Sacrifice (20 page)

   For his sake, and the sake of propriety, Elizabeth consented. She avoided the garish headdresses, as worn by noblewomen at the French court, and restricted herself to a long white smock and a kirtle, a one-piece garment with lacings up the sides.

   Even in this relatively loose attire, Elizabeth felt scratchy and uncomfortable. As a sop to her past, and the very real dangers of the present, she kept her knife. Lacking a belt, she strapped it to the upper part of her left arm, hidden under the sleeve.

   If she struggled to look like a lady, Elizabeth had no less difficulty behaving like one. A true lady of the court acted with decorum at all times. She would not, for instance, have used her charms on a hapless French guardsman to sneak into a private meeting, to which only Henry of Richmond and a few of his closest allies were invited to.

   The meeting was held inside an airy, vaulted chamber on an upper floor of the donjon tower of Rouen Castle. Richmond sat on a high-backed chair, while his uncle Pembroke stood to his left. The Earl of Oxford, Sir Edward Woodville, Richard Fox and Edward Poynings sat on lower benches.

   Elizabeth kept to the shadows by the stair and listened to their talk.

   “Will he come back to us?” Richmond demanded. Elizabeth thought he looked even paler than usual.

   “Cheney assures us he will, Majesty,” replied Fox, “they will stay a little longer at Compiégne, and then return to Paris together.”

   “We sincerely hope so,” said Richmond, “we thought Dorset was staunch. Curse Richard. How in God’s name did he manage to make a friend of the Queen?”

   Elizabeth suspected they were discussing Thomas Grey, the Marquess of Dorset. Dorset had recently caused a stir by abandoning Richmond’s court in Paris and fleeing north for the coast.

   It was thought his mother, Queen Elizabeth, had enticed him to desert the pretender and return to England. In spite of the disappearance of her sons in the Tower, the Queen had come to a
rapprochement
with Richard Plantagenet, and, publicly at least, declared herself his friend.

   Wary of further desertions, Richmond decided to leave Paris and move to Rouen, where he was assembling a fleet of ships in the mouth of the Seine. The time had come for action, even though his resources were still limited.

   Elizabeth’s impressions of Richmond were mixed. He was slender, but strongly-built and above average height, with dark brown hair flowing to his shoulders. His face was pale and thin, striking rather than handsome, with deep lines scored into his brow and the corners of his mouth.

   She reckoned that a man’s eyes revealed his soul. Not in Richmond’s case. His eyes were small and blue, and watched the world from under hooded lids, carefully weighing and assessing and never, ever giving away their owner’s true thoughts.

   Closer study revealed flaws. His left eye had a slight cast in it, and his teeth were poor, suggesting either negligence or bad health. He spoke English with a slight French accent, the legacy of years of exile.

   Elizabeth thought he looked more clerk than king, and struggled to imagine him leading an army into battle, much less trading blows with King Richard in the heat of the press.

   “How look the men, my lord Oxford?” Richmond asked hopefully, glancing at the earl.

   John de Vere put Elizabeth in mind of a faithful old dog, loyal and greying and slightly arthritic. His escape from Hammes was the stuff of ballads, but the solid, middle-aged survivor before her was no romantic hero.

   “Shaping up well, sire,” he replied gruffly, “good soldiers, if a touch shabby to look at. I’ve been drilling them hard, but they show no signs of flagging.”

   Richmond pursed his thin lips. “We need more. Fifteen hundred French, Bretons and Swiss. Five hundred Scots. Four hundred English, including those from Hammes. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.”

   “Lord Cordes has promised another thousand French, and a few pieces of ordnance,” said Pembroke. Elizabeth had noted how he always stayed close to his nephew, like an anxious mother hen.

   “There is always Wales, sire,” added Fox, “never forget, the Welsh lords see you as the Son of Prophecy. A true descendent of their old heroes. They might pretend to serve Richard, but their hearts are with you.”

   “God grant you are right,” said Richmond, and turned his head toward the stair, “you may come out now, Lady Bolton.”

   Elizabeth gasped, and stepped out of the shadows. How had he detected her presence?

Richmond’s friends stared at her in mute astonishment, but their master wore a knowing look.

   “There are no women on our council,” he said, “have you come to offer your thoughts?”

   “I…” Elizabeth reached for an answer that wouldn’t sound foolish, or even incriminating, “I merely wanted to listen, Majesty. One grows tired of relying on hearsay.”

   “We quite agree. Might we ask how you got past the guard?”

   “I persuaded him to let me through, sire.”

   Elizabeth resorted to her old skills, and gave Richmond a melting smile. Cultivated over long years in The Cardinal’s Hat, it was guaranteed to put men in good humour.

   She may as well have tossed a snowball into a furnace.

   “Did you, indeed?” he said coldly, “we must speak with the captain of the guard. Still, now you are here, you may as well sit and listen.”

   “First, however,” he added as she moved towards one of the benches, “you will remove that wicked little knife from your sleeve and give it to my uncle for safe keeping.”

  
How does he know
? Elizabeth wondered as Pembroke lumbered towards her, holding out his hand. She withdrew the knife and gave it to him, hilt-first.

   “Lady Elizabeth Bolton,” said Richmond while she found a seat, “we know something of your family’s history. A very sad and bloody one it is too. The men of your family have suffered greatly in our cause.”

   Our cause, she noticed. Richmond was the sole surviving Lancastrian heir, and clearly saw himself as the rightful heir to poor, mad King Henry the Sixth.

   His hard blue eyes drilled into her. “Never fear, my lady. The sacrifices of the Boltons shall not be forgotten. All you have lost, you shall have again, when we take our rightful throne from the murderer that currently occupies it.”

  
But no more than that.
Richmond was clearly not one to make extravagant promises.

   Elizabeth decided she didn’t like him, much. She preferred men in the mould of Sir Edward Woodville, brave and knightly and open in their dealings. Richmond was secretive, and sly, and altogether too clever by half.

  
He doesn’t want to be liked
, she realised,
he wants to win.

  
The House of Lancaster had been on the receiving end of so many defeats, it was hard to imagine victory. Elizabeth had known nothing but shame and hardship in her life, the bitter fruits of defeat.

   Could this strange, enigmatic man be the one to redeem past failures? As he talked, reeling off the detail of current affairs in England, Wales and France with little apparent effort, hope grew inside her.  

Chapter 20

Nottingham, 23
rd
June 1485

“Let me hear it again,” said Richard.

   The herald swallowed, placed his hands behind his back, and took a deep breath.

   “Forasmuch as the King our sovereign lord,” he bellowed in a voice designed to be heard in crowded marketplaces, “has certain knowledge that Henry Tydder, calling himself Earl of Richmond, with other diverse rebels and traitors disabled and attainted by authority of the high court of parliament, namely Thomas Grey late Marquis of Dorset, Jasper Tydder  who calls himself Earl of Pembroke, John late Earl of Oxford and Sir Edward Woodville, all of whom are known to be open murderers, adulterers and extortioners, contrary to the pleasure of God and against all truth, honour and nature…”

   Richard closed his eyes and let the words wash over him. It was good. His heralds had been at work for days on this proclamation, which he intended to be read out in all the major towns and cities of England. By the time they were done, the whole realm would be united in fear and hatred of Richmond and his allies.

   “…have forsaken their country, and abased themselves before England’s natural enemy Charles calling himself King of France, and begged for his aid in overthrowing the true and rightful King of England. The said Henry Tydder, in his ambitious and insatiable greed, has taken upon himself the name and title of royal estate of this realm of England, to which he has no true right whatever, as every man knows…”

   ‘Tydder’ was the Welsh version of Richmond’s family name. Richard had chosen to use it in the proclamation, thinking it would suitably strange and alien to the ears of his English subjects.

   “…with the intent of achieving by the aid, support and assistance of England’s ancient enemies, the said Henry Tydder and all the other rebels and traitors aforesaid intend at their coming to perform the most cruel murders, slaughters and robberies that ever were seen in any Christian realm. To avert these dangers, the King our sovereign lord desires, wills and charges all and every of his subjects, like good and true Englishmen, to exert all their powers for the defence of themselves, their wives, children, goods and inheritances against the malicious purposes of the said rebels and traitors…”

   The herald had turned a shade of puce, so Richard waved at him to stop.

   “Enough,” he said, “we have heard enough. You may breathe.”

   He turned to Bishop Stillington, who had helped to draft the text, based on an earlier proclamation used the previous year.

   “We congratulate you,” said Richard, “on such a remarkable blend of lies and half-truths. Let us hope our subjects swallow it.”

   Stillington bowed. “Happy to serve, Majesty,” he replied.

   Richard contemplated his preparations for Richmond’s invasion, which was expected any day. According to Richard’s network of spies in France, the pretender had assembled a fleet at Rouen and an army of some three thousand ragged mercenaries. These were scarcely enough to threaten the realm, but Richmond was not without friends and well-wishers on British soil.

   “He will land in Wales,” Tyrell had assured him, “his uncle’s agents have been at work for years, sowing seeds of discord in the minds of the Welsh. They believe Richmond to be a descendent of their native princes, a Messiah who will come to deliver them from slavery.”

   Richard had taken due precautions against an attack from Wales, placing Sir James Tyrell in charge of the defences in Glamorgan, and warning the Stanleys to be ready to raise their tenants on the Welsh March when the time came. Rhys ap Thomas, his principal lieutenant in South-West Wales, was ordered to do likewise.

   Rhys was not to be trusted, in Richard’s view. He was a Welshman, and vulnerable to Richmond’s self-serving propaganda. To ensure his fidelity, Richard commanded him to send his son Gruffydd to Nottingham as a hostage.

   So far, Rhys had failed to comply. Richard would have punished the man for his obduracy, but at present he needed him.

   Richard also demanded a hostage of Lord Stanley before allowing the proud and arrogant nobleman to depart to his estates. Stanley obeyed, and gave over his son, Lord Strange, as a surety for his good faith. If Stanley played him false, off went Strange’s head.

   Hostage-taking and threats. This was how Richard commanded the loyalty of his great lords. He despised himself for it, but what else could one do with such knaves? If they would not serve him of their own free will, he would whip them into obedience. The moment of crisis was near, and Richard had no choice but to put his faith in men whose loyalties were uncertain.

   “Leave us,” he ordered. Stillington and the herald quietly withdrew and left him in the cool darkness of the hall of Nottingham Castle.

   It was a hot summer, bringing with it the threat of the sweating sickness. Richard was glad to be out of London, where disease always thrived. Save for the guards on the door, who didn’t count, he was alone at last.

   Alone, and isolated. He was a man without close family, now his wife and son were dead. Anne, his beloved Anne, had died of consumption during the spring. The death of their son Edward weakened her, poor creature, and nothing Richard could say or do restored her spirits afterwards.

   He gave an involuntary shudder. The day Anne breathed her last, there had been an eclipse of the sun. The people took it as an omen, sent by God to warn of their King’s fall from heavenly grace.

   Richard put on a brave show in public, but privately he shared this view. God had deserted him, for reasons it was not difficult to decipher.

  
…Prince Edward and Richard of York now sleep forever under the stair…

  
No. He would not listen to the treacherous inner voice. Richard’s guilt was just a faint echo now, brushing against the back of his thoughts. He had been born and raised in a hard world, ruled by violence and sudden twists of fortune. Those who dwelled for too long on their mistakes may as well cut their own throats.