Sacrifice (4 page)

   “There will be a reckoning for this, my lords,” he said quietly, “depend on it.”

   He offered no resistance as the soldiers seized his arms, and allowed himself to be led away.

   Richard feared Edward might intervene, but the boy said and did nothing. His demeanour changed when he spotted Rivers, still in his night-shirt and tied up like a common felon.

   “What’s this?” Edward demanded, taking a step towards the prisoner, “my lords, what is the meaning of these arrests? Release my noble uncle, at once! I command it!”

   “Alas, Your Grace,” Richard said sorrowfully, “that cannot be. Your uncle has deceived you. He and his family are not morally suited to serve you as royal ministers. They have conspired to murder you, and your brother, and deny me the protectorate.”

   Edward’s beardless cheeks flushed with angry blood. “Lies!” he shouted, “Earl Rivers is my faithful kinsman, and one of the noblest men alive. He would never betray me. What proof have you of these vile accusations?”

   Richard dealt with the question by ignoring it. “Where is Sir Richard Grey?” he demanded of the ashen-faced halberdiers on the door.

   “Inside, my lord,” one of them ventured. Richard snapped his fingers, and four of his retainers stormed into the inn, calling for Sir Richard Grey to give himself up.

   Grey was the son of Elizabeth Woodville, old King Edward’s queen, by her first marriage. As close kin to the Woodvilles, and another friend and confidante of Rivers, he also had to be dealt with.

   “All three birds in the pot,” Buckingham cried, “a fine morning’s work.”

   Edward looked distraught, and in fear for his life. From inside the inn came the sound of voices raised in heated argument, followed by the crash of breaking furniture and a body tumbling down the stairs. 

   “Never fear, sweet nephew,” said Richard, placing his arm around Edward’s shoulders, “you are in my care now.”

    
Chapter 4

Southwark, London, 4
th
May 1483

They called her Maud the Knife. A fellow whore once named her Lady Maude, in mockery of her graceful table manners. She stilled the girl’s laughter by cutting out her tongue. Nobody laughed at her after that, or made any reference to her past.

   She had other nicknames, among them Doll Stand-up, after her preferred method of copulation (a safeguard against pregnancy), and Quaffing Jilly, after her ability to match the male patrons of The Cardinal’s Hat cup for cup. She once out-drank John Turnbull, a night soil man and hardened imbiber, until he was sick over his boots.

   “At least it improves his smell,” Maud remarked at the time, much to the amusement of her sisters.

   No-one in the brothel knew her real name. The last person to call her Elizabeth was her mother, more than ten years gone.

   When she couldn’t sleep, usually thanks to the snoring of some wine-sodden customer lying next to her, Maud often thought of her mother. A pale, sad-faced woman, she recalled, with much to be sad about. Mary Bolton, once the lady of Heydon Court. She was probably dead by now, sleeping alongside her ancestors in the blessed peace of the cemetery at Cromford. 

   At these times Maud would clench her fists, and try to force out a few tears. To no avail. She had done all her weeping long ago. Just twenty years old, she had spent half her life as a whore, servicing the depraved needs of men. Weepers didn’t last long in The Cardinal’s Hat: so-called for no religious reason, but because the said item of headgear resembled the shape and colour of an erect penis.

   On the morning of the fourth of April, Maud was at her post on the step of the brothel. The law stated that whores were permitted to sit at the doors of their houses of sin, but could not openly solicit in any way or call out to passers by.

   Maud didn’t need to say anything. Though hard-used by life, she was still attractive, and made artful use of paint and cosmetics to maintain the illusion of innocent youth. Garbed in a demure white shift, tightly belted at the waist to accentuate her curves, she sat with her back resting against the doorframe, and smiled at men as they strolled past.

   The Cardinal’s Hat was located down Cardinal Cap Alley, a typically narrow, winding alleyway, the houses on either street so close the upper storeys almost touched. The street itself was a narrow track, little more than a channel of churned-up mud in wet weather. It stank at all times, choked with the residue of filth and rubbish tossed from the windows. People regularly emptied their chamber pots into the street. Stray dogs and pigs rooted among the excrement and nosed out edible morsels.

   Maud took no notice of her grim surroundings. She was part of Southwark, its sin and stench, and hid the odour of her own unwashed body under a coat of cheap perfume.

   Custom was slow at this hour of the morning. Bored, Maud took to eavesdropping on the various pimps and gallants that swaggered past her door. None paid her any heed, though she recognised a few faces. They were usually red with drink, sweating and groaning as they pumped away on top of her.

   She recognised William Maker, a butcher’s apprentice, nicknamed Squeaker by the girls for the odd noises he made at the moment of climax. He was deep in conversation with another pimply youth, and both seemed in a hurry.

   “Four hundred men, so I heard,” Squeaker said excitedly, “a small retinue for two dukes, and most of them northerners. Bearded savages in rusting armour, mounted on skinny horses. Worse than Scots!”

   His companion snorted with laughter. “Never mind the dukes,” he replied, “I want to see the king. Just like his father, they say, before he got fat.”

   Maud was intrigued, and waved to get Squeaker’s attention. “Hoi,” she shouted, “what are you two on about?”

   Squeaker glanced at her in irritation. “Ain’t you heard, you silly slut? The king’s on his way to London, with his uncle Gloucester and the Duke of Buckingham. They’ll be here in a couple of hours. We’re off to watch the procession.” 

   Maud shrugged, feigning indifference, but was secretly excited. She had never seen Prince Edward, who had spent most of his short life at Ludlow in the Welsh Marches.

   All of London knew the young king would be crowned Edward V in London. He was supposed to be escorted to the capital by Earl Rivers. What had happened to Rivers? Why had Gloucester and Buckingham suddenly taken custody of Edward?

   These were high matters, and none of her concern. She was merely a whore. Her role in the affairs of the nobility had ended at Tewkesbury, where the last Lancastrian field army was destroyed and her brother James, a chaplain and spy in the service of Margaret of Anjou, taken prisoner. Twelve years on, he was still a prisoner in the Tower, confined to a dungeon for the rest of his days.

   Tewkesbury. The name was like a curse. After the battle Richard of Gloucester had given Maud – or Elizabeth Bolton, as she was then – over to Sir Geoffrey Malvern, who in turn gave her to the victorious Yorkist soldiers as a plaything.

   Malvern was still alive, Maud knew. She had gleaned as much as possible about him over the years since Tewkesbury. Still alive, and a great lord now, loaded down with honours and estates dishonourably earned in the service of York. He would be among the procession.

   She waited on the step for another hour. Business was slow. It seemed every able-bodied man in Southwark was going to see the king, and had no time for whores. Come the evening, it would be a different matter. It always was.

   Maud got up, stretched, and went inside to find Theresa, part-owner and madam of The Cardinal’s Hat.

   As usual at this time of day, Theresa was in the tiny room at the rear of the ground floor, knitting and singing to herself.

   The room always reminded Maud of the Scriptorium, the private study at Heydon Court where her grandmother and namesake, Dame Elizabeth Bolton, had often retreated from the cares and stresses of the world.

   There was little resemblance between her grandmother, whom she dimly remembered as a fierce, vinegar-faced old tyrant, and Theresa. The madam of The Cardinal’s Hat was a stout, heavy-featured woman lost somewhere between forty and fifty, with a dark complexion and thick tresses, dyed black as pitch.

   She called herself Theresa, and affected a Spanish accent, but occasionally let slip a Cheapside twang. Maud never remarked on the clumsy deceit, and had taken care over the years to cultivate madam’s friendship. Life in the brothel was easier with the proprietor on her side.

   “Come,” trilled the familiar voice when Maud knocked politely on the door. She pushed it open and stepped inside, remembering to curtsey, as though entering the presence of some noblewoman.

   Theresa smiled and set down her embroidery. Despite years of practice, she was atrocious at needlework, and Maud pitied which of her tribe of bastard children would be required to wear the lumpen abomination resting on her lap.

   “Maud, my dear,” said Theresa, offering her brown hand to be kissed, “always a pleasure to receive you, but should you not be on the step?”

   Maud bowed her head and planted a respectful kiss on the back of Theresa’s hand. It tasted of cheap soap and hand-cream.

   “Apologies, mistress,” she murmured, “I beg your indulgence, and wonder if I might be excused duty this morning. The streets are very quiet. Everyone is going to see the new King enter London.”

   Theresa scratched her whiskery cheek. “I’m surprised at you, Maud. You’re usually such a reliable girl. Why, I can’t recall the last time I had to take my switch to you.”

   Maud could. The weals on her back were over seven months old, and would likely never heal completely. Theresa’s switch was a long, whip-like cane with a steel tip, and marked for life all those it came into contact with.

   “Just this once, mistress,” she begged, “I’ll do a double shift tonight to make up for it.”

   Theresa sniffed and threw back her head. She looked imperious, or perhaps imagined she did, a great lady sat in judgement on a servant.

   Maud’s pride had gone the same way as her innocence, otherwise she could never have abased herself before such a low-born creature. She may have had gentle blood coursing through her veins, but also wanted it to stay there.

   “Ve-ry well,” Theresa said eventually, “just this once, then. I suppose it is excusable. The new king is young, and probably worth seeing if he takes after his father. Go find Long Kate and tell her to take your place on the step. You can make it up for it by having her regulars tonight.”

   “And I want you back by midday, mind,” she added as Maud knelt and kissed her hand again in thanks, “or I will lay my switch across that bony rump of yours.”

   Maud climbed the steps to her bedchamber, one of the largest in the brothel, and donned a grey tunic and a dark blue mantle with a hood. She had no wish to be recognised in the street by any of her customers.

   It paid for a woman wandering alone in the Southwark stews to look to her safety. She slid open the top drawer of the little cupboard next to her bed, and took out a dagger in a brown leather sheath.

This was the same blade Maud used to cut out the tongue of the girl who mocked her. It had drawn blood on other occasions, when Maud had been obliged to defend herself against over-amorous or violent patrons.

   She slowly drew the dagger from its sheath. The sharp steel glistened with oil. Maud often dreamed of holding it against the plump, well-muscled throat of Sir Geoffrey Malvern.

   “One swift cut,” she murmured, holding the blade up to the light, “just one, and all my ghosts would be laid to rest.”

   Her mind reached back to the day she became a whore. Yorkist soldiers had dragged her shrieking out of a little church, where her mother and a few other Lancastrian fugitives had taken refuge from the massacre of Tewkesbury.

   “She’s yours, lads,” Malvern called out cheerfully, “enjoy her while she lasts.”

   The soldiers did just that. Maud had blocked out the details, and remembered just a vague impression of pain as they violated her over and over again. She might have died, if a Yorkist man-at-arms with more scruples than his fellows had not stood over her body and told the rapists to leave off.

   “For shame, you bastards,” he spat, “do none of you have young daughters, then? She’s but a child, for God’s sake.”

   “Spoils of war,” grumbled one of her tormentors. He had already raped her once, and stood with his hose around his ankles. Maud’s blood speckled the grass where they had forced her to lie.

   There were three of them. She remembered their faces clearly: unshaven, brutish, eyes full of lust and cruelty. They were cravens, and kept well beyond the reach of her rescuer’s sword.

   “She’s just some Lancastrian lordling’s brat,” one said sullenly, “why don’t you piss off and leave us in peace?”

   The man-at-arms held his ground. “None of you will touch her again,” he said firmly, “you should all be gelded for this. Take a step closer, and you will be.”

   He was young, she recalled, a big, ruddy-faced peasant with blue eyes and a curling russet beard. His coat displayed a black sleeve against a white field, the arms of Lord Hastings, a prominent Yorkist lord.