A Dangerous Inheritance (14 page)

Kate drew back behind the shelter of the wall, shuddering. It was horrifyingly clear what was to happen next, and she shrank from witnessing it. Behind her, Mattie was sobbing silently, hugging herself in distress, and Kate put her arms around her, as much to comfort herself as Mattie, wondering how people could treat an execution as a public spectacle, a holiday even, as it seemed they did in this alien city—and no doubt elsewhere.

There was a sickening thud, then a short silence, broken by Buckingham’s hoarse shout: “Behold the head of a traitor!” This was greeted by desultory cheers, and sounds that the gathering was breaking up.

“They might come this way and see us!” Mattie whispered, quivering. Kate feared she might be right, and guessed that those wicked men would not have wanted witnesses to their dreadful deed. There had been something furtive and underhanded about it. What had the priest said? That poor Lord Hastings had been allowed no time to make a proper confession. The cleric had been indignant, and rightly so.

But how had this happened—and why? These questions struck her
as she grabbed Mattie’s hand and hurried back with her through the winding passage. There was no one about but the sentries on the gate. The two girls fled past them, ignoring their cheery farewells.

“Don’t bother to say good-bye!” one sentry called after them.

Why?
Kate kept asking herself as she half ran through the streets of London, and then again as she hastened up the stone stairs to the door of Crosby Hall, where she dismissed Mattie and went alone to her chamber.
Why?
It was a question she could not, would not, pose to her faithful maid, because it concerned her father.

No one else had such compelling cause to wish Hastings dead. Hastings had disloyally suspected her father of scheming to seize the throne from the lawful King. He had treacherously plotted against Gloucester, even allying with his enemies the Wydevilles. Her father believed they had been compassing his death. And he had gone this day to that council meeting at the Tower.

She sat down in the window embrasure. The stones behind her back were painted with bright trefoils and borders, and the glass panes between the mullions were stained in jewel colors, blue, yellow, red … rich red, the color of blood. She could not help thinking of Lord Hastings kneeling in terror on Tower Green, and of what she had shrunk from seeing. There would have been blood … rivers of it.

She was twisting her russet curls tightly around her finger, unaware that she was doing it. She was imagining her father—her beloved, kindly father—sending Lord Hastings to his death. For who else could have done it? Her father was the Lord Protector; it would not have happened without his sanction or order. And the Duke of Buckingham, who had been in charge of the beheading, was his staunchest ally.

It was all beyond her comprehension and her competence. She could not deal with it herself. She hoped that all would become clear when the duke returned home.

There was shouting outside in the street. Agitated male voices were crying, “Treason! Treason!”

“Oh, dear Holy Mother!” Kate whispered, as it dawned on her suddenly why Hastings might have been executed. “No! Not my father!”

She flew out of her chamber, and in the great hall collided with the Duchess Anne, pale and flustered, making her way to the outside stairs. Kate’s frightened eyes met hers—but, of course, the duchess knew nothing of the fate of Hastings, or the terrible possibility that the duke had been assassinated, so her concern was nowhere near as acute as her stepdaughter’s. They hastened, with John of Gloucester and members of their household following, down the stairs to the courtyard and out into Bishopsgate, where they saw an angry, heaving mob of retainers sporting the duke’s white boar badge fighting their way through the crowd. Others were taking up the cry of “Treason!” while some reached for daggers and swords, and there was an air of panic throughout.

The Duchess Anne was a gentle soul, but fear made her bold. Without hesitation, she headed into the throng and grabbed the arm of one of the liveried retainers.

“A word, please!” she cried in his ear. He was about to race on, but realized that it was his liege lord’s wife who had accosted him, and paused, with obvious reluctance.

“What is the meaning of this? Why are you shouting ‘Treason’?” Anne demanded. She spoke with an authority worthy of the Kingmaker’s daughter, and people stopped to heed her. Her father had been popular with the Londoners in his day, and they were ready to listen to his daughter.

The retainer, realizing that many expectant faces were turned in his direction, and that a hush was descending, cleared his throat.

“My lady, good citizens, you should know that an ambush had been prepared for my Lord Protector when he went to the Tower today. His enemies, led by Lord Hastings, had plotted his destruction.” Kate went cold at that; bracing herself to hear the worst, she saw Anne blanch and sway a little, but she also heard a swell of angry murmurs in the crowd, and voices raised in denial. The duke’s man ignored it. “The traitor Hastings,” he shouted above the increasing roar of protest, “had plotted with several lords of the council, and with the Queen and Mistress Shore, against the Lord Protector’s lawful authority—and his very life!” He paused for dramatic effect. “But mercifully His Grace discovered this treason in time, and knew that his adversaries had hidden
their arms in the council chamber, ready to attack him. Thus forewarned, he summoned his guards, and Hastings and the rest were taken, resisting violently. Hastings has now suffered the full penalty that the law demands, and my lord duke, God be thanked, is preserved from the malice of his enemies.”

Anne looked shocked, and the mood of the mob turned angry. Some were weeping openly for Hastings and crying out against his death. Behind Kate, a man remarked to his neighbor that Hastings had been the only hope of King Edward’s children, while another growled, “Well, if anyone wants proof that Gloucester has his sights on the throne, this is it.” Kate glared at him.

Mattie was at her elbow. “The people loved Lord Hastings,” she explained. “It is hard for them to believe him guilty of such wickedness.”

Kate rounded on her. “You think my father is making it up?” she challenged. “He was in danger of his life!”

“Oh, no, my lady, a thousand apologies! I meant nothing like that. I was merely trying to explain why the citizens are so perplexed. I am sure the duke would not have condemned him without proof of his treason.”

“Of course he would not,” Kate snapped, edging her way toward the duchess, who was making her way back into Crosby Place. They left behind them a restive crowd, and they had not been indoors long when they heard more shouts. It was the duke returning home, and plainly his reception was hostile.

Anne and Kate stood at the top of the stairs with the chamberlain to welcome him, and watched his slight figure dismount from his horse and ascend the stairs. He looked energized, triumphant almost—and better than he had for a long while.

“My lord.” Anne sank into a curtsey, as Kate dipped behind her. The duke raised them both and kissed them. “Come, we shall dine!” he said. “We have much to celebrate. God be praised, the traitors are routed.”

“So we have heard, my lord,” Anne said, her voice a touch strained. “There have been crowds in the street here, bruiting it about. I mislike their mood.”

“They have been fed persuasive lies,” the duke said, leading his
womenfolk into the hall. He called for wine and the best feast that could be mustered, and within minutes they were seated at the high table on the dais, drinking a fervent toast to his deliverance from his enemies. Kate could not believe that her father was here in their midst, alive and well, when only an hour before she had feared him dead. Involuntarily, she plucked the velvet of his sleeve, just to make sure he was real. He smiled at her.

“Truly, Kate, we have much for which to thank God,” he said.

He was expansive about the events that had taken place that morning in the Tower. “I asked the traitor Hastings what men deserved for plotting the destruction of one who is so near to the King in blood, and the Protector of his royal person and realm.” And he said—he actually said—“that if they had done thus heinously, they were worthy of heinous punishment. ‘If?’ I asked him. ‘Do not serve me with ifs!’ I told him they had done it, and that I would make good upon his body.”

John was agog. The duchess sat still and remote, her face inscrutable.

“It was then that I accused him of plotting with the other traitors on the council against my office and my life,” the duke continued. “And I told them I knew they were in league with the Queen and that strumpet Mistress Shore. The traitors did not deny it! I challenged them, saying they had laid an ambush for me, and then Buckingham brought the guards. As you have heard, the culprits were apprehended and taken into custody in the Tower. To them, I mean to be merciful. But Hastings was the architect of this treason. Him I could not spare. He had to be made an example to others.” His thin lips were set; the prominent jaw jutted defiantly.

There was a brief silence.

“What of the Queen and Mistress Shore?” Anne asked.

“The Queen remains in sanctuary; we know now why she will not come out. I will deal with Mistress Shore presently.”

An usher entered the hall and announced the arrival of the Lord Mayor.

“Good,” said Gloucester. “I summoned him here with all haste.”

Perspiring in his furred red robes and chain of office, the mayor swept into the hall, bowing several times at the august company.

The duke rose and extended his hand across the table to be kissed.

“Madam,” he addressed his wife, “may I present Sir Edmund Shaa. Sir Edmund, the Lady Anne, my duchess. And my children, the Lord John of Gloucester and the Lady Katherine Plantagenet.”

The Lord Mayor bowed gallantly.

“A plate for my Lord Mayor!” the duke called, inviting his guest to the board. Much honored, Sir Edmund bustled into the proffered seat.

“You will have heard how the traitor Hastings had planned to murder myself and my lord of Buckingham at this morning’s council meeting,” the duke said, “and that I acted just in time to save our lives. After we have dined, my Lord Mayor, I want you to ride through the City, if you will, telling the people of this foul plot against me.” And he recounted again the grim events of the day, with Sir Edmund munching away and frowning ever more concernedly as the tale unfolded. Gladly he went on his way after dinner, to acquaint the citizens with the truth of the matter. And to back him up, the duke sent his own herald to calm the mood of the populace by proclaiming Hastings’s execution, reading out a long account of his treason, and bidding the people be assured.

That evening, Kate noticed that Anne was quiet during the private supper they shared with the duke in the great chamber. And he noted it too.

“This day has been a great strain on you,” he said to his wife, covering her hand with his. “No matter; the immediate danger has been averted.”

Anne looked up at him. Her expression was somber, questioning.

“Three things puzzle me, my lord, and I pray you to put my mind at rest, for it will not be stilled,” she said, swallowing.

The duke frowned. “What troubles you, Anne?”

The duchess laid down her fork. She had barely touched her food.

“You have not said how you learned of Hastings’s treason,” she began.

“I have my spies,” he stated. “I have been aware for some time that he was working against me. Evidence was brought to me—evidence I
could not ignore.” His tone was defensive; Kate could see he did not like being called to account by his wife for his actions. And she did not blame him. Anne had been cool toward him all day. The relief she had obviously felt to begin with at his lucky escape had not been much in evidence later on. It was as if she was angry with him. Kate could not understand it.

The duchess spoke again, as if with an effort. “You accused Hastings of treason. But against whom?”

“You have been paying too much heed to my mother.” Richard was clearly upset. “I am the Lord Protector, Anne. I am appointed to rule during my nephew’s minority, by the council and by the will of my late brother. Any crime against me is a crime against the King and all the realm—and that is treason.”

“Then my lady your mother had it wrong when she said that the law of treason does not extend to the Lord Protector?”

“Yes!” Richard was really riled now; his face wore a belligerent, injured look. “What is this, Anne? An interrogation? Who has committed a crime? Not I. It was my life that was in danger. I do not deserve this. Ask yourself what would have happened to the kingdom if those traitors had succeeded. It would have descended into faction fighting and civil war, as it did when my father justly contested the crown all those years ago. I am the only man who can hold it together and contain the troublemakers. Are you satisfied now?”

Anne nodded uncertainly. “I have only one more question,” she persisted. “When I was out in the street today, I heard people saying that Hastings was executed suddenly, without judgment. One man told me he was put to death within minutes of his arrest. My lord, forgive my ignorance, but I thought that even the poorest subject of the King was entitled to justice and a fair trial?”

Kate shrank from her father’s expression. It was thunderous.

“Yes, madam, you are ignorant,” he said scathingly. “Poor men are put on trial. Great lords can be tried by their peers or attainted by Parliament. And Acts of Attainder can be passed retrospectively. It seems to me, my lady, that you think me the villain of this piece, not Hastings. You seem to be insinuating that I executed a man without trial, on unsound grounds, and with no good evidence. Well,” he concluded,
rising to his feet, “I am touched by your faith in me. I know not what I have done to deserve this. It is bad enough to be deserted by a man I thought my friend—but to be thought ill of by my wife, who should be supporting me, is intolerable!”

He stalked from the table toward the stairs.