White Boar and the Red Dragon, The (46 page)

If only I were well, like other boys my age! Here am I, the most important prince in the land, and I have a weak and sickly body like the runt of a litter! Will I ever get well? Father told me he was delicate as a boy too and look at him now: a strong soldier and able to stay in the saddle on his many travels for days on end without trouble! He grew out of his delicate childhood health. Maybe I will too one day? I try to be cheerful and put up with not being able to do much. Mother says it is God’s will when ill health strikes, and one must pray for deliverance. I do, every day. But I seem to get worse, not better, especially in winter and spring. I feel healthier in the summer and can breathe better then. The sun seems to help me. But we do not get a lot of sun in Yorkshire, even in summer.

I could not even ride here from Middleham. I had to come in a horse litter. I felt humiliated and angry. I have no patience with my constant illness. I do my best to cope with what I have to do, such as getting through today, but I know that others pity me, particularly John, my bastard brother. I envy him his rude health and strength. He never gets ill—never even a cold. And I am constantly coughing and wheezing; always catching chills and infections, however much care I take, however well I am looked after. I hate the fuss they make of me, my mother, the servants, and my nurse. But without it, I know I should probably be dead by now. So I have to put up with it.

One day, I may be king—if I live long enough. I cannot imagine how I would cope with it. My father never stops work; never relaxes. He has enormous responsibilities. He is driven by a constant desire to prove that he is a good king and loves his people. He plans to do all kinds of good works during his reign, which I hope is long. For I do not want to take his place. The very thought of it terrifies me, though I have never admitted it, and will not. I admire him greatly for that. All this travelling he has done in his Progress, to show himself to his people and prove that he really cares for their welfare, proves that he is a good man. I am lucky to have him as my father.

When the mayor and Aldermen of York came to visit me at Middleham after they heard my father had become king, I was very proud. I knew I was now Prince of Wales and the heir to the throne. They brought me presents, and I was grateful.

But all I really want is good health: to run and play like other boys; to go hunting with my father; to be a knight when I grow up, and fight in battles as he has.

Will God be good to me and grant my wish one day? I have so much in many ways, I know, far more than other boys. I try not to feel resentful. Most boys would envy me. But not if they knew my fine clothes, possessions, riches, and position come at a price—a very high price. I think they would choose to be poor and healthy, rather than rich and sick.

But God does not give us a choice. We have to accept whatever he gives us—or chooses not to give us—in life.

Francis Lovell, Lord Chamberlain, Lincoln, 11 October 1483

It is a nasty shock for King Richard, for us all, after such a successful and happy September. The wonderful welcome Richard and his family met on entry to York from the ecstatic townspeople; the pageantry and grandeur of little Edward’s official investiture as Prince of Wales in York Minster; the feasts, the plays; then the continued, heady atmosphere of joy as town after town opened its arms to the new king, his queen, and Edward! It was a golden month—like an incredible dream—but one wakes up from dreams to reality. And now reality has become a nightmare for Richard, with this terrible, this unbelievable news! It has come out of the blue.

Henry, Duke of Buckingham, has raised a rebellion against Richard and is joining with Henry Tudor, who has taken this chance to launch an invasion he has apparently been planning for months, with ships, arms, and men financed by Duke Francis of Brittany and, of course, his very wealthy, formidable, and highly ambitious mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort!

It is a terrible blow for Richard, an unlooked-for turn in affairs.

He knew that Buckingham had been upset and angry at Gloucester by his reaction to his news about the princes in the Tower. But this—this from a man who was Richard’s chief minister; whom he had given so much to; had raised so high above all others in the country, next to the king only in importance. This from a man who, only three months ago, was the chief supporter and mover behind Richard taking the throne; who made great and persuasive speeches in his support, with impressive eloquence and determination! Who became, in effect, another kingmaker, like Warwick before him was to Edward IV.

And this is how he repays his king!

‘The most untrue creature living!’ is how Richard described him today, in disbelief and loathing. Richard should have had him arrested and executed there and then at Gloucester, to show the world what kind of man his new second-in-command was.

But I can understand the reasons he did not do this; why he shelved the problem until the great Progress was over. It would have shown Richard up as a bad judge of men and ruined his growing popularity. But it has surely made things worse now? If Richard accuses him of the deed in addition to raising a rebellion against him, who will believe Richard? Who will believe that he was not originally implicated? It is a terrible situation for the king to unravel. I do not envy him, but I support him wholeheartedly in whatever he decides to do. I know he is a good man, who only tries to do his best for the commonweal and that he had nothing to do with the princes’ murder. Under his dissembling happiness of the last month in public, I know he has grieved greatly for those boys.

Henry Tudor, of course, has been a thorn in the side of the Yorkists for many a year, but, it seemed, one which caused little trouble and was not to be worried about overmuch. King Edward tried for years to get him back to England, without success. I know Richard did have him on his agenda to deal with in the future. Now it has caused a sudden and disturbing upflare, combined with the unexpected rising of the south and south-west against Richard, stirred up no doubt by the same hand which aided Henry Tudor, for Lady Margaret Beaufort owns vast tracts of land in those areas and can call upon the support of her knights and vassals to aid her in any endeavour at a moment’s notice.

The whole thing has been cleverly planned and engineered, it seems, while poor Richard was enjoying the adulation and fervent support of his loyal Northerners. Now he has come down to earth with a great jolt!

What will he do? How will he deal with the situation? He is a great and successful soldier. He will come up with an effective plan soon, I know it. At present, he sits alone in his room, allowing no one to disturb him while he works out the situation and how to deal with it. That is his way. And none dare disturb him, even Anne, his wife, or I, his closest friend. He will not emerge until he has his plan of action all worked out. Then, there will be a fever of activity as he issues orders, sends messages, and commissions of array all over the country. There is not one soldier or man-at-arms here with him on Progress, only a few personal bodyguards. Now he will have to get together the greatest army possible in a short time to meet this formidable threat!

Henry, Duke of Buckingham, Shropshire, Mid-October 1483

How did I come to this pass? How did I get into this dreadful situation where my very life is now forfeit if I am caught? And it is most likely that I will be caught soon, for there is none willing, or able, to help me here.

I am uncomfortably sure now that I have been played for a fool, used as a pawn in some clever political game engineered by that wily fox Bishop Morton, whom I thought of as my friend and by Lady Margaret Beaufort, the chief instigators. They worked on my ambition and dreams of greatness when Henry Tudor came to power; told me trumped-up lies of plots the Woodvilles were planning. After that terrible interview with the king at Gloucester, I felt forced to throw in my lot with that hated family; I could see no other course! I just thought that the king had me marked for harsh treatment later, when he returned to London from the Progress. The cold look in his eyes told me that. I was not willing to wait to be publicly humiliated and maybe meet a terrible death for my deed in the Tower later at the king’s pleasure! I would not allow myself to be dangled like a rat in a cat’s mouth until it chooses to go in for the kill! But I was hasty, and I admit it. My action in embracing the uprising was very ill-judged. I see that now, when it is too late!

And it has brought me to this—reduced to wearing a farm worker’s rags in order to disguise myself and avoid capture; to beg shelter and a hiding place from one who was my servant years ago, Ralph Bannaster, who works a small farm in Shropshire; throwing myself on his mercy in my desperation. I hoped for help. And what has he done? He has deceived me! I suspect, in fact I am pretty sure, that he has made my presence here known to the authorities—for the reward the king has offered for my capture! One thousand pounds is a fortune to him, I suppose! Faced with the possibility of all his money troubles disappearing forever, loyalty to his old master came a poor second! I do not blame him really. In the end, most men put their own well-being and hope of gain first. What did he care for my skin? Now I must leave this poor place somehow and get away before I am apprehended. Where I will go I know not.

The appalling weather was the main problem. That and the absence of any real loyalty to the cause by my hastily gathered tatterdemalion army.

Week after week of drenching rain, chilling us to the bone, high winds, lack of shelter, poor food, and then the Severn floods which effectively cut us off from our goal—all contributed to the outcome—complete failure.

My poorly motivated soldiers, whose morale had plunged to the lowest depths, now slipped away, bit by bit, whatever I said or did to re-energise them. I begged, I even pleaded with the remnants to go on with me but was ignored. I, who but a few short weeks ago, was the highest in the land, bar one—lowering myself to this rabble! They just slipped away to their homes whenever they had the chance, mainly in the night. We never fought a single skirmish with Richard’s soldiers, let alone a full battle! It was just one long, disillusioning, and depressing trek through endless muddy—often impossible-to-negotiate tracks, achieving nothing but the complete collapse of the enterprise—and my sure downfall. For unless I can escape abroad somehow, I am done for. Bishop Morton has already done this. I discovered, to my horror, when I returned in despair to the manor house at Weobley where I had left him earlier hoping for further help, which perhaps his clever mind could conjure up—that he had fled to the fen country of Cambridgeshire, his See, and thence to Flanders, no doubt, to hide out. Little did I guess, when I rode away from my castle at Brecknock on 18 October, with Morton as my companion, leaving him later in Shropshire, that I would be reduced to such a poor state within the space of a week or so! My army was smaller than I had hoped—a mere few hundred men—and I could sense a definite sullenness in the Welsh contingent, who seemed less than willing to leave their homes with autumn fast approaching. But Morton laughed off my misgivings; spurred me on with his talk of great victories to come, calming my fears. He assured me my army would surely grow in leaps and bounds as men flocked to the cause. It would be their chance to get rid of the usurper! The Kentish men were already up—so keen they had started the uprising a whole week early! The south-west and south were blazing with rebellion! What had I to be unsure about?! And soon, Henry Tudor’s 5,000 Bretons would land and join in the insurrection. King Richard would be routed in no time at all and dead before Christmas. I would be at the new King Henry’s side in the place of honour at the Christmas Feast at Westminster!

I believed him, every word. My star had risen so high already earlier in the year, raising me from virtual obscurity, in spite of my noble birth—to the highest position in the country as King Richard’s right-hand man—surely it was still in the ascendancy? Surely nothing could stop my success? I was on a winning streak!

How wrong, how utterly wrong I was! And now, it seems, I am likely to pay for it—mayhap with my life! How the wheel of fortune can turn so fast, raising men high, then plunging them into the lowest pit in a twinkling of the eye is beyond my comprehension.

Richard, King of England, Salisbury, 29 October 1483

‘Sire, my Lord King! The Duke of Buckingham has been brought in, in shackles! He is here, in the town prison, and begs leave most urgently to see Your Grace. He has confessed his rebellion against you, his lawful king, and has already been sentenced to death by Sir Ralph Assheton, the Vice-Constable of England, whom you appointed to lead the commission which put the duke on trial. But Buckingham would speak to you one more time, before his execution!’

‘That wretched traitor? That faithless dog? Given so much and giving nothing but treachery in return! I will never set eyes on him again willingly, Francis, let alone speak with him. The sound of his honeyed voice and the sight of his smiling, villainous face would have me retching!’

‘But, Sire, he swears that none of this rebellion was his doing. That he neither conceived it nor planned it. That he was a pawn in a deeper plot, that he was drawn into it by the clever machinations of powerful ones whom he would name to you, if you will but grant him audience! He says that they are so dangerous that they may still do you great harm—even after he himself has met the headsman’s axe!’

‘I do not want to know! It is all lies, lies! It is just a ploy to persuade me to see him. It is enough that he raised an army against me, that he set himself against me. None could force him against his will to become my enemy! He merely hopes to win me over with his charm and persuasiveness. I rue the day that I ever listened to him in the first place. I must have lost my reason!

But I will not be made a fool of a second time. He can keep his excuses for his Maker. For soon, he will meet him—if the wicked can be granted audience with God before descending into hell—where Buckingham belongs! Perhaps he can pour out his so-called confession to him. Perhaps God will listen to him, for I will not. I disdain him and all he stands for!