We were at Lincoln, on the eleventh of October, when we heard that the rebellion had spread to Wales and the western counties. And it had a new leader.
The Duke of Buckingham.
~~~
Richard said nothing when he heard. I think that interview at Gloucester had – well, I don’t say prepared him for this, but it had stripped away much of his affection for his cousin. But Buckingham had made him look the most almighty fool, and Richard never forgave any betrayal of loyalty. From the moment he heard, it was as if Buckingham were a stranger, he referred to the man as impersonally as to any other traitor. The only sign of his feelings was when he wrote to the Lord Chancellor to send him the Great Seal. His secretary finished the letter and gave it to Richard. He inscribed his signature, then snatched the letter back and began to write a postscriptum. In the silence the scratching of his pen was as loud as a call to arms. He wrote on, filling the page and running up the side:
...Here, loved be God, is all well and truly determined, and for to resist the Malice of him that had best Cause to be true, the Duke of Buckingham, the most untrue Creature living; whom with God’s Grace we shall not be long till that we will subdue his Malice. We assure you there was never false traitor better purveyed for...
Buckingham who, yes, of all men had best cause to be true, glutted with honours and wealth, trusted, perhaps even loved, had betrayed his king and his friend. No forgiveness. Buckingham was not Clarence.
The proclamations naming the traitors had put prices on their heads: a thousand pounds for Buckingham, a thousand marks for Dorset and the other Woodvilles, five hundred marks for the lesser men. By the twenty-fourth Richard’s army assembled at Coventry, and we began the fast, hard slog south to intercept Buckingham.
They say Henry V had bad weather on his French campaign before Agincourt. Well, it was nothing compared to the weather that bitter autumn of 1483. They also say the weather always favours the House of York,a and in the end it did this time too. It rained, poured, sleeted, drizzled, spat and misted. Roads were flooded, fords impassable. Storms lashed the coastal towns. Winds the like of which I’ve never seen brought down trees, even whole houses; at times men dared not stand out in the open for fear of being blown away. Still, campaigning in bad weather was nothing new to us, so even if this was worse than usual we put on our leathers and oiled-wool cloaks, and endured.
And perhaps that filthy weather did favour York, because if it was bad for us, it was worse over in Wales. Worse for Buckingham, and he had no campaign experience at all. Nor had he loyal supporters. Almost before he was out of Brecon the Vaughan family were snapping at his flanks, blockading his way, attacking his men, destroying bridges ahead of him. Behind him the Stafford brothers (no close relation, I believe) cut off his lines of retreat. His men, reluctant recruits from the start, began to melt away. By the time he reached Weobley in Herefordshire he had only a handful of men left, including the egregious Doctor Morton, a wizard called Nandik, a London man and one knight. Twice, Edward IV had found himself in a similar position, but he had always been lucky. No luck for Buckingham. In the night Morton fled, the other men vanished, and Buckingham slunk in peasant’s disguise into Shropshire. He made the mistake of trusting an old servant of his, one Ralph Bannaster. Bannaster turned him in for the reward.
~~~
‘I’ll not see him,’ Richard said.
‘Of course not.’ We were at Salisbury, enjoying a rare night’s rest. Our clothes steamed as we huddled around the fire in Richard’s room.
Through chattering teeth Francis asked, too cold for any finesse, ‘Do you fear you might forgive him if you see him?’
‘Oh no. But – I do wonder why?’
‘Back in Gloucester you called him a king-maker like Warwick. He thought he had made you king; he thought that therefore he could unmake you. Not for Henry Tudor; for himself.’
A page brought mulled wine. Drinking it hot and thick with ginger and spices Richard said, ‘I imagine they were all at cross-purposes, knowingly or not. It was a right pig’s breakfast of a rebellion; the Woodvilles for Edward the Fifth, Buckingham for King Harry Stafford; the Beaufort lot for King Harry Tudor. And I suppose Morton and Margaret Beaufort were using them all. And defaming me by putting it about I had killed my nephews – ’
‘They can’t have it both ways,’ Rob objected. ‘They can’t say you’ve killed them yet ask people to rise to restore them to the throne.’
‘The Woodvilles wouldn’t have seen that, they never did have any wits. Or, once they’d got rid of me, oops, made a mistake, he didn’t do it after all, still, never mind, while the throne’s vacant... Defame me to whip up Woodville support, talk Buckingham into joining them – Buckingham thinks he’s using Henry Tudor while all the time the Beaufort lot are using him. Buckingham was very expendable.’ Coldly he added, ‘He always did remind me of George.’
We had more wine and, warmer, at last dared peel off a few layers of clothes. ‘I wondered,’ Francis hesitantly spoke my own thoughts, ‘if Buckingham planned something like this from the start. Clearly he had heard of Edward’s death through his wife’s Woodville connections. He must have known something about the Woodville plans. He might even have known about the Eleanor Butler pre-contract. At least he might have known there was something, some secret. He might have suspected all the time that Edward’s son would never be crowned. Which would mean a chance for Buckingham. He was too subtle to put himself forward at first – far more effective to let you do the dirty work, then he’d come along afterwards and reap the reward.’
‘Me as Buckingham’s John the Baptist? It sounds too subtle for him.’
‘But not for Doctor Morton.’
‘True.’ Sitting down, Richard began to tug his boots off, waving away our attempts to help. ‘I wondered if Buckingham was involved in that attempt on the Tower, that fire. How puzzled was he that those boys weren’t there? And why did he not come as fast as possible to tell me they weren’t there?’
‘Is that why you didn’t tell him you’d moved them?’ I too pulled my boots off, quite surprised to find my feet still there; I hadn’t felt them for the last six hours.
‘I didn’t suspect him, if that’s what you mean. The best-kept secret is the one everyone knows – but not in this case. No, it was simply a feeling that the fewer people who knew, the better. What I wonder is whether Buckingham was involved with the Lancastrians from the start – if that’s why he suggested I send Morton to Brecon, into his custody, back in June. Because it was his suggestion. And he was very anxious to get home from Gloucester.’
‘Ask him, when they bring him in.’
But Richard’s face closed over again. ‘No, I will not see him.’
I did, however. I didn’t recognise this shambling, filthy wreck. I remembered him blazing at Richard’s coronation in blue velvet embroidered all over with golden cart-wheels. I remembered him riding gloriously through London with his men in the badge of Stafford knots – and I remembered him once boasting that he would soon have as many men in that badge as ever Warwick had in his Bear and Ragged Staff.
In a sorry semblance of his old eloquence Buckingham begged to see the King, and could not believe the refusal. Did he think, even then, that he might win Richard round? He demanded, implored, screamed, grovelling on his knees with tears and snot smearing his face. I had had some idea of talking to him, trying to penetrate the plot he’d thought he was leading, but by the time I got to him he was raving. His mind cracked when he understood his failure, and it was a shrieking madman they took away to execution. They found a knife hidden in his sleeve; perhaps he had meant to kill Richard.
And the other conspirators? Morton escaped to Flanders, the Woodvilles to Brittany. Henry Tudor sailed bravely into Poole, where he was greeted by men in Buckingham’s livery shouting assurances that the rebellion had been a roaring success, come ashore and take your throne, Sire. Canny devil, Tudor sailed on to Plymouth, where he learnt the truth and promptly upped sai
ls and fled for home. A few minor rebels were taken and executed, including St Leger. Lady Margaret Beaufort was stripped of her lands and titles. We begged Richard to execute her, but he only put her into her husband’s custody. Stanley was being so diligently loyal that I think Richard had no mind to set him thinking of turning his coat again by mistreating his wife. Also York never took vengeance on women. Should have, in this case, but didn’t.
Richard rode on through the south and west, but there was no more resistance. By the end of November we were back in London. As rebellions go, it had been – almost literally – a washout. No town had been taken by the rebels, or had gone over. No nobleman had deserted Richard. No area but the southeast and far west had risen.
Richard’s reign was secure.
Seventeen
1484
Watching Anne as she read through the documents, I wondered if Edward IV ever discussed the Acts of his Parliaments with his wife. Probably not. I think even William Catesby, whom the Commons had chosen as their Speaker, and who by now knew Richard well, was shocked to see him refer such business to the Queen. But no son of the Duchess of York could ever think women incapable of understanding affairs of state, and from the moment they married Anne had been in Richard’s confidence.
This Parliament, sitting January to February 1484, had been largely concerned with mopping up the business of the late rebellion – passing bills of attainder on the chief rebels, protecting the rights of their wives, that kind of thing. But the first Bill passed had been the Titulus Regius, which settled Richard’s right to the Crown and made his son officially his heir. There were the usual private Bills to do with land claims, and one annulling the old attainders against the Percys. Many Bills concerned trade, import and export: protecting English-made goods against foreign competition and ensuring that foreign merchants spent their profits in England, on English goods, rather than shipping them off home. Only books were exempt from restrictions, for Richard wanted no hindrance to the spread of learning.
But the main business of that Parliament was matter dear to Richard’s heart. He was determined to look after his subjects, the common people who had such little redress under law. He outlawed ‘benevolences’ so that the monarch would never again be able to demand money from the people. He overhauled the messy system of land titles, making it illegal for land vendors to conceal previous sales or transfers. There was a statute reforming the Piepowder Courts, which although originally permitted only to hear cases arising at fairs, had sneakily extended that traditional jurisdiction. Another Bill, perhaps prompted by memories of Clarence, reformed the method of jury selection so that powerful men could no longer subvert justice by stacking juries with their own supporters. Perhaps the most important statute of that parliament was the one granting the right of bail in felony cases, and prohibiting the seizure of accused men’s possessions before conviction.
‘There will be many lords who won’t like all this,’ Anne commented.
‘Bad luck.’ Richard had that mulish look. ‘Times are changing. The old systems are wearing out. No one who treats his tenants or neighbours justly has anything to fear from this legislation. But I’ll have no more stacked juries, and no more people acquitted by courts only to find everything they own has been snatched by their accusers.’
‘Oh, I agree with you; I’m just pointing out that a lot of men will see this as eroding their powers.’
‘High time too. And,’ he said proudly, ‘I am having all my statutes printed in English. From now on every Parliament will. I want everyone to be able to read the laws that govern their lives. And I am going to institute a Court of Common Pleas that any person, however humble, can take any injustice to. I saw when I was on progress last year how many people thought they had no redress until they were able to see me. Justice for the common man, not just the rich. It is one of the reasons I took the Crown. If it makes me unpopular with some of the nobles, at least I will have the support of the ordinary people.’
‘You’ll certainly be remembered as a king who made good laws.’ Anne smiled over at Catesby. ‘The Commons think it’s wonderful, they’re more or less dancing in the streets.’
Catesby grinned at the picture this called up, but he agreed. ‘But Sire, I wondered if we could discuss Dame Grey?’
Richard sighed. ‘Is there anything to discuss?’
‘Well yes, Your Grace, I think there is. Last time your men went to see her there were definite signs that she’s weakening. There was a little set-back when she realised Parliament had passed that Act taking away her property and annulling her letters patent – ’
‘What did she expect!’
‘Well, yes. But of course she didn’t like it. But Norfolk has been again to see her, just yesterday, and he says she is willing to negotiate.’
‘And just what,’ Richard said sarcastically, ‘does my dear sister-in-law think she has to negotiate? She can rot in Sanctuary the rest of her life for all I care. She has conspired against me, most of her family are lurking in Europe plotting heaven knows what, and she promised her daughter Bess to Henry Tudor in the rebellion last year. I’ve made it plain time and again that I’ll take no action against her, I will provide for her and her daughters – what, pray, does she wish to ‘negotiate’?’
‘I’m sure she knows,’ Anne said, ‘that it’s embarrassing for you, her staying in there as if she’s afraid of you. And we both want at least the girls to come out.’
‘Yes, well... What did she tell Jock Norfolk?’
‘It was more Lady Bess,’ Catesby said. ‘Though I think it was a message from her mother. The girls have had enough – more than enough, poor lasses – and they’ve told their mother straight. And if I may say so, Your Grace, Dame Grey genuinely believed you had her sons put to death.’ He held up a hand as Richard began to speak. ‘I know, I know – the woman’s a fool. But she was cleverly worked on, Lady Margaret Beaufort in particular had her so she didn’t know if she was Arthur or Martha. The recent letters from her sons have made her see how stupid she’s been.’
I knew about those letters. Sending Christmas gifts and new clothes for the Lords Bastard, Richard had asked Lincoln to get the boys to write to their mother, including the sort of private family references that would prove the letters were genuine. I could imagine the effect upon a mother who had believed, however foolishly, that her children were dead. Perhaps Richard’s patient care in providing for the widows of Buckingham and Hastings had also had its effect.
‘If you were to make some sort of official arrangement,’ Catesby said hopefully, ‘perhaps some public statement or written agreement of terms for Dame Grey and her daughters?’
Richard considered a moment. ‘Oh, very well. Draft something up for me. Say they shall be in surety of their lives, no manner of harm at my hands, marriages and dowries for the girls, provision for Elizabeth herself – say, seven hundred marks a year, and she can live wherever she wants. And say that if there’s any report of trouble, or any accusation against them, I’ll give it no credence unless it is proved in court. But make sure she knows I’m not grovelling to her, she’s the one in the wrong. Silly woman. Tell her to take it or leave it.’
~~~
She took it. On the first day of March Richard swore an oath, much as he had put it to Catesby, before all the lords and the Mayor and Aldermen of London. Two days later Elizabeth Woodville came out of Sanctuary and submitted herself and her daughters to Richard’s care.
It was just over a year since I had seen Elizabeth. On that occasion, bidding us a cool farewell after we had been honoured for our part in the Scottish war, she had been glorious in cloth of silver, diamonds and sapphires. Now merely Dame Grey, she wore brown velvet with fur at the hem and wrists, and a small piece of jewellery – the sort of thing that, say, a prosperous merchant’s wife might wear. The gown was cut in the new style, square-necked and with the waist where nature intended, and no train. Her headdress, also in the new fashion, framed a face innocent of the
heavy paint she used to wear; unexpectedly, this made her look younger. She was nearly fifty and probably at the difficult time of life, for she had gained weight. Still handsome, she was an old woman now, and you would pass her in the street with hardly a second look.
Behind her came her daughters, lined up in order of age: Bess, turned eighteen, a hazel-eyed blonde with her father’s height and a heavier version of her mother’s face; Cecily, fifteen in a few days’ time, with the darker York colouring. (Mary, the baby I had cuddled when I first came to Westminster, had died two years before of one of those sudden fevers.) Then came Margaret, almost twelve, pale and pretty; Anne, eight, another darker one; Katherine, at five very like Bess; and Bridget, the smallest; not yet four, all curls and big eyes. The girls were neatly dressed, but their gowns had a made-over look (or so my wife later told me).
Walking timidly with the girls was Elizabeth’s sister, Catherine, Dowager Duchess of Buckingham. I think Richard had felt some reservations when last December she asked permission to join her sister in Sanctuary, but he had allowed it; he always was generous with wives of traitors. I hardly knew Catherine Stafford, for Buckingham had so furiously resented being forced to marry her that the moment he came of age he whisked her off into the wilds of Wales and kept her there, far from the Court and her family. She was a pretty woman, as pale of skin and hair as her sister. The black of mourning didn’t suit her. I wondered how old she was.
Elizabeth kept her eyes levelly on Richard as she came in. She curtsied and kissed his hand, waiting to see how he would address her. He said, ‘Elizabeth, dear sister,’ pleasantly, and her eyes widened in relief – for legally she was not his sister-in-law. Gracefully she motioned the girls forward. As they curtsied like a row of dolls, I caught Bess’s eye and grinned; she smiled back, hiding it with a duck of her head. Katherine tripped making her bow, giggled, said, ‘Uncle Richard!’ and flung her arms around him. ‘Oh. I forgot. You’re King now.’
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