The Fate of Princes (16 page)

‘You talk about the future, William,’ I said abruptly. ‘What do you advise?’

‘Nothing dramatic,’ he answered. ‘If the Tudor lands we stand by Richard. But there are things we can do to show our opponents that our enmity is honourable and not malicious.’

‘Such as?’

‘The King has hostages, particularly from the Stanley family. They could be our link.’ He rose, nervous, as if frightened to talk further. He picked up his cloak, wrapped it around him and once again refused my request to stay the night. We went out into the cold, blustery darkness. A sleepy-eyed groom brought round his horse. Catesby mounted and, gathering the reins in his hands, suddenly leant down towards me.

‘Are you with me on this matter, Francis?’ I looked back at my darkened house, the faint chink of light from Anne’s chamber. I heard the hoot of an owl and the yip-yip of a hunting vixen. I took him by the hand.

‘William, tell those who matter, I am with you.’

I did not know if Anne or Belknap had overheard our conversation but, two days after Catesby had left, Anne’s father, the Lord Fitzhugh, came on a visit. A tall, weather-beaten man, he always exuded confidence, liking nothing better than feasting, dancing and a good day in the field with his hawks. He adored Anne but our relations had never been cordial. Oh, he had followed Richard like many gentry of the shire but he was more concerned about the price of timber, the enclosure of lands and the wages of labourers than who ruled at Westminster. On that particular day, however, he made every attempt to heal the breach between us. He brought me a kestrel especially imported from the Rhineland, carefully avoiding any talk of politics. He loudly proclaimed that if the Tudor landed he would act as Commissioner of Array and bring out his levies to fight for Richard. Just before he left, we walked, his arms linked through mine and Anne’s, away from where his retainers had their horses gathered.

‘Francis,’ he began. ‘If the Tudor comes, you must fight for Richard.’ He hugged his daughter closer to stifle any protests. ‘He must do it, Anne,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘The King has sworn an oath, those who are not with him will be counted against him. Both Francis and I will fight for any king crowned with the assent of Parliament.’ He turned to face me squarely. ‘Is that not so, Francis?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘that is so.’ Both Anne and her father grinned broadly, Lord Fitzhugh winking at me as if I was a fellow-conspirator. God, I played the role, but deep in my heart I felt a traitor. I wondered how many more up and down the kingdom, men like Fitzhugh, well served by the King, were now secretly plotting his downfall.

Sure enough, as spring came, royal couriers brought letters to Minster Lovell. They were polite but curt; the King’s enemies beyond the seas were still plotting the
destruction of the realm. I, Francis, Viscount Lovell, was to act as the King’s Commissioner of Array in the southern counties and make all preparations to raise levies and resist any invasion. Once again I bade Anne farewell, only this time she was joyful, a conspiratorial smile on her face as if we both understood a secret pact. Like her father, I was to act loyally, do all I could, but if matters went ill for Richard, I was to ensure my own safety.

First I went to Nottingham, to the castle Richard publicly called his command centre but secretly described as his castle of care for here he had received news about his son’s death. He was still anxious, frenetic, but there was some of the old Richard back, the young soldier, eager to see his enemy out in the open and take his chances on the field of battle. He greeted me as if there was no breach between us, embracing, kissing me, even taking a ring from his finger and slipping it onto mine. He clapped me on the shoulder and told me how I had his confidence and once the Tudor was destroyed Norfolk would not be the only peer with a dukedom. But he was sharp enough to sense something wrong. I could not meet his eye. On the few occasions I did, I saw that haunted, hooded look, as if he could smell the treachery on me. The same atmosphere pervaded the council meetings. All were voluble in their praises and recommendations but the camaraderie of previous days was gone. I was relieved to assume my commission and lead my retinue south.

The whispering campaign against Richard had grown louder and spread wider. Men claimed he even wished to marry his niece, Elizabeth of York, and the old accusations about his being an assassin, a usurper, had once again begun to fester. The Stanleys had left court. They protested their loyalty but Richard did not trust them and, as Catesby had inferred, kept Stanley’s son, Lord Strange, as a hostage. The summer grew on in
long, hot days as I travelled the southern downs, across Southampton Water, organising ships, assembling men, distributing arms, collecting carts and establishing a line of scurriers to take any news north. I was still torn by doubts. On the one hand my loyalty to Richard; on the other, my fears for the future and doubts about the King’s true character. Catesby’s suspicions, however, were soon proved right.

Richard’s orders were clear enough, men were to fight for him on pain of life and limb, to provide arms, food and men. But I found things difficult. This gentleman was ill, that gentleman could not leave at the moment. Barns which were supposedly full were suddenly empty. Tenants who should have presented themselves in the village square before my commissioners, secretly absconded. My spies brought in news of secret covens and conspiracies. Of men assembling late at night after dark, using the device of the Red Eagle’s claw as a symbol of recognition. I had no illusions about the cause of this. The Red Eagle was the Stanley device and that vicious old spider, the Beaufort woman, was artfully spinning her web. News came from France. Charles VIII had supplied Henry with men, money and ships and two mercenary commanders. I forgot the French one but the other was a captain from the Scots guards and I shivered: Seigneur Bernard Stewart D’Aubigny was a fearsome fighter and a devious general and, with John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, the Tudor was well served.

July came, the height of summer. Richard sent news that the Tudor was assembling his men at Rouen, his ships on the river Seine. He would probably shelter in Harfleur and make a landing near Southampton. My commissioners arrayed their men and brought them in, long dusty lines, men-at-arms and archers. Behind them trundled wagons piled high with provisions and arms. A soothsayer claimed the Tudor would land at Poole in
Dorset to march on London. The King’s strategy was that whatever the Tudor did, he would be met by two armies – a combined one under Norfolk and myself, while his, Richard’s, marched south to reinforce us. The Tudor must have had the devil’s own luck, for his small fleet of fifteen ships gave ours the slip and on Sunday, August 7th, landed in Milford Haven in Pembrokeshire. The usurper hoped to raise Wales behind him. He knelt on the sand, kissing the ground, muttering a line from the psalm, ‘Judge me, oh God, and discern my cause’. The great Red Dragon banners of Cadwaller were unfurled and Henry marched to the English border. His agents fanned out before him, trying to raise troops, depicting the pathetic Tudor as Arthur come again.

My own scurriers brought in news of the invasion and fresh ones came from Richard. I was to advance north into Bedfordshire, camp near Woburn Abbey and await further orders. The King sent out letters to all his generals and henchmen. Jack of Norfolk soon stirred himself and I watched his troops come in: long lines of tired, dusty men sweating under an August sun, their silver-blue tabards and banners soiled and coated with a thick grey dust. Similar writs were sent to Henry Percy, Duke of Northumberland, and to the Stanleys, but here Richard met with a cool reception. Yes, these men would march but Percy had problems and Stanley claimed he was unwell. Richard immediately imprisoned Stanley’s son, Lord Strange. He foiled an escape attempt by this young nobleman and told Stanley he would execute his son at the first sign of treachery. At last two messengers, sweat-soaked and grimed with travel, arrived with the King’s orders to join him at Nottingham. They said the King was in good heart, even hunting from his favourite lodge in Sherwood. He believed once his army was mustered he would bring the Tudor to battle and utterly destroy him.

I rode ahead with a small group of retainers to join the King at Nottingham and met him in the castle solar. His mood alternated from black pessimism to prospects of a golden and rosy future. He was nervous, fidgety, refusing to sit down or stand still, pacing the room as he described the situation. He was waiting for Norfolk and Northumberland and other contingents to reach him. Henry Tudor continued to march north, the gates of Shrewsbury and Litchfield being thrown open to greet him. The Stanleys lay between him and Tudor and, Richard grimly confided, he did not know their true intentions. My walk through Nottingham Castle had alerted me to the suspicion and distrust surrounding the King. Catesby avoided me, Ratcliffe was uneasy and nervous. No man knew how the coming battle would fare. The King’s buoyancy and show of confidence was false; on the one hand, he was now free of the tension, eager to fight his enemies in the open; but on the other, he knew he did not command the total loyalty of his followers. He chattered away to me as if I had never been absent, ignoring the rumours of how lukewarm my support had grown. In his eyes I had arrived, I would be with him, and that, he pronounced tersely, would be the mark of all men’s loyalty once he had secured victory. He asked about Anne, her father, rumours of treachery in the fleet, and what problems I had encountered in arraigning troops. Then he came
and stood over me.

‘Francis,’ he said quietly. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?’

‘Yes, Richard,’ I replied, ignoring his royal titles to secure his attention. ‘In three, four days’ time we will meet the Tudor’s army. We may win and live victoriously or we might die. I ask you this then, as one friend to another: did you kill your nephews?’ Richard’s face drained of colour. His lips went tight and flames of fury flared in his eyes. He spun on his heel and strode away. I thought he was ignoring me, but he went over to a table, picked up a book and walked back. He turned the pages and I saw the beautiful gold paintings of a Book of Hours. Holding it high in his right hand, his other hand on a gold cross which hung from a chain round his neck, Richard declared:

‘Before God, I swear I had no hand in the deaths of my nephews!’ He tossed the book into my lap and stalked out of the room.

I listened to his footsteps echo down the stone-vaulted corridor and cursed my own disbelief. Was Richard really innocent? Or was it just another lie? I looked at the Book of Hours: at the back, on the calf-skin cover, in Richard’s own handwriting was a long prayer to the Blessed Julian. Time and again the King prayed for release, for peace between himself and his enemies; and appealed to God that, like Susannah in the Bible, he might be freed from false slander and malicious allegations. I got up and placed the book back on the table. I went over to look through one of the arrow-slit windows at the frenetic activity in the courtyard below. The place was full: men-at-arms, neighing horses, carts being loaded, serjeants and knights bellowing orders to the retainers. Was this, I wondered, this coming battle, to be God’s answer to Richard? Deliverance from rumour or peace in death?

The following morning, Friday 19th August, the
King led us down from the rock of Nottingham Castle. We took the Southwell road through the wooded aisles of Sherwood Forest across the hills towards Leicester. I despatched a swift note to Anne, ensured my retainers were in good order, and rode alongside Richard, who showed no anger at my question to him the previous day. Behind us, the royal army moved in a square column of march, troops of cavalry on each wing. Richard and the household in the van, our baggage and impedimenta in the centre, and a force of northern lords bringing up the rear. I glimpsed Stanley’s son, Lord Strange, amongst them, young, white-faced, fearful lest his father’s treachery cost him his head. He was bound hand and foot to his horse.

A little before sunset on the same day, we crossed the river Soar and entered Leicester, up the High Street into the square before All Saints Church. Here, Richard, who had been quiet for most of the march, issued instructions to his camp marshals, saying he would take up quarters in a nearby inn which bore his badge, the White Boar. The town’s cannon roared out a royal salute, messengers bustled their way through, their faces grimy with dust and sweat. They announced the glad news that Norfolk had arrived and Northumberland would be here early the next day. Richard nodded, and whispering he wished to be alone went into the large, cantilevered, half-timbered inn. Behind him, his retainers unpacked his furniture, bed, caskets and other paraphernalia.

The following day, Saturday, 20 August, was frenetically busy. Richard took counsel with his captains and principal commanders about how he should counter the Tudor threat. Earl Henry Percy of Northumberland arrived, his lying face and evasive answers about why he had not come earlier creating a sense of unease, only heightened by the Stanleys’ continual refusal to bring their forces over to Richard.
Other levies poured into the town, archers, foot-soldiers, some well-armed, others causing acute dismay to the serjeants and muster captains. One unexpected arrival was Sir Robert Brackenbury with a contingent from London. We met in a narrow street just off the town square. I expected him to either glare or openly ignore me but he just smiled sadly, his eyes dowcast as he stood aside to let my by. I did not speak to Richard. The King would not discuss anything but who was with him, who had not arrived, or the possible intentions of the Stanleys, whilst he uttered grim warnings of what would happen to those traitors after his expected victory over the invaders. Norfolk, eating and drinking as if his life depended upon it, openly boasted how all would go well.

Late that Saturday night, however, when the King had withdrawn, a more grim-faced Norfolk confided to both Catesby and myself how he suspected the King was surrounded by treachery on every side. Catesby stiffened beside me. I had to look away to hide my own embarrassment, but the Duke was lost in his own thoughts. He searched his wallet and brought out a small dirty scrap of vellum which he handed to me. I looked at the spider-thin handwriting, a doggerel verse. I smiled secretly, for Collingbourne would have liked it. The message was stark enough –