked it, he flushed with pleasure. I’m sure Anthony Rivers loved his nephew and took great care of him, but I wondered if he had ever given the boy a hug or kissed him goodnight. His father would have.

  The next morning Richard made sure they wrote out the order for Whatsisname’s rectorship. I think the King had believed he would forget, or had only been indulging him with a promise he never meant to keep. Dipping his pen in the ink the King said, ‘You have very neat writing, Uncle.’

  ‘Years of doing this sort of thing.’ The King was still holding his pen uncertainly in the air. Understanding, Richard said, ‘First time? Practice first,’ and slid over a spare sheet of paper. Gratefully the King tried out his signature: Edwardus Quintus. The writing was a child’s: large, unpractised. Looking at him, Richard inked his own pen and wrote his signature on the paper, adding below it his motto: Loyaulté Me Lié. ‘Loyalty binds me,’ he said gently. Their eyes met. The King smiled.

  Buckingham had been watching intently. ‘Me too,’ he said, and seized the pen from Richard’s hand to scrawl his own signature and motto: Souvente me souvene. ‘Remember me often’. The King gave him rather a cool smile, then signed the rectorship order.

  We left for London the next day. A London reception was something new to the King, and at first he seemed aloof, looking around unsmiling. Then suddenly he relaxed and waved at the crowds, grinning about at the aldermen in their ceremonial violet gowns and the burgesses in their scarlet; all the ordinary people in their best clothes to see the new King. A woman ran alongside his horse to push a bunch of flowers into his hand, and with an air he tossed one of the blooms back to her and blew a kiss after it. It was his city, his people, and he enjoyed it.

  At the back of our retinue were the wagons full of arms and harness seized from the Woodville men-at-arms. The badges on them were enough, coupled with the news that had already gone around, to make the point about Woodville intentions.

  ~~~

  Richard’s first action was to take and administer to the people of London a public oath of fealty to the new King, as he had done at York on his way south. Then it was down to business. A child when Edward the Fourth took the throne, I had had no idea just how much business there was at such a time. The coronation was set for the twenty-fourth day of June, and writs were issued for the new Parliament. Of course the most important thing was to confirm Richard’s Protectorship and determine his powers. Once the King was crowned this was a matter for Parliament, but for the time being the Council of Lords could give him sufficient power to act in the King’s name.

  One of the first things was to deal with the Woodvilles. The Marquis of Dorset had managed to escape from Sanctuary, and his uncle Edward Woodville had the fleet at sea. That made Richard’s mind up, and he pressed for treason charges against Rivers and Grey and old Vaughan. However, it was a grey area, for Richard had not been formally proclaimed Protector at Northampton, and their actions, although highly suspicious, were not provable as treason in law. Richard withdrew his proposal, but it was agreed to let the conspirators stew in their own juice in prison for the time being.

  As for Dorset and Sir Edward, it was simple. They were proclaimed traitors, and pardons offered to any man who deserted them. Promptly, many did. And now Lord Howard came into his own, for there never was a better man of the sea than Jock Howard – in my view, there never was a better man. Had Edward IV not secured the Mowbray dukedom for his son Richard by marrying him to Anne Mowbray, Jock Howard would have become Duke of Norfolk when the little girl died. Many men would have devoted their lives to getting that dukedom back; Howard had more sense. He said he had enough money for his needs, and better things to do – as indeed he had, for ever since he had joined the young Edward back in 1461 with his sword in one hand and a bag of gold in the other, he had been the mainstay of the English crown. Remember how, recently, he had sailed coolly into the Firth of Forth and made the Scots look silly? A typical Howard action in its daring and its cool competence. So now, having sized up the new reign, he put himself at the Protector’s disposal. Winkle out the traitors and get our ships back? Nothing to it. He suggested a couple of good men, old shipmates: a fellow called Fulford
and Edward IV’s great friend Sir Edward Brampton, a converted Jew, and sent them after the Woodvilles. Dorset and his uncle got away, however, to Brittany, the holds of their ships clanking with the King’s treasure.

  Howard was very friendly with Hastings, having been his deputy at Calais. They were much of an age, I think, and bound by having served the late King and been his friends ever since he first came to the throne. These were the sort of good, solid, experienced men the new King would need around him – and, for the present, it eased things that both knew Richard so well and had fought with him. There were other good men a-plenty: Suffolk and his son John of Lincoln, Howard’s son Thomas, the Earl of Northumberland, Lord Stanley, Bishop Stillington, Bishop Langton, Hastings’ protégé the lawyer William Catesby. Bishop Russell was appointed Lord Chancellor; Doctor Gunthorpe, Dean of Wells, was made Keeper of the Privy Seal; John Wode, who had been Speaker of the Commons, became Treasurer. They were all sound fellows who had worked for Edward the Fourth and knew the ins and outs of government to its last detail.