The Rose of York: Crown of Destiny (17 page)

As he waited for Buckingham, Richard poked the glowing embers with a cherry branch, Hastings on his mind. He didn’t wish to believe that the man with whom he was linked by so many memories, with whom he’d shared the desperate flight to Bruges and the bloody battle in the fog of Barnet, that the man who’d hated the Woodvilles as much as he and loved his brother as much as he, was now turning against him for jealousy of Buckingham.

Once Richard had thought that he could never forgive Hastings that night in the Leicester brothel and the death of the maiden he’d abducted and raped. He realised now that he had forgiven him long ago, and the subtle change in Hastings’s behaviour troubled him. Hastings must have been troubled himself. Four days earlier he had requested a private meeting at Westminster in a secluded chamber far from the main passageway. Dismissing the servants, he had shut the door carefully before airing his concerns. Strictly speaking these were not in the plural, for they all reduced themselves to one problem: Buckingham. What began as an amicable discussion ended with both of them shouting at one another. The turning point came when Hastings said it was a damn fool thing Richard did, to entrust so much power to Buckingham.

“I can’t understand how you can be so blind to the faults obvious to everyone else! Why do you think Edward never gave him responsibility?”

“Because Buckingham hates Woodvilles and Bess had Edward’s ear.”

“Because Buckingham’s ambitious and he can’t be trusted!” Hastings had declared.

“He’s given me no reason to doubt him. He’s stood by me from the first.”

“So have I!”

“And he didn’t vote against me on the matter of the Woodvilles.”

Hastings was taken aback for a moment. “Aye, I did vote with Morton, for the same reason as the others. Because young Edward is King, and by executing his favourite uncle I’d be condemning myself in his eyes. That I’m not willing to do. When you’re in a marsh, you take care where you step. It’s a matter of survival. What’s commonly known as statecraft!”

“I’ve heard that word before. It doesn’t replace principles.”

Hastings looked at him strangely. “As Edward said, you see everything with a moral squint. He once accused you of being naive. That alone can be deadly where you stand. To that, I’ll add another charge. You’re a bad judge of character, Dickon, and too loyal for your own damn good. You trust the wrong people and don’t see their faults until it’s too late!”

Richard was enraged. Hastings had attacked him on two fronts: his honour, and his loyalty. “Admit it, Will—you’re jealous, that’s the real problem here!”

Hastings’s face had changed. “There’s no more to be said.”

Richard had watched him leave.

Relations between them had been strained ever since. Not until then had Richard realised that he cared for Hastings—Hastings, who had proven his loyalty to York all the years of his life, who had loved Edward as much as he himself, and who had managed with his humour and his generosity to win Richard’s own heart in spite of himself.

Voices in the stairwell interrupted Richard’s thoughts. He heard Buckingham’s merry laugh. He put down the cherry branch and turned to see him stride into the room. Carefully, in a manner reminiscent of Hastings at Westminster, Buckingham shut the door and met his eyes. When Buckingham’s first words gave voice to his own fears, Richard knew he could not run from his concerns any longer. “I must warn you, Dickon, Hastings has something afoot.” He threw his cloak aside and reclined on the settle.

“Our spies looking for Dorset report that Hastings has been meeting frequently with Rotherham, Morton, and Stanley. The meetings are at night and kept so secret our men have been unable to learn their purpose… One thing is sure, though. It’s not to conduct the business of the council. Hastings has never been one to sacrifice his leisure for affairs of state.”

True enough
, thought Richard.
And neither are Morton nor Stanley
.

“What troubles me is that Rotherham is included in these meetings. He’s the Queen’s man. I’ve no idea why you went so easy on him, Dickon.”

Richard threw Buckingham a sharp glance. If Buckingham had his way, everyone would go to the block. Richard had warned him to watch his temper and not to be so high-handed with the others. As expected, Buckingham hadn’t liked it much and had a few hot words for Richard himself. Now he acted as if he’d forgotten the whole episode. Richard decided to ignore his remark. Buckingham could be volatile and stubborn, and sometimes he didn’t listen, or he heard only what he wanted to hear. It would be pointless to confront him now and indulge in old arguments when so many new troubles awaited.

“Rotherham’s a Woodville dupe, but I’m more concerned about Morton,” Richard said. “He’s a man of plots and venom. Yet we must win them over, for the sake of the realm.” He stroked the embers again. The years since Picquigny had confirmed Richard’s opinion that power, not God, drove Morton. Edward had trusted him, and for Edward he had performed well. Morton had imagination and a clever mind, and the vast experience of his sixty-odd years, which had taught him when to be bold, and when to be prudent. But there was something about him that reminded Richard of Louis XI, that sly, wily, devious master plotter. He put the cherry branch down. “Then there’s Stanley.”

Warwick’s erstwhile brother-by marriage, Lord Stanley, was a survivor, a man who had deserted his allies time and again, yet always managed to wriggle back into favour. Marguerite, the Duke of York, Warwick, and Edward had all shared the dubious honour of having been betrayed by Stanley, not once, but several times. Each time they not only forgave him, but heaped him with honours.

“Stanley stands for Stanley. One thing we can rely on, as surely as spring follows winter, is that Stanley will ride at the winner’s side, no matter what his sin. Not for nothing is he called the Wily Fox… Aye, Harry, I know what they are, those three. But Hastings…” Richard gave a sigh, shrugged his broad shoulders. “He’s profligate. He was responsible for my brother’s debauchery. I’ve long despised him for that. Yet I like the man, Harry.”

“Everyone likes Hastings. That’s why he’s dangerous.”

“We must not be rash. Let me think on it.”

“Don’t take too long.” Buckingham rose from the settle. “They’ll no doubt make their move before Parliament meets on June 25th. That’s less than three weeks away.” He picked up his cloak and strode out.

Richard went to the window and gazed at the dark night. Torches appeared in the court, followed by men’s voices and the clattering of horse hoofs as Buckingham trotted out. The gate banged shut. Richard sighed inwardly. Another decision to be made; so many all of a sudden, and no time to reflect, to weigh the pros and cons. He had always hated making hasty decisions, yet now there was no time for anything but haste. A gentle touch on his arm interrupted his thoughts and a soft hand slipped around his chest. Warmth suffused him. “Anne,” he whispered, turning to enfold her in his arms. She had slept late this day and the rest had done her good. A touch of colour had stolen into her cheeks and her eyes were brighter.

“I’m calling that promissory note you gave me yesterday.” She smiled. Her arms encircled his neck and she pressed her soft curves into the hard, lean contours of his body.

“Anne… Anne…” he murmured, his mouth crushing hers hungrily. “How I’ve needed you… How I’ve missed you.”

Anne shivered with a giddy sense of pleasure. Roughly he swept her up into his strong arms and carried her into the bedchamber. A burning sweetness engulfed her and she returned his kisses with the same growing desperation. Richard blew out the candle by the bed and his lips recaptured hers, more demanding this time, and they made love with an urgency they had not known before. They were, Anne thought as she sank and resurfaced in the flow of passion, like two drowning souls in a violent rainstorm of vivid lightning and wild winds. Then her thoughts fragmented and she abandoned herself to the turbulence of passion, clinging to him in the darkness until all was still again.

~*^*~

Chapter 18

“The world’s loud whisper breaking into storm.”

Late the following evening Lord Scrope of Bolton knocked at the door of the royal apartments with the announcement that Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, wished a word with Richard on a matter of utmost urgency.

Anne’s violet eyes widened. “At this hour, Richard? But it’s almost Compline.”

“I assure you, if the old man has dragged me away for anything less than a treasonous plot, I’ll wring his scrawny neck.” Richard grinned as he rose, but Anne drew him back to the settle.

“Why would Edward’s old chancellor wish to see you now? You showed him no favour after Edward took away my uncle’s chancellorship and gave it to him. Stillington was no friend to us.”

“Or to Edward at the end. They quarrelled and Edward dismissed him, just as he did your uncle. The old man was a bit too friendly with George. That probably had something to do with it.”

“I remember now… Wasn’t he imprisoned in the Tower at the same time as George?”

“Aye, for defaming the King, but I know not what he said. Now I must go.” With great reluctance, he released her hand. “Best you not wait up for me, dearest Anne.”
Maybe it is the lateness of the night
, he thought as he strode down the dimly lit passageway, or maybe merely that he was tired. But he was gripped all at once by an inexplicable unease.

Richard stepped into the small parlour where Stillington awaited.

“What’s so important that I must be disturbed at this hour?” he said, disguising his discomfort with anger.

Stillington cleared his throat nervously. He clutched an agate rosary that was looped at his waist, and his hands shook so violently that Richard could hear the small stone beads chattering against one another.

“My Lord Protector, I have long been in possession of an inflammable secret, one I should have cleared from my conscience years ago, but I dared not… I dared not, you see… Now, I must. The time has come, indeed it has. It cannot go on any longer…”

An inflammable secret? What is the old man babbling about?
Stillington had fallen silent. Richard waved a hand impatiently. “Speak, then!” Fear and fatigue made his tone harsher than he intended and the old man gave a start.

“If you remember, my Lord, your gracious brother the Duke of Clarence—God have mercy on his soul—was executed in the Tower immediately following a private meeting with the King.” His words were coming in such a rush, they almost slurred.

“Aye,” said Richard sharply, wishing he wouldn’t dredge up these painful memories.

“You may also recall that the next day I was imprisoned in the Tower?”

“For three months,” said Richard curtly. He didn’t feel well all of a sudden. His head throbbed from lack of sleep and the gruelling pace of the past weeks. He eyed the chair in front of him longingly, but if he sat down, he was afraid he might never get up. He moved to grip its carved back.

“’Twas because he found out what I knew, and he—God assoil his soul!—told the King. ’Tis for that he died and I was imprisoned in the Tower on pain of death. Not until I vowed never to speak of the secret again and paid a…” the Bishop flinched, “hefty fine was I granted a royal pardon.”

A thin smile came to Richard’s lips that even now the memory of the fine was as painful to the Bishop as his loss of freedom. “And this inflammable, expensive secret?” Richard prompted, almost playfully. He was feeling strangely light-headed, as if he’d drunk too much hippocras.

The Bishop made the sign of the Cross. “May God Almighty forgive me for breaking my oath, but I do it for the peace of the realm… My Lord Protector, the children of Elizabeth Woodville and King Edward are bastards because King Edward was wed to another when he married the Lady Elizabeth. You are rightful heir to the throne.”

Richard almost burst out laughing. What nonsense had the bishop conjured up in his old befuddled head. “Is this a jest?”

“No jest, my Lord. I should have spoken earlier. I should have… I didn’t and it cost the realm much that is on my conscience.”

Stillington’s face was drawn tight in a solemn expression at once determined and fearful. He had the look of a man who spoke the truth, Richard thought. Yet it was not possible.

Or was it?

He blinked to clear his rampaging thoughts. “Repeat what you said.”

“My Lord, neither King Edward V nor his brother, Richard of York, have rightful claim to the throne. Their father, King Edward, was married at the time he wed Elizabeth Woodville.”

“Who was this lady?” Richard mumbled thickly, his heart pounding. He tightened his grip of the chair.

“Lady Eleanor Butler, widow of Sir Thomas Butler and daughter of Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Her father-in-law, you may remember, was Lord Sudeley.”

Richard felt the blood drain from his face. A terrible tenseness pervaded his body. He leaned his full weight on the chair, feeling as if he clung to the edge of a cliff. This was no light-love that could be dismissed, but the daughter of an earl. And not just any earl. The great John Talbot himself, the Terror of the French…

“Lady Eleanor was newly widowed when your royal brother became King. They met after the King seized Sir Thomas’s two manors which Lord Sudeley had settled on her when she wed his son. She appealed to King Edward for restoration of the manors, which he did.”

“What proof do you have of this accusation? I will not take your word on it!”

“Nay, you need not, my Lord Protector. I have proof.” From deep within his robes, Stillington removed a small leather pouch. He took out a yellowed piece of parchment and passed it to Richard.

Richard snatched the letter. He examined the broken seal closely, dropped into the chair and read. The breath went out of his lungs in one long, audible gasp. There was no doubt; it was Edward’s own seal, in his own handwriting, in his own words, ordering Stillington to come to Lady Eleanor’s private manor in Shrewsbury to perform a ceremony of marriage. And it was dated February 12, 1462. So reminiscent of the facts as they had been with Bess was it, that it had the ring of truth. Richard pushed himself out of the chair.