‘He told me you once spilled potage into the lap of King Louis’s ambassador.’

‘Aye, and I made myself scarce for the next hour.’ What use denial or telling him it was Dorset’s foot hooked about my ankle that sent me flying.

‘Did my mother have you whipped for it?”

‘Whip a duke, your highness?’ I replied with disdain, disliking him more and more.

It seemed that all that lay between me and a return to rot uselessly in Brecknock was Richard surviving as Lord Protector. Of course, if my cousin won over the boy completely, he would not need me. I had better ensure he would.

 

AS we reached the rise south of Barnet, excitement surged up my spine. Ahead lay the selfish city of London. From the filthy laneways of Southwark to the marshy fields of Millbank, I knew it well. Indeed, I could have named each turret and spire that lay between the Tower of London in the east and the royal Palace and Minster in the west.

Richard reined in. ‘There lies your great city. Ned,’ he said with pride. ‘I do not love it like your father did but I pray Heaven you will deal with its citizens as well as he did.’

‘A shade less amorously perhaps,’ I murmured.

The corner of my cousin’s mouth lifted in a tight grin. The Prince made no comment. After being immured with tutors at Ludlow for months on end, he was both awed and excited by the prospect.

‘Come on!’ I exclaimed, aching to be within those stinking walls. I spurred my ambler down the hill and the boy’s steed followed. I should not have been upset if he had toppled off and broken his Woodville neck, save that the blame would have been all mine. I slackened pace and, when he joined me, we slowed to a more decorous progress. As we reached the flat I began wondering whether my ears were deceiving me: I could hear shawms and tabors.

‘It seems as though we are about to be welcomed by someone.’ I turned and gestured for the message to be relayed back down the retinue to Richard, who had dropped back to speak with Lovell. I waved up Ralph Bannaster. ‘Ride on ahead. See who comes!’

The boy was looking anxious.

‘What’s the matter, sire?’ I asked.

‘If it is my Lady Mother come to welcome me, she’ll be angry with me because of my Uncle Rivers and my brother Grey.’

‘With you? I do not think so.’ If Elizabeth was around the next bend, I would eat my hat including the ruby brooch and liripipe.

‘At twelve you hardly have to worry about a woman’s opinions, sire,’ I told him confidently. ‘Whether she be a queen or a tapster wench, her task is to give comfort to her menfolk and not concern herself with making decisions.’

‘If that is so, Uncle Buckingham, why do men call the women who give them comfort their “mistresses”. Uncle Rivers said I should probably have one when I am fourteen. ’

‘We must talk about this again,’ I lied, as my men came back smiling. ‘Look, here comes the Mayor.’

The Lord Mayor of London and aldermen were in sight all tricked out in their scarlet gowns and black hats. Behind them, to the beat of drums and drone of shawms, came the venerable greybeards of the city, two by two on foot in mourning robes of violet broadcloth with sprigs of rosemary pinned on their breasts and staffs in their hands.

A thousand blessing on the city fathers! Their coming condoned our arrest of the Woodvilles. As the procession reached us, all the burgesses snatched off their caps and shouted, ‘God save the King!’ and Richard and I dismounted and escorted the lad to greet his kneeling citizens. Then we invited the Mayor and alderman to join us at the head of our company.

Within half a mile of the gates, we found some of Hastings’ men waiting for us with four covered wagonloads of pikes and weaponry they alleged had been gathered from secret caches around the city—carts so overloaded they looked like monstrous shirted hedgehogs.

Hastings’ captain drew my cousin and I aside. ‘My lord has ordered us to proclaim to the people that these have been taken from the Queen’s kinsmen and that they were to have been used against you, your graces. So, where would you like them to go in the procession, my lord of Gloucester? At the front or in the vanguard?’

‘At the back, thank you.’ He looked like he would have an apoplexy. ‘Wait, surely these are nothing more than the arms stores my brother was preparing to use against the Scots.’

‘Certes, your grace,’ answered Hastings’ man, ‘but I assure your grace that the Queen had every intention of using them against you.’

‘But even I who live in Yorkshire know of these stores, sirrah. Do you imagine the Londoners—?’

‘My lord cousin,’ I cut in hastily, ‘the good citizens have been waiting for hours. Let us not delay them further. Let the carts follow and there be an end to it.’ Hastings, I thought, you have just made another error of judgment, thank the Lord.

‘Very well,’ agreed Richard grudgingly. ‘I only hope Lord Hastings can provide us with better evidence than this if the people demand it.’

‘Of course,’ purred the officer and jingled off to manoeuvre the carts back into a laneway so we might proceed. I held my glove to my lips to stanch my laughter as a poleaxe fell off and had to be poked back in. Hastings’ fellows had even daubed the Woodville device on the canvas of the wagons. Any fool could smell the fresh paint.

‘So subtle!’ sneered Richard. ‘Holy Paul! I do not want to antagonise Hastings but I’ll not have our entry into London marred by these infernal proclamations.’ He swung round to his herald. ‘Send some of the drummers to the back and tell them to play loudly! Thank God you don’t come up with such foolery, Harry.’

I smiled but was still crossing my fingers that Hastings truly had London by the throat and this was not some damnable trap about to spring. What if he had made a last instant alliance with the Queen?

My belly was still tight as we passed beneath the portcullis at Aldersgate, but then the bells of St Martin Le Grand and all the little churches close by began to peal and within minutes every belfry in London rang out its welcome. The very air thrummed with music and the ground shook with the hooves of our horses like some monstrous drum. My heart thumped furiously at the glorious tumult.

As I waved and smiled among the cascading petals, there were few shouts for Stafford, just one or two who remembered my grandsire and sensed the old times were come again. In our sombre black, we two uncles were but a dark wall behind the Woodville princeling’s blue and gold splendour. The Londoners were falling in love with him. A wonder that they did not collect the holy dung when the Prince’s horse lifted its tail.

Souvente me souvene!

Ha, I vowed, I was going to carve my name on the trunk of England and shake the tree with all my strength.

The first garland startled me as it fell about my neck and then there were scores. The women, ah, the women, like window boxes of posies, clustered in the casements, leaning their bosoms out of the jutting windows above the bright falls of cloth. They blew me kisses and hurled their flowers. But one in particular, I glimpsed, as she stretched forth from below the gable—a beautiful young woman with auburn hair plaited about her head like a crown and a mouth made for kisses. There was astonishment in her face and I swear an alchemy passed between us as we stared at one another. I doffed my hat exuberantly but she did not smile. She looked shocked as though she felt the jolt of attraction like a thunderbolt. Ah, she was so exquisite.

‘Harry!’ Richard’s gloved hand grabbed my arm, hauling me out of collision with an alehouse pole. Prince Edward looked round and giggled.

I tried to remember the house, the street, but my mind was whirling. I should think no more upon women, I told myself. They are no more for men than meat and drink. The precipice of power was dangerous; it was there I must concentrate all thought. And yet I longed for a woman’s soft whisper against my hair and her arms about my breast, and it was not of willing strumpets that I thought but of the auburn-haired gentlewoman.

‘Better than I hoped!’ My cousin’s excited voice broke through my reverie. ‘They are behind us, Harry!’ I must have looked around, for he added with affection. ‘Dolt. Not that “behind us”. I mean the Londoners! This is almost as good as when Ned and I rode in after our victory at Tewkesbury.’ Of course, blood-stained heroes with royal captives hauled in their wake.

It was not just the commons who came in their masses to huzzah. All the noble lords, in London for the coronation, were come from their great houses near the river, and sat on horseback along Cheapside, their heads meek and uncovered. They greeted their unanointed king and swung their horses in behind us, one by one, until almost every peer rode in our company. Their titles read like a roll of the shires of England. Gloucester’s sister and her husband, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk and their son, the Earl of Lincoln, the earls of Northumberland, Arundel, Surrey, Kent, Huntingdon and Nottingham. Even, Clarence’s son, little Warwick with his moon face and doltish mutterings, rode his pony with us.

The crowds were thickest around St Paul's Churchyard. In the full warmth of the afternoon, the stink of the people was almost nauseating. A triumphal progress is a wonderful experience but a surfeit of unwashed bodies was not to my carefully protected taste. However, it was a penance I did not mind and I fervently prayed to the Almighty that there would be more days like that and greater.

What’s more I thanked Him that I had not sat on my hands in Brecknock. If Cat and my Welsh farmers could have seen me!

Yet, it was a relief to approach the Bishop of London’s house where Prince Edward was to lodge. I was hungry and had it not been for the tumult, my hungry rumblings would have been heard down in Thames Street. But then we were waylaid by St George and eight virgins eager to read poems of welcome. No, I’ll revise that. There were seven virgins, because the third from the left looked lewdly about her. The second was pretty with fair hair to her knees and a mouth like a rosebud. The rest were broomsticks or dumplings. Ah, I forgot St George. In faith his costume must have been made for an earlier occasion or else a smaller hero. I swear he would have burst his points if he had blustered for much longer for he would have weighed heavier than a dragon in any balance.

Prince Edward replied to the virgins with dignity. Rivers had tutored him well: Cat’s brother deserved that much commendation. It was the kingling's umpteenth speech that day and all of us had smiled like bridegrooms until our faces ached. Knyvett handed the boy coin (supplied by me) to scatter to the poor and another cluster of beggars emerged like maggots from a hidden corpse. The boy’s lips curled slightly at the sight and he quickly threw the largesse amongst them, dismounted and hastened towards the bishop’s door.

The cloying virgins had all been cleared away and in their place, miraculously manifested, stood old Bishop Thomas Kempe. Tufts of white hair were escaping from beneath his mitre. He was like a large ancient pussycat, blinking newly-woken from a sunny sill. And at last, appearing in the great doorway of the bishop’s house, came that grinning prince of players, Lord William Hastings. Nimbly, he came down the steps to the courtyard, swept off his hat to his friend’s son and knelt humbly on the mucky, uncomfortable cobbles. I had not realised he had gone so bald.

Hastings the great lover, the Pandarus of Westminster, Master of Strumpets and Revels! Bejewelled, befurred, bereaved, bestowing and between. Yes! Between the Prince and Richard, between Richard and I.

As I have said, three is an uncomfortable number.

Rarely so dully clad, Hastings was not flattered by his mourning garments. The lines from edge of mouth to nostril were deep drawn in the glare of day, and shadows cradled his eyes. He lacked Rivers’ resilience against the corrosion of age, but for an old man of over fifty, he still had a face that was pleasant to look upon, and that, despite the dissipated love-nights at Westminster and the continual search for concubines, was remarkable. In fact, when he put his hat back on his shining pate and smiled, he would have passed for a man ten years younger.

I had a qualified respect for Hastings. He had leapt upon the Yorkist carque long before it had set sail for rebellion and clung on despite storms that washed others away. His luck had arrived when Edward of York had found in him a soul mate. Although there was eleven years’ difference in their ages, they had explored bosoms together but not each other’s. In the sunlight of King Edward’s favour, Hastings had built an army of retainers. Some he employed for wages, other wealthier friends he bound by favours. In return for his patronage in matters of litigation and influence with the King, he could summon them to arms. With equal competence, he could conjure up a full week’s entertainment for a foreign dignitary, and his record for love-making was said to be seven times in one night. Lucky old whoreson, he had married one of Warwick the Kingmaker’s sisters, too, and even if he had neglected her, he had begotten a family that he greatly loved.

I had been envious of him when I had been the Queen’s ward at Westminster. The old goat had always seemed so blithe, so plaguey cheerful, whereas I as a page had loathed everything—my situation, my life, myself. What’s more, I hated the compassion I read in his eyes whenever Dorset and Grey made trouble for me; and I hated his friendship with the King that made him invincible to the Woodvilles’ machinations whereas I was so vulnerable, so friendless. He could have stood up for me to the Queen and her kinsmen; instead he gave me his pity.

Certainly, after days of Richard’s calm company, Hastings’ presence now was like a thunderstorm. It was my turn for a flood of exuberance, albeit tempered by the initial formality due to my rank.

‘Welcome, my lord of Buckingham!’

‘I am grateful that you wrote to me, my lord,’ I replied sincerely, grasping the proffered hand.

‘How could I not, your grace? You are the highest nobleman in the realm saving the royal family. It is I who must thank you for trusting my advice.’ He buffeted my chest. ‘You are looking so well, Harry. It’s too long since you were at Westminster.’

‘I am here now to make amends.’

He understood the significance and laughed. ‘By Our Lady, and so you shall!’ He flung his left arm about me and we joined those around the Prince. ‘Now, your royal grace,’ he boomed, happily breezing back into his duties as royal chamberlain, ‘the good bishop has had your rooms made ready. Are you hungry or shall you like to rest first?'

‘We should like to dine now, if you please, my lord.’ We? Oh very regal. The London’s huzzahs had made the colt’s head swell already. ‘My lord Hastings,’ he piped, flexing the Plantagenet muscles further. ‘We had hoped that my Lady Mother and my brother and sisters would come to greet me. Why are they not here?’

Hastings caught Richard’s warning glance behind the Prince’s head but before he could answer, I interrupted:

‘Yes, God’s Truth, here is thoughtless rudeness to his grace’s tender years. Surely out of motherly love the Queen…’ I gestured as though words could not describe her unkindness.

‘Unfortunately, my liege,’ Hastings began, choosing his words with care, ‘the Queen’s grace has gone into Westminster Sanctuary and taken Prince Richard, Princess Elizabeth and your other sisters with her. Your Uncle Lionel and the Marquis of Dorset are there as well.’

We had not shared that news earlier so our vaunting twelve-year-old was thrown off guard and not yet man enough to hide his disappointment.

‘But why, what has she to fear from me, from any of us?’

‘Well spoken, your royal grace,’ agreed Richard, raising his voice. ‘There is no reason for the Queen to deny her presence to her son and king. Maybe we should not ask of whom but why she is afraid?’

No one answered, Hastings shrugged and old Bishop Kempe tactfully intervened.

‘Let us partake of dinner. I am sure that a growing lad like your royal grace is hungry.’

As we all swarmed into the great hall like horse flies following a foal, the Prince repeated his questions to Hastings.

‘To be honest, sire,’ I heard him reply, ‘the Queen did not take the news of my lord of Gloucester escorting you to London in good heart.’ No, I’d wager she let some ripe Northamptonshire oaths rend the air – a few veils ripped and shoes thrown perhaps?

Fortunately, Hastings was not going to deal in trifles; his integrity was at stake.

‘To be truthful, your highness, she is afraid because she tried to raise an army against your Uncle Gloucester and snatched away most of your father’s treasury.’ Snatched? Huzzah, Hastings!

‘I do not understand,’ protested the boy, his eyes beseeching the Lord Chamberlain to tell him better news. Here, he seemed convinced, was one lord who had no hand in the arrest of his Uncle Rivers and Richard Grey.

‘I am sorry, your highness,’ declared Hastings sadly, ushering him to the table and seating him at the board, ‘but you would not want me to lie to you and there is much you need to know and understand. To put it plainly, your mother seeks to rule the realm on your behalf contrary to your father’s will. It is wrong of her and now that she has failed in her desire, she is afraid of my Lord Protector.’

Wearing an insouciant expression, although smug might be a better word, the Lord Protector made himself comfortable next to his nephew.

‘I mean her no harm,’ he said candidly, summoning a page to bring a basin so the Prince might cleanse his fingers.

‘Of course not,’ agreed Hastings, laying a reassuring hand on the boy’s forearm, before he took his place on the bench. ‘You should be aware also, sire, that your uncle, Edward Woodville, has seized much of the wealth your father left and has taken the fleet to sea. Surely that is proof of a conspiracy?’

‘The Devil he has!’ I exclaimed, pretending to look in consternation at my cousin. He still had to take Hastings to task on his lack of vigilance. He eyed the basin and sent me an expression that told me he would love to hurl it with its rosewater contents at his cheerful lordship. For now he took a deep breath and said softly:

‘Do you not see, Ned, that people are no longer as straightforward as once they seemed? When there is power at stake, men change. You are no longer a schoolboy but master of thousands of people and much wealth. I fear you must learn many hard truths from now on.’

Out of sight, Prince Edward’s fingers were crushing the tablecloth. ‘Uncle, I should like to speak with my mother.’

‘Summon her, sire. You are the King,’ he answered grimly, his mouth curled stubbornly down.

Time for me to join the measure.

‘Yes, command her to attend you, highness, and let us see if her love for your royal grace is greater than her fear of my Lord Protector.’

The lower royal lip pouted: ‘It is plain you have no love for her, Uncle Buckingham.’

Well, why not proclaim it to the world?

‘You mistake me, your highness! I mislike anyone who seeks power for its own sake and not for the good of the realm,’ I announced, and busied myself with eating in the silence which followed.

Richard cut across the tension. ‘We must convene the Royal Council at once, my lords. This land must still be governed despite family squabbles. What is the precise location of the Great Seal, Lord Hastings?’

The Lord Chamberlain finally had the grace to look apologetic.

‘We have it back now, my lord. Chancellor Rotherham did cause us some difficulty by delivering it to the Queen when he heard of Lord Rivers’ arrest, but my lord of Canterbury has it safe now and Rotherham is no longer chancellor. The Royal Council agreed on that.’

Whoops! Solved but not forgotten.

I enjoyed the dinner after that. When we eventually reached the cherries and wafers course, my cousin excused himself to Prince Edward.

‘Sire, there is much to do. If you will grant me leave, I shall go to Crosby Place and with your royal consent summon all the lords spiritual and temporal to meet tomorrow. Then I shall publicly take an oath of loyalty to you and pay you homage as king.’ He had raised his voice so all could hear him. ‘It is for the Royal Council to decide whether to appoint me Lord Protector as your father’s will decreed. I shall abide by their decision, whatever it is. Therefore, I beg you all, let no man address me as Lord Protector until I am acknowledged as such by England’s peers.’ There was cheering as he bent over Prince Edward’s hand.

‘I thank you, my lord of Gloucester,’ replied young Edward solemnly when all the cheers and table slaps had ceased. ‘I see now that your advice is both fair and wise.’

Ah, so touching. Richard’s eyes were moist.

‘God save your royal grace.’ His voice was husky with emotion. ‘The times are hard and we must do our best.’

 

I WAS glad to take my ease that night at my London house, the Manor of the Red Rose in Suffolk Lane. I had a thousand things to think about: firstly, speaking to the Lombard bankers about raising a loan, and then all the bread-and-butter matters. Tasks like having my barge refurbished, summoning a host of tailors, purchasing better horses and taking on extra cooks and servants for the banquets I intended to hold if my luck held.

The laughter of my carousing henchmen reached me from the house as I walked alone in the garden. They thought Dame Fortune my godmother. I knew otherwise; the Queen was like a wraith on the edge of my vision. Once her son was crowned, she would have my head.

My only protection against her would be to use my cousin as a shield and meantime build up an army of retainers, but that would require a vast amount of money. I could count on Gloucester rewarding me for my support for he was known to repay good service generously, but how long would that take? With the treasury echoing, he would need to confiscate lands and offices from the Woodvilles, and would the Royal Council agree to that? Besides, the inheritance that Dead Ned had always withheld from me could not be passed to me by a lord protector. The Bohun lands could only be handed over by a king. A grateful king.

I should have to think on that further. Meantime, the Royal Council was going to be a cursed nuisance, not to mention Richard’s plaguey regard for legality as well! If, as it seemed, he was only prepared to work within the framework of the council, then he was going to have no more power than a cripple with his wrists lopped off.

The third weight that was dragging on my liberated wheel of Fortune was Hastings, who was out to prove himself indispensable to his new masters. With his huge net of retainers, his popularity with the Londoners, and his grasp of the daily bread of kingship, he would be far more useful to Richard than I.

And then I stood beneath my rose arch with a foolish grin on my face. Between Hastings’ life-hardened plates of self-assurance I knew a chink where a rondel might find a tender and deadly opening.

 

CHAPTER 5

Cheapside is the beating heart of London and as we doglegged through to Bishopsgate next morning, I was hoping to sight the proud maiden with the auburn hair. Ha! Did King Solomon feel so perplexed trying to find his favourite concubine among his hundreds?

No one in London keeps to their path. Meandering slopsellers, lurking harlots, choosy housewives and maidservants burdened with buckets from the conduit. I searched their faces. With my banners known now, curtseys and smiles came my way but no haughty green eyes were raised to mine.

‘Seems as though you’ve won hearts already, Harry,’ Uncle Knyvett chuckled. ‘See, we’ll be having St Anthony’s pigs bowing soon. Here comes one now.’

‘Where’s your respect?’ I countered laughing, drawing rein to avoid the scavenging beast. Even blowing the horns, it would take us an age to get through. ‘Devil take it, let us go the longer way past London Stone.’ I had plenty of time before the Royal Council session.

‘Please you, your grace, I cannot thank you enough.’ Doctor Nandik urged his nag forward to my stirrup as we turned into St Swithin’s Lane. He had earned himself a place in my retinue this morning only because my sozzled chaplain had fallen down the stairs last night.

‘Think nothing of it, master scholar,’ I said indifferently, in no mood for hand licking but he kept riding at my heel, looking about proudly, the cheeky beggar. ‘Can you feel the vibration in the air, my lord?’

‘Vibration?’ A less hungry man would have seen my scowl but there was no stopping Nandik.

‘An uncanny energy. They say it happens with a new reign, the sense of renewal, a young king. Do you not sense it, your grace?’

By Sweet Jesu, he was right. That morning there was a difference, a change about the city, some unnatural force like the unleashing of energy I had felt that day when he had brought news of the King’s death. But this was considerably more powerful.

‘Does it not demand blood?’ I asked him. ‘Do not men say that King William Rufus, the Conqueror’s son, was slain in the New Forest as part of a ritual sacrifice to ensure the land’s fertility?’

‘Aye, my lord, and there are still some Earth-goddess worshippers among the people who may believe so, but did not the Lord Christ have to die before the seeds of Christianity could germinate?’

‘Hmm, maybe it is just that the ambitious scramble around frantically at the start of a new reign,’ I replied waspishly. Nandik was just such a presumptuous cur.

‘Yes, my lord,’ he muttered.

‘Or it could be that Lent is over and we are all full of good red meat again and energy for our labours?’ suggested Uncle Knyvett.

But I did feel the power in the air! If a man had the will and the ability, he could achieve anything; outwit two thousand men!

We passed Oxford Place. It was looking rundown; a reminder of failure. The earl who had owned it had not supported Dead Ned and was now a prisoner in one of our fortresses outside Calais. Before that he had been snuffling round France and Brittany for charity. I was never going to end up grovelling before foreigners, I resolved.

 

CROSBY Place, where the Royal Council was gathered to meet that morning, did not belong to Richard. A wool merchant, the late Sir John Crosby, had built it over twenty years ago and the present owner was content to rent it to Richard whenever he came to London. My cousin preferred to put up there rather than at his mother’s at Baynard’s Castle, a damp old palace down by the river. I now understood why. The house stood near to one of the city’s northern gates so he did not have to traverse London with his packhorses. But, more importantly, it was a beauteous stone and timber dwelling with comfort instead of defence as its first thought. Behind the gabled street front, there was a series of galleried courtyards. Certainly sufficient lodging to house my cousin’s retinue.

Sir James Tyrrell, one of my cousin’s officers and brother-in-law to Uncle Knyvett’s eldest son, saluted me in the stableyard. He did not escort me to the great hall. Instead we passed through a second courtyard, beneath a small archway and into a garden that was overlooked by a lodging wing on one side and a mighty wall on the other.

I halted, taking in the serenity of this little paradise. Scents of bruised lavender and freshly scythed grass eddied in the air. A miniature meadow drew my gaze. It was starred like a firmament with tiny flowers and at its heart stood an arbour of lathed trellis thick with twining rose. The wall on the north side sheltered fruit trees: quince, apple and pear, thick with blossoms. Borage, heartsease, woodruff and comfrey flowered modestly along the path. Within the flowerbeds rose spires of purple foxglove and unawakened buds of golden St John’s Wort. I breathed in the beauty and promised to lavish more love on my gardens at Brecknock and Thornbury, my manor near Bristol.

‘Your grace,’ Tyrrell prompted. So, I was not supposed to linger.

Why is it that people are always surprised when I demonstrate an interest in plants? Some men collect tapestries, others paintings or silverwork. Is a love of natural beauty unmanly or alien to a thirst for temporal power? The times when I escaped the poisonous air of the Woodvilles, the gardens of Westminster revived me. This one was perfect.

Tyrrell turned to the right and we entered a whitewashed passageway that flanked the great chamber and ended at a small oaken staircase. He led me up to a spacious room overlooking the garden. Its mullioned windows on the south side had been thrown open to gather in the sunshine.

Some half-dozen of the duke’s henchmen were sitting about a table, untidy with breakfast platters. They all rose, bowed to me and withdrew, except for Lovell and a man who was busy at the furthermost window, his back turned. He was feeding crumbs to a crowd of birdfolk. They jostled each other on the sill, quite unafraid of the duke’s favourite hound, who was salivating for a share. Seeing me, the dog sauntered across to smell my boots, and wagged his tail.

Lovell leaned across and shook me by the hand.

‘I can see we’ve sat at breakfast far too long, Dickon,’ he called out. ‘My lord of Buckingham is here.’

‘Good morning, Harry.’ It was Richard who stood at the open window. He looked round and here was the greatest marvel of any wonders I had seen that morning. Gone was the miserable black cloth, and in its place my cousin was clad in an open cote of dusky red brocade stitched with golden leaves and berries. Across his tilted shoulders lay the Yorkist collar of sunnes with the pendant silver boar glinting brightly, as though, like its master, it had slept well. Richard’s face above the high shirt collar was youthful again and the haggard expression he had worn like a favourite garment over the last week had been discarded. It was reassuring – if he had been sounding out support on the Royal Council, he had found no large rocks so far to shipwreck his intentions.

‘Harry,’ he exclaimed cheerfully, shaking me by the hand. ‘Holy Paul! I see I had better finish my breakfast. Time must be getting on. Though don’t imagine I have been idle this morning.’ I now knew him better than to think that. ‘Sit down. Would you like to try some of our cheese from Middleham? My wife had it sent down as a surprise.’ I cast a suspicious eye at the whitish crumble but I tried some out of politeness, making myself comfortable on the cushioned bench. Richard leaned back using the table like a misericord and finished his white bread. Part of the crust went to the dog drooling at his feet. I looked round. Lovell had gone and we were alone.

‘I’m glad you arrived in good time this morning, Harry. It occurred to me last night that I’ve given you scant thanks for all your help this last week.’

‘A pox on that,’ I protested. ‘The success was all your doing.’

‘Our doing,’ he insisted, ‘and I thank you heartily. You shall not go unrewarded, believe me.’
‘Cousin, I have had sufficient payment in seeing the demons who tormented my childhood brought low.’

‘And yet you seem in poor spirits.’ Yes, my chin was on my clasped fingers and I was staring somewhat morosely beyond a Venetian glass bowl of pickled French walnuts. ‘Have some.’ He prodded the glass towards me.

I sighed and selected one. ‘I feel like a child. My Saint’s Day is over and the gifts are all opened.’

‘I’ll keep one for you,’ he promised with a grin. He poured me out some methyglyn, which I detest, and pushed the pewter mug into my hands. ‘You’ve no reason to be in the dumps, Harry.’

My long fingers imprisoned the cold contours of the tankard. Richard’s dog sat down by my chair and thumped his tail hopefully. Both the hound and his master waited.

‘How can I explain?’ I murmured softly and let the silence grow before I sighed. ‘There are already a plaguey score of wretches outside my house wanting to know if I’ll speak to you or the King on their behalf. All my life no man has ever been kind to me unless he wanted something. God’s Truth, Richard.’ I swallowed. ‘What I mean is…these last few days I—’ Here, I broke off again. ‘All I know is that it has made up for a hell of…’ I could say no more and shielded my face with the heels of my palms. The dog uttered a whine of sympathy, rested his head on my knee, exercising his eyebrows in concern.

I am not sure if Richard was embarrassed by my outburst. Most men disdain any show of weakness as womanly but you have to show your belly to the leader of the pack to make him feel safe. I heard him slide off the table and walk to the window. His hound left me.

‘You think me your friend, do you, Harry? Yet I fall into the company you’ve just condemned. I needed your support at Northampton and Stony Stratford.’

‘No, you did not!’ I burst out miserably. ‘You had the balls to brazen it out. Anyway, you do not need me now. Devil take it, what can I offer you that you do not have already here in London?’

He was leaning back against the casement, watching me with concern.

‘Oh God, Richard, I know I’m sounding like a cursed milksop.’ I paused, amazed at my own outburst. I had not planned to say that. ‘Look, by noon today you’ll be confirmed as Lord Protector and your nephew will be crowned in a couple of weeks and all I’ll have to look forward to is back to dreary Wales.’ And the black dog of despair! I paced to the window and turned. ‘You know, I actually revelled in what happened at Stony Stratford, not merely seeing Rivers and Grey get what was coming to them but in using my dull mind for once, acting with you, pitting our wits against the Woodvilles, but now there will be wiser men than I to help you make decisions, men like Hastings.’

It was then he answered me with words that made my heart leap in gratitude:

‘Hastings is not of the blood royal.’

I bit my lip to stomach my emotion. ‘Oh, cousin, for that I thank you!’

He came back to the board. ‘You are a muttonhead, Harry. You grow too introspective and look for offence where none is offered. Do you imagine I shall shoo you into a corner like Loyaulté here and— Oh Holy Paul!’ I followed his startled gaze to the hourglass. He snatched up his hat, pointed the dog to its cushion and made for the door. I almost collided with him as he turned suddenly. ‘You know what happens this morning is vital? I’m not Lord Protector yet and if we lose control of the council we’re both likely to end up in the Tower under a Woodville axe.’

We! The most beauteous word in the world! ‘Yes, Lord damn it! You know you have my support.’

His smile was silky. ‘There, you see, I need you. Haven’t you forgotten something?’

I rushed back to grab my hat and gloves and mustered a smile as he waited for me.

‘That’s better,’ he said kindly. ‘Now, come on, cousin, let us be proud of our Plantagenet blood.’

I told myself that I had acted better than any player, that no one could have eavesdropped and faulted my sincerity. I was no better than Richard’s dog, loving him out of necessity and yet— And yet something buried in my conscience told me the words this morning had struck true, that deep within my soul I wanted my cousin’s friendship more than the entire world.

But I set those troubling thoughts aside as I followed him down to the great hall of Crosby Place. To hell with sentiment! I had to concentrate now on retaining my position as his principal supporter, and since time and distance are enemies to friendship, he was going to have to keep me by his side. I would stir up sufficient turbulence to make sure he had no choice.

 

MY entrance into the gathering of royal councillors in the Lord Protector’s company was just as I had schemed, but its triumphant manner was his making. We came in together through the side door onto the dais as two cousins, two dukes, two smiling equals!

The hall instantly hushed and the assembled royal councillors turned to us and bowed. No one was seated at the long trestle table yet. Our tardiness had given them time for gossip and speculative discourse.

I let my cousin go ahead of me to the centre of the dais otherwise I should have dwarfed him. Besides, I owed him that acknowledgment and to have stepped forward with him would have been an unpardonable ascension in the eyes of my peers, a body not known for their swift acceptance of matters new and persons untried.

‘My lords and gentlemen, welcome to you all,’ declared my beaming cousin, stepping down.

A wave of good mornings lapped us. Hastings, whose presence was always obvious from his height and noisy laughter, detached himself from the company of Lord Stanley and large old Morton, Bishop of Ely, and came forward to clasp my cousin by the hand. He saw him made comfortable in the chair of estate at the head of the table and then turned to me.

‘My lord of Buckingham.’ He gestured me to be seated at the top of the bench on Gloucester’s left hand, opposite my great uncle, Archbishop Bourchier. I could have embraced Hastings for his forethought.

‘Content, Harry?’ my cousin teased quietly, but before I could reply, John, Lord Howard appeared at his elbow and they instantly had their heads together talking about the missing fleet.

I had intended to watch the councillors taking their places, who sat with whom, but I should have been philistine to ignore the beauty of the hall. Because it was so recently built, there was light a-plenty. Remembering how gloomy all my halls were, I looked up with envy at the huge glass windows with their elegant five-leafed tracery. They let the sunlight surge in to play upon the black and white tiles and turn the motes of dust, stirred by our every movement, to flecks of gold. With all the light came warmth and so there was no need for the great fireplace behind us to be lit this morning, whereas in Brecknock there would have been few times when a fire did not burn in my hearth.

Without question, though, it was the wondrous oriel window with its extravagant use of glass that made me slack-jawed. If ever I could afford it, I resolved I should find a mason to install one at Thornbury, maybe a double one. This creation was magnificent, almost too bright to look at. The stonework above the window was exquisite, if a trifle exuberant. Plumes of ribbed stone soared to meet a complex star with a coat of arms, probably Crosby’s, on the central boss. As for the rest of the hall…

‘Is that not a glorious ceiling?’ I exclaimed, as my great uncle of Canterbury seated himself opposite me.

He twitched a bushy eyebrow upwards. ‘Impressive, excessive and wasteful! Crosby could have built a cathedral for the cost of this monstrosity.’

‘It is beautiful.’

‘Beauty is for God.’

I doubted he skimped on luxury. ‘I suppose your palaces don’t hold a candle to this then?’

He uttered a snort and muttered something about rising damp at Lambeth.

Perhaps his rebuke was good for it thrust me back to my purpose, to take measure of this gathering, to know my colleagues better than themselves, to render them predictable. But I was not the only one who did so. Ratcliffe, my cousin’s loyal retainer, was up in the minstrels’ gallery watching us all like a hawk on his daytime perch. I do not know if he had been sent up there for that very purpose but his master, noting my gaze, sent him a glance that bade the man come and be seated.

Looking down the table, the Royal Council were predictably drawn from the three major divisions of our hierarchy. Noblemen made up the largest group. We had a card hand of bishops, mostly caesarean clergy more interested in high office than high mass. Finally, in the minority, there were the commoners at the end of the table. This was the most vulnerable group because they owed their positions to favour and needed to continually prove themselves invaluable.

The hall hushed as Richard turned to face us, tossing his hanging sleeves behind him. Two secretaries drew up stools at oblique angles from his chair and everyone became attentive. Once Ratcliffe swiftly took his place with an apology, the doors adjoining the hall were closed and I heard the clink of steel as Richard’s guards positioned themselves outside.

While my uncle of Canterbury delivered a prayer followed by an unnecessary homily, I reshuffled the councillors into their affinities. Among the lords, apart from myself, Richard could probably rely on his brother-in-law, John, Duke of Suffolk, and Suffolk’s son, the Earl of Lincoln; Francis, Viscount Lovell, of course; and Lord Howard and his son, Thomas. And Hastings?

Lord Hastings was sitting with the men he had been speaking with earlier, both officers of the late king’s household; his former brother-in-law, Lord Thomas Stanley, now married to Lady Margaret Beaufort, my erstwhile aunt, and opposite the pair of them was the podgy bulk of Morton, Bishop of Ely. Sir William Catesby, less dusty than I had seen him last, was further down the table.

The latter caught my glance and nodded a greeting. How devoted was he? What would make him heave Hastings off his back?

The scions of the Woodville party were noticeably absent. With two of her kinsmen in sanctuary, three in prison and one at sea, Elizabeth had left herself no glib defender. Old Rotherham, Archbishop of York, was in no position to command a hearing after his foolishness over the Great Seal and he looked like a child about to wet himself, expecting a rebuke at any moment. The other obvious Woodville supporter had to be Master Oliver King, the Prince’s tutor from Ludlow, who had been sensibly reticent about his loyalties since Stony Stratford. Being a mere schoolmaster, his views were not likely to be taken seriously anyway.

Richard moved the meeting along firmly. Dead Ned’s will was accepted and not one voice protested against my cousin becoming Lord Protector. There was little redistribution of offices: the post of Lord Chancellor was bestowed upon Russell, Bishop of Lincoln, an ecclesiastic with a sharp legal mind, who was guaranteed not to do anything exciting. The Privy Seal went to Gunthorpe, the learned Dean of Wells, and John Wode, the Speaker of the Commons, one of Richard’s supporters, became Lord Treasurer. Lord Hastings was to continue as Lord Chamberlain, and Lord Stanley as High Steward, both posts that brought them into close contact with the new little king.

The appointments marked a smooth beginning to the protectorate but there was as yet nothing for me. I shared disappointment with the plump, dewlapped face belonging to Bishop Morton.

I could admit to some respect for him. The wily old fellow’s past was a see-saw. He had supported the House of Lancaster until Dead Ned annihilated them and then, because he was too long in the tooth to keep snuffling round foreign courts like a beggar, he grovelled to Edward and hopped onto the Royal Council. Definitely not a man of the cloth. I doubt he could tell you what the inside of his cathedral looked like even if you slammed him naked against a wall and threatened a flogging.

Well, even if Morton might have preferred Elizabeth as regent instead of Richard, he certainly could not have faulted our new Lord Protector on his efficiency. My cousin had brought himself up to date with every dispatch and tidied the agendum into a reverse order of urgency. God’s Truth, he handled the Royal Council like a cunning wife, deferring to them the decisions on lesser matters. It had me wondering if he had played me the same way at Northampton. Any rate, the charm and gloves, of course, were to soften these worthies for the more controversial issues still on the table – the date of the coronation and the fate of Rivers, Grey and Vaughan.

With all the invitations to be sent out, the ceremonial clothing to be made, and the fuss and megrims that go with peacetime coronations, he announced that it seemed sensible to delay the crowning until Tuesday 24th June, almost two months hence. Most of the council mercifully voted for what seemed such a wise recommendation. I was able to uncross my fingers. It would have been folly to crown a Woodville king with the fleet missing and that hornet Elizabeth refusing to accept the impotent role of queen-dowager. Having a postponement extended the opportunity to seize back the former and settle the latter.

It was only when Hastings raised the subject of the boy’s lodging that at last I found a voice.

‘Since his mother has looted Westminster, let his highness go and live at the Tower. Is it not customary for a king to stay there anyway before being crowned? And the city will be delighted. Besides, he’ll enjoy looking at the shipping and the lions.’

I hoped they would maul him.

Across from me, my great uncle stirred. ‘But surely if our little king moves into Westminster, the Queen might be induced to leave the sanctuary.’ No, not Westminster! His mother would be smuggling messages across the yard to turn the boy against us.

‘You are an optimist, uncle. It would be like asking the Pope to move to London.’

‘Practicalities, archbishop,’ Hastings exclaimed, waving what looked to be a list. ‘My lord of Buckingham is perfectly correct. I have gone through the palace inventory and I can assure you what is left is not fit for a king to sit on let alone eat off. It is a wonder she did not take the throne.’

Someone muttered something about close stools and there was a rumble of laughter further down.

‘Then that is settled,’ said Richard swiftly and moved on to the final matter which he had saved until last hoping that dinnertime hunger would keep the discussion short. ‘I think you all realise now that there was an attempt by the Queen’s kin to take the government of the realm completely into their own hands. The seizure of the fleet, the rifling of the treasury and their seeking refuge in sanctuary are, I think, sufficient proof. Given that evidence, I feel that the events which took place during his highness’s journey to London are no longer subject to misconception. My lord of Buckingham and myself were outnumbered but fortunately not outwitted. We ordered the arrest of Rivers, Grey and Vaughan without your permission, my lords, but as God is my witness, the times demanded swift action. I now submit that action to your approval. Is it your wish that these lords be set at liberty?’

‘God forbid!’ exclaimed Hastings. ‘Keep them where you can watch them.’

‘Some might say they should be tried for treason,’ I pointed out. That went down like a carque with a gash in its side.

‘Arraign ’em for conspiracy!’ Hastings again, trying to tilt the balance.

Howard and several of the earls nodded but old Archbishop Rotherham with his chancellorship gone had nothing to lose by disagreeing.

‘My lords Gloucester and Buckingham, there is no proof that Rivers and Grey intended to take you prisoner. It is highly appropriate that the Prince should have brought a large retinue from Ludlow and flattering to his royal person that Grey should ride to meet him with a large number of followers.’

‘For Heaven’s sake, Rotherham!’ snapped Hastings, slapping the table. ‘We argued all this out before Grey left London. He did not need to take so many.’

‘Let me finish if you please, Lord Hastings.’ Feathers ruffled, the archbishop jutted his shoulders like a nesting hen resettling. ‘What I am saying is that you cannot try someone for a crime that has not been committed. You cannot hang a man for wanting to murder, only for the deed itself.’

‘Isn’t that what treason is?’ I asked dryly. ‘Wishing you had one king instead of another.’

‘It was not a proven act,’ persisted Rotherham. ‘Did they raise one sword against you, my Lord of Gloucester? Did they?’

‘I cannot say that they did, Rotherham, but they would have done if we had not forestalled them. I’d stake my duchy on it.’

‘And I mine!’ I exclaimed.

The new Chancellor, Bishop Russell, cleared his throat. ‘May I ask what charge you wish to bring against them, your graces?’

‘Treason,’ I insisted. ‘Treason against the Lord Protector!’

‘Without wishing to take sides, my lords, I feel I must point out that such a charge would not stand up in court.’ Russell gestured apologetically. ‘Your grace is only confirmed as Lord Protector from today.’

Oaths exploded from Hastings and myself, but our freshly-minted chancellor raised his hand for silence. ‘His grace of Gloucester assures us that he intends to rule with the assent and advice of the Royal Council.’ My cousin inclined his head solemnly. ‘Therefore, ipso facto,’ Russell pressed, ‘there could be no treason against the Lord Protector until an hour ago.’

‘What would you have us do then, chancellor?’ I asked smoothly. ‘Release Rivers and Grey so they can raise an army to “rescue” the Prince from us? Why in Hell are the Queen, Dorset and the Bishop Salisbury skulking in sanctuary if they are innocent? My lords, let us be sensible about this. There was a conspiracy. The Queen tried to become regent and failed. It is obvious Rivers and Grey were behind her.’

Rotherham sucked in his cheeks and shuffled the papers in front of him with lowered gaze.

‘Aye, let’s not talk so soft—’ The Duke of Suffolk who had been busy cleaning the nails of his left hand with the forefinger of his right, ceased his preoccupation, shifted his large bulk and leaned forward. ‘If there is still a danger, let Rivers and the others remain in custody for the time being. Blust me, a few weeks won’t hurt ’em. You’ll see, they’ll have had enough of it by the coronation and they’ll be quite glad to stop jannicking around and accept my Lord Protector is going to govern this realm.’ He grinned at Richard and added, ‘With the advice and consent of this council, of course.’ His great hand slammed down on the table, ‘An’ now if you don’t mind, I'm for my dinner!’

I caught my cousin’s side glance and responded with an almost invisible shrug, and he followed my gaze down to where the Warden of the Cinque Ports had already nodded off. It was long past noon, a lot of rumbling had been coming from the part of the table where most of the bishops were sitting.

Letting out a deep breath, our new Lord Protector smiled at Suffolk. ‘As you say, my lord, there is no need for haste in this matter. And as for dinner, well, I thank you all for your attendance and good counsel and wish you a hearty appetite!’ He scraped back his chair, and we all rose and bowed towards him. The meeting was over.

I took my time leaving the board. I wanted to watch the handshakes and polite exchanges. Richard, I observed, departed with Howard, and Morton and Rotherham hastened out together. No one else was in a hurry especially as the doors were opened to let in servants bearing flagons and wafers.

Lord Stanley came to pay me his respects. He was a silent doleful type but one that bore watching because he was always safely washed ashore whatever the political tide. Here he was, Steward of the Royal Household once again.

He asked after Cat and the children.

‘And how is Aunt Margaret?’ I enquired solicitously. ‘Are her wrists still bad?’ I hoped so. Margaret Beaufort, mother of the fugitive Henry Tudor, was like the worst sort of mother superior (and I don’t mean the ones that ride to hounds and wear silk chemises beneath their habits).

‘Doesn’t complain,’ Stanley said nasally. He gave one of his habitual pauses then added, ‘Damp weather hasn’t helped.’

‘Has she tried a copper amulet? We have an old woman at Brecknock who suffered terribly until one of the bards told her to wear copper, so her son had one fashioned for her and she says the pain almost completely went. She could hardly move her fingers but now she can sew again.’ A miserable old hag, she is, too.

‘I’ll tell Margaret, thank you.’ Another tedious pause. ‘She’s down for t’ coronation. You are welcome to come by.’

‘Thank you.’ I had rather gouge my eye out with an iron brand.

I dislike it when I hear the sound of someone’s phlegm being dragged up their throat. He looked to spit it up onto the great hall tiles and then thought better and tugged a cloth from his sleeve.

‘I’ll have an amulet made,’ I offered. ‘I’ll be curious to see if it works for her as well.’

‘A kind thought, lad. Here’s Hastings.’ He departed holding the joint of his finger against his left nostril trying to snort away the blockage in his right. I turned with relief to Hastings’ suaver attentions. Catesby was beside him, anxious to bow over my hand. He greeted me and discreetly withdrew.

‘Bright fellow, that one,’ muttered Hastings. His attention veered as he admired a passing serving wench. ‘Always useful to have a few tame lawyers about the place. If it hadn’t been for Catesby, I’d be a far poorer man, I can tell you. Land tenure can tie you up in the courts until the Second Coming.’ He reached out and tweaked the returning girl’s bottom and received a purr of a look over her shoulder. ‘Anything I can do for you while you are in London, Harry?’ It was clear what he meant.

‘Are you encouraging infidelity, my lord?’ I replied, wondering if he knew where the demoiselle with auburn hair dwelled.

‘In a dutiful Christian like you, Harry? Perish the thought.’ He lowered his voice confidentially, ‘You did a nice piece of work this morning, if I may say so.’

It was kind of him but then compliments are free.

‘I am learning, my lord.’ Oh yes, I am learning.

 

I WAS not sure whether to hie it back to my house for dinner. Maybe Richard would expect me to join him so I took myself back to the little garden and sat down on the stone seat. The euphoria of power was still in my breathing, the black dog of despair was chained back at Brecknock and I was able to open my senses and let the beauty of the world fill my heart.

A male dove with puffed-out snowy breast and spread of tail feathers disappeared up the path in pursuit of his haughty she-dove. I smiled, thinking of my own quest for the green-eyed girl. Master Dove’s conquest would be a fleeting pleasure, over in an instant. If I ever found her, mine might be also, for love had ever eluded me.

The sweet voices of the black nuns of St Helen’s in their chapel beyond the wall of Crosby Place rose in an anthem, gently rousing me from my reverie. A bumble bee overladen with tiny buckets of pollen flew clumsily past me humming a descant and a ladybird in scarlet and black Stafford colours landed on the pleats of my green doublet and trundled cheerfully over the velvet furrows until I found a better place for it to foray. I sat there watching its progress in utter contentment until Tyrrell’s arrival sent the doves panicking up from beyond the hedge in a rasp of wings.

 

OUR new Lord Protector was pacing the upper chamber, his thin lips tight with displeasure. ‘Dorset has fled the sanctuary!’ he exclaimed on seeing me.

‘Has he indeed?’ No wonder that Lovell and Ratcliffe were looking whipped. ‘When did this happen?’

Lovell snorted. ‘Last night. Damn whoreson has to be in the city still. An apprentice recognised him down near Aldersgate and raised the hue and cry but he got away.’

A map of London lay pinioned by candlesticks upon the board. I wandered over to peer at it. Loyaulté pattered after me, nudging my hand for attention.

‘Ah, talking of whores,’ I murmured, ‘doesn’t Dorset’s new lover, Mistress Shore, live around there?’

Witty Elizabeth Shore had been Ned’s mistress. The third panel of a lascivious triptych.

‘We’ve had her house under watch,’ Ratcliffe answered. ‘In my opinion, he’s hiding out in the fields. If I were in his shoes, I should head down the river. He’ll be looking for a ship to join Edward Woodville at sea.’

How far could Richard be pushed? I looked up from fondling Loyaulté’s scruff. ‘I say loose the dogs on him while he’s still in the open!’

‘But…but he’s a nobleman,’ protested Lovell.

I felt no compassion. If Hastings had been Dead Ned’s whoremaster, Dorset had been the King’s devil, tempting him to excess. I met my moral cousin’s stare.

‘Do it!’ he told Ratcliffe.

Huzzah for Richard! I could have hurled my hat in the air like some sweaty apprentice.

Another Woodville almost in the pot.

 

CHAPTER 6

The dogs never sniffed out Dorset although the packs ran hither and thither from Clerks’ Well across to Shoreditch every day for a week. Somewhere along the warrens that flanked the Thames, the Woodville rat had found a rope betwixt quay and ship. Nevertheless we sent agents down to Devon to keep watch on his wife lest he send to her for money. No doubt he would skulk in France or Brittany until our new king came of age and then he would come back to scavenge.

London was too busy feasting to care a jot. Prince Edward’s household was set up in the royal apartments at the Tower and the royal councillors divided their time between there and Crosby Place like cheerful bigamists.

‘Have a care, Harry, or you’ll be getting a belly on you.’ Uncle Knyvett jabbed a finger into my waist as the tailors measured me for my coronation clothes. He was right: life had been a whirligig of banquets, all part of the game to discover whether my ‘good lordship’ would prove more useful than Hastings’. Whoever had the ear of the Lord Protector needed to be fed and watered. A good job Richard had two!

The grovels were never blatant, merely causal references between the loach in green sauce and the suckling pig with hot codlings, or a meaningful look above the raised cup. Knights, merchants, the desperate and the despicable, they hopped about my Lord Protector’s friends like hungry fleas.

Out of my alliance with my cousin was growing something greater than respect. I feared it might be the altruistic friendship that forgives shortcomings and I found it disturbing. Why? Well, isn’t friendship a form of slavery, a shackle of sentiment that clouds reason and dulls ambition?

As if to counteract these spasms of purity, I burned the candles to their stubs as I caressed the pretty flesh that slid between my bedsheets, imagining each wench to be my elusive green-eyed sylph. And then one morning I was getting into my barge on the watersteps of Baynards Castle after a honeycakes and kiss-your-hand-audience with Proud Cis, Richard’s mother, the Duchess of York, when I saw her.

Her. Mid-river, rowed by a water boatman. The girl who had been haunting my dreams. She was sitting stately as any princess with some plumpish, heavily-veiled woman beside her.

I hauled my dawdling Uncle Knyvett onto the barge, grabbed my helmsman by the arm and pointed. ‘Matthew, follow that boat!’

 

YOU would not think we could lose her but we did. The little craft swiftly wove in among the merchant barques off Queenhythe, whereas my oarsmen battled to keep our lumbering barge clear of the mooring ropes and the swarm of small wherries bearing folk to the city. By the time we reached the landing steps, she and her companion had disappeared.

‘You can’t go chasing after virgins, Harry,’ muttered Uncle Knyvett, as we resumed our journey back to Dowgate. ‘Didn’t you listen to your cousin’s lecture in Stony Stratford? It’s all wedding rings and fidelity from now on.’

‘Would you like a swim among the turds?’ I countered sweetly. ‘He’s not married to Cat Woodville.’

But Uncle Knyvett was right. I had more important matters on my agendum.

‘What was the harvest from the taverns last night?’ I asked Pershall as he dressed me for dinner at Goldsmiths’ Hall.

‘Interesting, your grace. The lads all went out stealthylike, without the livery, as you requested.’

‘And the gossip?’

‘Gossip is “Uncle Dick from up north” would like to make himself king. Aye, and they’re giving a new thirly-whirly to the old scandal about her ladyship of York.’

‘The Flemish archer?’ I smiled dismissively. I was more intent on wondering what I could do to ensure that Richard fulfilled the alehouse prophecy.

‘No, my lord, just you wait on… While you were seeing her grace this morning, I chewed some cud with one of her grooms, an ancient what used to go on campaign with the old duke. Seems to me his lordship was away slaughterin’ the Frogs or some other poxy whoresons when King Ned was conceived.’

‘Godssakes, Pershall, you never asked him direct?’

‘No, of course not. Circumloc… well, whatever, is one of my many talents.’

‘Hmm, but if—’

‘Aye, if,’ he cut in. ‘It would mean that them little princes have no royal blood, your grace, and your cousin of Gloucester is the rightful heir. But the funny thing is the rumours aren’t coming from the Lord Protector’s affinity, not with him being her son and so forth. No, indeed, my lord, there was a fine brawl at the Swan with some of his grace’s White Boar fellows defending my lady’s good name. No, my money’s on someone else trying to stir up mischief. It wouldn’t be Lord Hastings neither. His men are all puffed up like courtin’ pigeons about serving the new king.’

‘Hmm.’ I blew out my cheeks pensively. ‘Ask Sir Nicholas to give our lads some more ale money for tonight and tell them to fan the flames – the talk about Proud Cis and the archer – hot as they can.’ I wanted people speculating that if Dead Ned had no true Yorkist blood, then the Prince had none either.

Pershall bowed. ‘It shall be done. An’ I should hire a food taster if I was you, your grace, and afore you say it, I’m not putting my hand up for the extra wages.’

‘Pershall?’

He grinned at my perplexed face. ‘Word is the Queen would like to poison you and your cousin Northern Dick.’

And who was spreading that one?

 

PERHAPS Richard did have a food taster or maybe the Queen lacked imagination. I survived supper at Crosby Place next evening and returned to find a huffy Pershall roosting on the stairs to my bedchamber.

‘You might have told me you had made an arrangement, your grace,’ he muttered, springing to his feet. ‘An’ what with Lord Hastings havin’ sent you a pretty harlot for supper tied up with a ribbon.’

‘An arrangement? What arrangement?’

‘Well, you tell me, my lord. But all I know is there’s two of ’em up there. I know you like a threesome o’times, my lord, but I don’t think those two are like to get along. Morelike scratch each other’s eyes out. I’ve put ’em in separate rooms so you can have one at a time if you’d rather. Do you want to bang on the floor when you’ve finished?’

I stared at him in amazement and then with a deep breath, thrust my hat and cloak at him and headed softly up the stairs. I went furtively to the nearest door and glanced in. A young woman was lolling against my pillows, grooming her nails. It was the serving wench that Hastings had goosed that first morning at Crosby Place (and probably had a leg over since). I did not want his leftovers.

‘My cousin will have a visitation from God if he hears of this,’ I muttered. ‘Pay her off!’

‘I daresay it will be noisy removing her.’

‘I shall be noisy if you do not. You and Bannaster shift her hence or you can both look for another master.’

‘But she’s a beauty,’ whispered Pershall to torment me.

‘So is the Queen.’ I turned to him again. ‘You say there are two? Where in Sweet Christ’s name is the other one?’

Smirking, he pointed to one of the guest chambers and then, with a grin, strode across and opened the door.

‘My lady, his grace of Buckingham.’

I could have kicked the grinning sot from here to Greenwich. He had left me with no choice but to go in.

Sometimes Fortune smashes her fist into us as though we are butter. That’s how I felt. Before me stood the young woman with the auburn hair and green eyes.

She curtsied formally, her gaze modestly on my toecaps and then she lifted her lashes and looked in my face with eyes like sanded emeralds. I had the impression of fragility but her healthy, honey skin denied that. Nor, I hazarded, was she untouched, for there was no rigidity in her bearing but a gracious confidence. I had been wrong in thinking her scarce out of childhood. I was wrong in every way save that she was very beautiful.

‘My lady,’ I began, for unquestionably my visitor was no ploughman’s get and the flattery would do no harm. ‘I pray you be seated. Shall you take some refreshment?’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was as I had imagined, soft and rich yet with a recognizable burr of the west that was quite delightful. ‘Your man has looked after me very well, my lord. I did not think to wait so long.’ Her lips tightened and for an instant she betrayed some uncertainty.

‘It is almost curfew, my lady.’

‘Unfortunately, yes, my lord.’

I swallowed. I was growing hard just drinking in her beauty. In my imagination I was already stripping away the triangle of green silk covering her breasts, sliding my hand beneath her generous collar.

‘I do not seek to delay you, my lord. I…I am here to give you a petition.’ That shot my gaze up from where her necklace of coral and crystal lay above her delicious cleavage.

‘A petition?’ The flare of disappointment in my eyes must have been high as St Paul’s spire save that she was too busy drawing out a sealed parchment from beneath her belt to notice.

‘I apologise that I deluded your attendants, my lord, but the matter is vital.’

‘I see.’ I reached the window and opened the lower lights. How absurd that anything but self interest could have drawn her here. I took a deep breath of the chill air, thankful my shaft was subsiding to flaccidity.

‘Your grace, please?’ Passion and despair fought in her voice.

‘I do not usually consider petitions at this time of night, demoiselle,’ I answered over my shoulder. ‘Do your parents know you are here?’

‘I doubt it since you have imprisoned my father.’

I turned abruptly. ‘I have not imprisoned anyone.’ Except a Welsh whoreson, who had been cutting the leather straps of our horses’ harnesses in the fall, and was still locked up in Brecknock keep.

‘Then one of us is a liar, my lord of Buckingham, for my father is Anthony, Lord Rivers.’

‘What? Rivers does not have a daughter.’

‘Yes, he does.’ Defiance blazed in her voice as though her entire life had been a battle for respect. ‘Acknowledged before witnesses. I’m his bastard.’

The bastard from Bristol way. I could only stare at her, cursing Heaven for a very bad jest. Oh Jesu, a very bad jest. Tainted blood. My wife’s niece. Another damned Woodville.

‘My name is Margaret.’ I felt the scarring in her, heard the pain of childhood. Some compassion must have flowed out of me for her head jerked upright as though I had openly voiced a slur upon her virtue. So she did not want my pity. I could understand that.

Rivers’ daughter. Did she love her father whom she must have hardly ever seen? Did he love her? No matter, I would no more set him free than I would bare my throat to a bloody-fanged wolf. Just my cursed luck, why did she have to be a Woodville?

She had set the petition on the small table and stood watching me with her hands clasped between her breasts. In the silence between us, the sudden unpleasant thumps of wall and stifled curses beyond the door echoed louder than cannon fire.

‘Is that the cat being put out for the night?’ Margaret Woodville asked dryly. She meant to rile, a corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

‘Something like that,’ I managed to answer, wishing I might cross to the aumery and pour myself a throat-searing mouthful.

The haphazard knocks and grunts receded down the stairs. My visitor’s mouth finally serifed into a faint smile. Oh, Devil’s arse! She had seen the other wench.

‘I should have thought a man like you would have better taste.’ Then she instantly looked ashamed and murmured an apology. But it had been like having my cheek scratched by a diamond ring. Give her due, the wench had courage but if she wanted mercy for the paradox she called her father, she was dancing with the devil.

‘I do have taste, mistress. It is mirrored in my eyes at this very moment.’ She did not like that but before she could insult me further, I added swiftly, ‘But, of course, you are here to discuss some means of twisting the screws on me.’

‘Is there any, my lord?’ A coin of hope flung in a saint’s spring. Did she not know the saints do not listen? I might, however. Playing games with her could be amusing.

‘There is always hope but I cannot help you, mistress. You would be better speaking to the Lord Protector since it was on his orders that your father was arrested. I am sure if you throw yourself on your knees and wash his shoe beaks with your tears…’

She flicked a disdainful glance at my clean ones and picked up her unopened letter. ‘I beg your pardon then for disturbing you, your grace.’ Too proud to bargain.

‘Believe me, I am sorry I cannot assist you.’

Resentment chilled those green eyes. Cannot or will not?

I took hold the door handle and nearly collided with Pershall. The whoreson had been eavesdropping.

‘Ah, there you are,’ I said with sweetness, observing the parallel scratches down the left side of his neck. ‘Seek out Bannaster and ask him to give this young woman an escort to…?’ I looked round at Mistress Woodville with a querying eyebrow.

She hesitated, but the thought of making her way back alone across the city dismayed her more. ‘St Martin Le Grand, your grace,’ she admitted. Presumably the Queen drew the line at accommodating bastards in Westminster Sanctuary.

‘Ah, near Aldersgate?’ I returned towards her.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Seen hide or hair of your cousin my lord of Dorset then, mistress?’

Her cheeks sunk into concaves. ‘No, my lord.’

I do not think it was my sudden proximity that made her eyelids shield her eyes like pretty visors.

‘But there was a great to do, Mistress Woodville. A hue and cry within and without the gate, all over the ward you are dwelling. Surely you must have heard that?’

‘I heard the baying of dogs, my lord, out in the fields.’ Her chin rose and those green eyes were staring up into mine without blinking.

I drew a deep breath. Another world, another name, I would have kissed her.

There were voices at the foot of the stairs.

‘It sounds as though your escort awaits you. Join the petitioners at Crosby Place, mistress. Who knows, his grace may be moved by your arguments – if you have any.’

‘Or the King might,’ she countered bravely. ‘He is my cousin as well.’

A tight smile from me. ‘A little cousin still, but I am sure he will listen.’ I gestured that she proceed to the door and stood there with my hand upon the latch but half out on the landing, she turned.

‘Please.’ Just the touch of her hand on my wrist was like a summer fire on dry kindling. ‘I truly beg your pardon for my rudeness. Please may we speak again?’

Could Samson resist Delilah, her breath sweet, her eyes moist? A Delilah Woodville? No, he could not.

‘I am sure our paths will cross again, demoiselle.’

 

ATTENDING the morning court of an uncrowned twelve year old in his apartments at the Tower of London was like watching a score of grown birds feeding a cuckoo chick. As soon as I could leave without giving offence, I made my excuses and withdrew with my retainers.

Uncle Knyvett gave me the wink that he wanted a word so I gestured our entourage to go towards the water gate where my barge was waiting, and let him pluck me by the elbow. He drew me aside beneath the cherry trees of the inner bailey.

‘A waste of a good morning,’ I commented, staring up the walls of the Wakefield Tower where Henry VI had been murdered.

‘You can say that again. By the saints, Harry. This whole business is woolly. Do you know what I mean? If you have a strong man as king, well, he’s the King and what he commands, everyone does. But with a boy, particularly this one.’ He pulled a face. ‘I reckon we are looking at a future Saul not a Solomon, and it doesn’t bode well for you, my lad.’ I nodded and let him have his head. ‘What’s more, if the old tale of Proud Cis and the Flemish soldier of Rouen is true, then that pimply boy preening himself back there has no more royal blood than I do. So, what I am thinking, Harry, is that Richard of Gloucester would make an exceptional king.’

‘That’s treason, Uncle Will,’ I scolded.

‘And what else occurred to me, Harry,’ continued Uncle Knyvett, as though he had just discovered that milk comes from cows, ‘and I’m sure to you too, was that if the plague were to carry off Gloucester next August, then you’d be the next man for the throne.’

‘Christ, uncle, does the sun go round the earth?’ Me, King of England? Of course, as the last heir of Lancaster, I had dreamed of that. But there was still Richard’s legitimate nine year old lad, although he was reputed to be delicate, unlikely to make old bones – unhealthy issue from two people closely related.

‘Let us come at this from another direction then. What do you reckon would prevent Gloucester becoming king, Harry?’

‘Apart from his grace’s conscience which is as big as Canterbury Cathedral?’

He grinned. ‘Aye, apart from that little hiccough?’

‘Hmm, let me see, if England was governed from York, he would not have a problem, but this is London and the people here don’t know enough of him to trust him. I’d say that if the Queen and Hastings decided to give each other the kiss of peace, they could whistle up the whole of southern England and the midlands against us. Gloucester doesn’t see it. He thinks everyone except the Woodvilles loves him because he’s been a good boy up north.’

Uncle Knyvett rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘Then you just have to make sure Hastings and her ladyship do not become friends.’

‘Or…’ My mind was whirling. What coincidence of planets would make Richard take the throne? ‘Heigh-ho, that might be the answer, uncle!’ I exclaimed, shaking his hanging sleeves. ‘We have to make sure they do become friends again.’

He pulled away. ‘No, come on, that’s like asking a man to believe in fairies, Harry. The woman wants his head. She’ll bide her time until the boy’s of age and then the moment Hastings sets a foot wrong, she’ll have the kites pecking his lordship’s handsome eyes out on London Bridge.’

‘Ah, but they do not have to be really friends,’ I said softly. ‘Gloucester just has to believe they are.’

He snorted. ‘Well, I haven’t a poxy clue what you are raving about. I just know that my head would feel safer on my shoulders if Gloucester were really in charge.’

 

THE unkind hint that Uncle Dick was reaching for his nephew’s crown became as common as dog dung and the citizens buzzed in like flies to investigate the stink. You could sense it riding through East Cheap to Crosby Place. The people whispered at the street corners, three here, four there, glancing suspiciously at strangers, noting the badges of the men-at-arms outside the cookshops and brothels. Hastings would have smelled it by now and I would also make sure the miasma crept under Westminster Sanctuary’s door.

It was worth the trouble. A day or so later, Elizabeth, bored by the company of her children, proved herself easy bread to the mould of fear. She did just what I hoped: she decided that a reconciled local enemy might be better than a multitude of absent friends. A pretty, perfumed messenger – Mistress Shore – was summoned to the sanctuary and given a letter of loving friendship for Lord Hastings.

How did I know that? Well, although Richard had placed a cordon of men-at-arms around the sanctuary, he wasn’t going to deny his little nieces the joy of clean sheets, and laundresses do like to chatter. So when Ratcliffe informed us that our horny Lord Chamberlain was now playing the goat with Mistress Shore every evening, I rubbed my hands with delight. It as was as good as hanging himself with one of her garters. By night she made love to the old wretch and then each morning she visited the sanctuary with sweets for the royal children and a progress report for Elizabeth. I would have wagered my dukedom that Dorset had hidden at her house as well before he sprinted out across the fields.

 

DANGER should make a wise man careful, but when I glimpsed Mistress Woodville in line with other petitioners at Crosby Place next morning in the drizzle, I could not resist desiring her favour. Very stoic she looked, holding up a square of cered leather above her head. Soon her arms would tire, and the rain would bedraggle her starched veil.

‘Nick, there is a young woman halfway down the line in a gooseturd green gown with a long mustard cloak. Pluck her out and bring her to the other door to the Great Chamber.’

 

RICHARD was not pleased that I had rearranged his queue; probably due to his damnable sense of justice and the consequences of being forced to tidy his bed as a page.

‘You are not going to tell me any more about this woman, are you?’ he muttered, grumpy but curious.

‘I hardly know anything about her either, cousin, but it’s fair that you see her.’ The word ‘fair’ hooked him. He sent Tyrrell to bring Margaret Woodville in.

‘Mistress Poyntz, your graces.’

I thought Tyrrell must have found the wrong woman and my jaw slackened to see it was indeed Margaret Woodville. The little witch had never told me she was married. The loosened hair of the previous evening had been a way to gull my servants, not to mention their master.

She curtsied to us both, self-conscious like any woman of her sodden hem and dripping headdress.

‘Present your petition to his grace, madame,’ I instructed her. ‘Then you may stand by the fire and warm yourself.’

Frowning, my cousin observed her over steepled fingers and his pile of papers. His secretaries at either end of the board inspected her with discreet admiration. Her firm breasts and graceful neck and shoulders would have turned most men’s heads.

She darted me a swift look of gratitude before she loosened the ties of her cloak and fumbled nervously with the drawstring leather bag hanging from her girdle. After setting her petition before Richard, she retired meekly to stand before the hearth. Loyaulté catching the dripping edge of her cloak woke and shifted away with a look of displeasure that matched his master’s.

‘You are Lord Rivers’ bastard daughter?’ asked my cousin.

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Well, I honour you for your loyalty to your father, Mistress Poyntz, but it is up to the Royal Council, not I, to grant your father his freedom.’

She came forward once more, glancing at me again before meeting the Lord Protector’s scrutiny. Some pigs might fly but this white boar had his cloven hooves firmly planted.

‘If your graces would speak to the Royal Council on his behalf.’ Her beseeching face looked to us in turn. I kept my expression objective; Richard’s was weary.

‘Are you requesting me to condone treason, madame?’ He leaned forward again. ‘Your father’s governance of the Prince of Wales must have deluded him into believing that he should govern England as well.’

‘My lord, I am sure he did not mean to—’ She fell to her knees. ‘Please give him another chance. Let him go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem.’ A reminder of the hairshirt and saints badges on her father’s cap.

I think Richard winced inwardly like I did. Pilgrimages were the way Rivers made the rest of us feel wanting.

‘No, madame,’ my cousin replied firmly. ‘He shall remain a hostage until all the monies that have been thieved by your other kinsmen are returned. If you wish to help him, I suggest you go and visit your aunt in Westminster Sanctuary and tell her that your father’s wellbeing depends on her change of heart towards me, his grace of Buckingham and the Royal Council. You have leave, madame.’

What choice did she have but to hide her disappointment and rise with dignity?

‘One moment, though!’ He forced her to stop and turn back to us. ‘What is your husband’s name again?’

Another obeisance. ‘Robert Poyntz of Iron Acton, my lord.’

‘And why is your husband not here to support you in your petition?’

For an instant her expression might have resembled a fly’s just before it hits the sticky web. ‘Because he is Constable of Carisbrooke Castle on the Isle of Wight, my lord.’

‘Hmm, isn’t that a post that your father once held?’ His knowledge startled her. ‘Is your husband there now?’

‘I…I am not certain, your grace. He has a good man as his deputy. I know that.’

The Lord Protector glanced heavenwards. ‘Numbskulls,’ he muttered, beneath his breath, and swung round on his senior secretary. ‘Kendall, see Mistress Poyntz out and record where she is presently residing. When you next see your husband, madame, pray ask him to attend me.’

‘I thank your grace.’ A briefer curtsey.

She left unsated, and I could not go after her as I desired, for my cousin exploded immediately in a right pother.

‘A pox on that damnable family! Fetch Lord Howard in, one of you! Edward Woodville is swanning up and down the Channel with half my brother’s wealth and who are manning our fortresses? His bastard niece’s husband for one.’

I said nothing, merely leaned back against the window with my arms folded and waited for our estimable admiral to arrive from one of the chambers off the gallery and sweeten the Lord Protector’s humour.

‘There’s still no news, I’m afraid,’ Howard announced. He breezed in, waving empty ink-stained fingers. I liked him. He was one of the wheels on which the cart of England ran. In his sixties, with a score of military campaigns behind him, he exuded dependability.

Richard came straight to the point. ‘Jock, did you know Rivers’ son by marriage is Constable of Carisbrooke?’ Howard curled his lip and shook his hoary head. ‘Holy Paul!’ fumed my cousin. ‘Do either of you know who’s Constable of Portchester, then?’

I met Howard’s glance and shrugged. All I knew was that Portchester was the sentinel castle east of Portsmouth.

The Admiral of England swished his mouth sideways, looking sheepish. ‘Ahh.’

‘Ahh?’ prompted Richard, his smile an illusion.

‘Sir Edward Woodville, I believe. Your pardon, Dickon, I should have found out—’

‘No, I should have thought of it,’ fumed my cousin. ‘See!’ he exclaimed, turning to me. ‘The entire south is riddled with the Woodville pestilence. Get an order out, Jock. I want every one of the constables along the south coast replaced with people we can trust. The cinque ports, Southampton, Poole, Plym—’

‘The Royal Council…’ Howard began.

My cousin’s fingers rose in a ‘V’.

‘Just a moment.’ I intervened, hiding my amusement. ‘Have you considered the consequences, Richard?’

‘Harry, it will take very little for me to ride back home and rebuild Hadrian’s Wall across Yorkshire. I am sated to here.’ He sliced a hand across his throat. ‘Everywhere I look, there’s some Woodville toad. Didn’t my brother have any sense? Good English noblemen have been starved of office for years because of one family’s greed. Go, Jock, what are you waiting for! I want Edward Woodville and his ship. By Heaven, I’ll have his head!’

The door closed behind Howard, but Richard still looked as though wanted to hurl the wine jug through the window. Even Loyaulté got out of the way of his pacing master.

‘Isn’t your wife arriving this afternoon?’ I asked sweetly. My cousin just needed to get his leg over and take some pleasure.

‘Humpf.’

‘In God’s Name, cousin, cut yourself some slack. You’re not a slave on a treadmill.’

‘Harry, I cannot run this blessed kingdom if I don’t know what’s been going on. I need to talk to King Louis’s embassy and—’

‘King Louis’s embassy can go scratch himself. Make ready for Lady Anne. She’ll be expecting a husband not a workhorse. What say I hear the petitions for the rest of the day?’

‘Harry—’ He was like a songbird with the cage door open, hesitant to leave. It wasn’t because he didn’t adore his wife but I guessed the letters and dispatches were a bulwark against the truth – that he was a prisoner now, unable to return to his beloved north.

‘No one manages anything better than you, Richard, but even the Almighty took a day to rest and tomorrow is Sunday.’

He ran a hand around his chin.

‘Go!’ I ordered laughing.

 

PETITIONS are tedious but it was time I grabbed the pick and shovel for some real work. I wanted the Londoners and the royal council to see me as a man of integrity, not a wine bibbler like Dorset or a one-day-a-week philosopher like Rivers.

And speaking of Rivers – I sent for Delabere to sniff around the clericals at St Martin’s before supper time and find out more about pretty Margaret. Wouldn’t it sting Rivers if I played the wasp to his daughter’s honeypot? No, that sounds cruel. My antennae had sensed a hunger in her just as great as mine. Had not Aristotle said that ‘Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies’?

When I arrived back at the Manor of the Red Rose and found Mistress Poyntz back on my hall doorstep like a boot scraper – no, a spitting cat might be more accurate – it seemed like destiny.

Encouraging this friendship was reckless, but I reckoned that even if we did not become soul mates, she owed me at least a pennyworth of thanks.

I had her taken up – discreetly, mind – to my chambers and I ordered a private supper.

What she did before anything else was slap my face.

 

‘NOW, just an instant,’ I growled, as she struggled to free her wrist from my grasp. ‘What was that for?’

‘For having my husband dismissed from his post.’

‘You have a poor sense of logic, mistress. I helped you see his grace of Gloucester, did I not?’

‘Oh yes, my lord, you gave compassion with one hand and thieved it back with the other. Let-me-go!’

‘Not unless you agree to break bread with me. Or perhaps you would like to lose Iron—’ She kicked me. ‘Acton.’

It was time to silence any potential scream so I kissed her. Her hand pushed against my chest but then she sighed beneath my lips and let me taste her. Her breath was sweet and I deepened my embrace. I knew how to tell a woman what I wanted from her. It worked. Rivers’ daughter kissed me back, stealing her fingers round the nape of my neck and letting me draw her closer. It was some time before I raised my head at my servants’ knocking.

Pershall and Bannaster were in with their platters for the side board before I had even loosed her. She sprang away from me in shame and turned her back, straightening her cap and probably trying to convince herself that she had not enjoyed the moment.

‘The lady will share supper.’ My tone brooked no rebellion.

Pershall winked and as the door closed behind him, my lady Poyntz whirled round on me like a windstorm, hands fisted.

‘I am leaving, my lord. I have my children to—’

‘Lying ladybird,’ I clucked, enjoying the shame staining her cheeks. ‘Your children are safe with their nursemaid in Gloucestershire. Did you imagine I should not become curious? You came to London to witness your father’s triumph and then you received a letter from him begging you to intercede for him. I have to say he must be desperate if he’s down to relying on you, my sweet. I told you to weep.’

‘Jesu, you are a hard man.’ Many a true word….? Yes, she was right.

Would she spread her wings and depart in a fury? No, the aroma of the supper viands had reached her. I caught her rueful glance at the enamelled domes on the side board.

‘And you are either stupid or very brave, Mistress Poyntz,’ I told her, unlocking a cupboard and taking down my richest mazers. ‘I am the most powerful duke in the kingdom after the Lord Protector and you have just assaulted me.’

‘Are you trying to impress me, my lord?’ She flicked a scornful glance at the jewels twinkling on the mazer lids and then stared down at the dirty mark across my left shin. ‘Did I draw blood?’

I looked down at my new scarlet hose and then sharply at her. Oh, yes, my vanity was bruised.

She guessed her danger, for her beautiful eyes held a mixture of fear and exultation as she watched me from across the room. Was I the lion to be tamed by her whip and dance of feet?

‘Perhaps the apt words to describe you are “impertinent and imprudent”, madame.’ I removed the lids from the mazers and filled them generously with an expensive claret. I was being magnanimous in allowing the wench leash, almost as much as Cat, but any hunter knows that a cunning prey makes the taking sweeter.

She accepted the wine from me, her breath levelling, and I touched my cup to hers, my expression challenge for challenge. I could see now the rubbed edge of her satin collar and the wear on her sleeve as she drank but the costly chased metal beneath her fingertips seemed to mean nothing. It was me she was examining over its edge and that pleased me.

‘Why are you here other than to abuse me, Mistress Poyntz?’

‘Because…because it is better than doing nothing.’ The first touch of wine had moistened her lips. ‘And maybe you will change your mind.’

I swirled mine before I drank. ‘I’m married to a Woodville, remember. I do have some understanding of the clever cogs and greedy wheels within your family. Everything is calculated to a nicety, like now.’ I looked across the rim, daring her to deny it. ‘It’s in the blood never to act on impulse.’

No lashes fanned down to veil her purpose. ‘My mother did,’ she replied pointedly, trying to convince me she was only a half-measure. ‘I have been paying for it ever since.’

‘Ah! So, kicking me was an impulse?’

‘Oh no, that wasn’t.’ A dimpled smile lit her face. ‘But I would not have kicked you if you’d been grey and hoary. I’d have shown some—’

‘Respect?’

She nodded.

‘But that is what this is all about.’

I wanted respect for my birthright. Respect and revenge, so when Pershall handed me a hand mirror, I could look myself in the face.

Her eyes were sad and I saw she knew how that felt. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, and lifted a hand to my cheek. ‘But it comes from within, I think.’

Well, that was a matter of opinion. I drew away and poured myself more wine. ‘Pray be seated if you are staying, my lady. If not, for the love of Heaven, plague me no longer and go now.’ Before I behaved dishonourably.

I sat down by the small table knowing she would not stay. Her perfume would linger but she would be gone, the flash of auburn hair like a squirrel’s flight, seen, forgotten, but instead I heard the rustle of her gown and felt the movement of cloth as she set a plate before me.

‘May I serve you, my lord?’

Oh, there is a God. I lifted my head and watched her with hunger and an aching heart as she lifted the covers of our repast. Her fingers, neither so long nor unpleasantly elfin as her sire’s, worked in wifely fashion. Soon my plate was arranged delightfully and then she served herself. It was astonishing to me that I could not remember Cat ever doing that; it was beneath her. Always the cutler or a servant served us.

‘This is a feast,’ Rivers’ daughter murmured, drawing up a cross-legged chair and seating herself opposite me at the small table.

‘I pawned Brecknock castle to pay for it.’ I did not tell her I was already in debt to half of London. Trading on hope. ‘Good appetite, my lady!’

She ate daintily, licking the excess from her lips. The western sun lit her tawny, crumpled cap and played upon the fine cheekbones; Rivers had given her good scaffolding. But while I was thinking it wondrous how she had piled her tresses into so small a space, she was thinking about her husband’s anger.

‘Is there aught you can do about Carisbrooke, your grace?’ she asked, setting down a cleaned chicken leg.

‘Fearful of being blamed?’ I prodded a bowl of lavender fragrant water towards her.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Then be comforted. Your husband is not being singled out. There is to be a general change of sentries along the coast.’ One nepotism replaced by another, probably with knights speaking the Yorkshire dialect.

Another silence followed but a gentle, companionable one; we might have been a modest merchant and his wife. Would life have been different if I had wed a frisky noblewoman like this instead of boring Cat with her plague of harps and hurdygurdies?

‘So how long have you been married, Meg?’

Her shoulders stiffened at the sudden familiarity but she did not rebuke me.

‘Five years, my lord,’ she said briskly. ‘We have a son and a daughter. Anthony is three and Anne was born last year. She’s named for my grandmother. And you, my lord? Have you children?’

‘I have four. The youngest is still in swaddling. My oldest boy is a young rascal but I love him dearly and I miss my Bess.’ Something in my voice spurred pain into her face.

Was she missing her children? No, there was more. Some hurt there to be pricked further.

‘Sweet Meg, is that what Poyntz calls you?’ I set my winecup down and watched her green eyes cloud like a stirred pool.

‘Surely it is none of your business what he calls me, my lord.’

‘Does he tell you that you are the loveliest woman in England and your eyes are the green of emeralds? No? Oh, that is truly sad. What did he receive for marrying you? The castle on the Isle of Wight?’ She was looking down at the cloth. ‘Or perhaps it was your father who said you were the prettiest child in England as you sat astride his leg and played at galloping. No? Then, Meg, life has given you the short straw.’

‘That is not true.’

‘Daughter to the Queen’s brother! Why, you should become one of the princesses’ ladies.’

‘I am well cared for, I thank you. I do not need to beg.’

‘Today you did and the time may come when you may again. England is facing civil strife because of your father’s foolishness at Northampton. Your family is on the nose, Meg.’

‘You are married to my aunt, my lord,’ she countered. ‘Doesn’t that give you some obligation?’

‘Unfortunately, Cat prefers shawms to my presence. We blow the candle out when we couple. Is that how it is for you, Meg? Come, eat some more.’

‘I have had plenty, thank you. I should go home now.’ Was I treading on the rotting stairs of a marriage? I tried another step.

‘You should.’ I agreed. ‘I don’t suppose your father or your husband would want you to eat in my company.’ And then memory struck me. ‘Jesu, I think I recall your husband now. He was sticking like a burr to my lord of Dorset’s mantle last time I saw him.’

‘That might be so.’

‘So would he be in my lord marquis’ company at the moment, do you suppose?’

The telltale tightening of her lips betrayed her.

‘The Isle of Wight,’ I murmured, sitting back. It was a guess.

‘No.’ The protest in an instant, too prompt to leave doubt.

‘I think you need someone to protect your interests, Meg, and keep your manor house safe from act of attainder.’

She swallowed. ‘Just what is your meaning, my lord?’

‘Clear as day, I should have thought. To be frank, since your husband is conspiring with the Marquis of Dorset, are you going to compete for Lord Hastings’ bed or will mine suffice?’

‘Is that a true offer?’ she scoffed.

‘Cross my heart. Think about it, Meg, and run home now to your lonely mattress.’

Her hackles were still up but she did have manners as she took her leave. ‘Thank you for supper.’

‘My pleasure.’ I kissed her hand like an adoring gallant. But next time…

 

HOW do you make an uncle king in place of the nephew when the uncle is too busy signing despatches and all you have against the brat are rumours about his grandmamma?

The morning after Meg had supped with me (don’t mistake that I longed to lie with her but I had to be wiser than Hastings and tread carefully), I finally stumbled over the key to the future. The occasion? Mass with the Prince, my cousin and his lady at St Paul’s, followed by a banquet at Westminster Hall. Swarms of important folk crawled out from under their stones to dine in the royal presence including Bishops Alcock and Stillington, still glued to one another’s company.

I caught Uncle Knyvett’s eye where he sat on a lower table and excused myself from the high table to go to the garderobe. He met me in the passageway.

‘Uncle,’ I whispered. ‘I need a discreet inquiry on the Bishop of Bath and Wells.’

‘Hoo, I can tell you about Stillington, Harry. Remember I was one of Duke George’s affinity.’

‘Ah, I had forgotten that! We’ll talk further. Wait up for me.’

I returned to the feast. The boy king was merry and Richard’s Anne was laughing. It must have seemed perfect to the commoners stuffing their noses into the doorway to gawp and salivate. It was never so perfect again. A bush of wondrous flowers while in amongst our roots the insects gnawed – the Woodville grubs turned out of their holes by the Lord Protector's spade, the Lancastrian worms who hated the Yorkists, and above it all on the leaves I sat like an insatiable young caterpillar ready to nip off the young shoots.

When I returned to my house, Nandik begged an audience with me. He had been showing a popinjay hunger since we had arrived in London, and that eve he was flaunting a blue fustian jacket and matching stomacher beneath his dark mantle. He was shaving more regularly now but with his crow black hair and swagger, and despite his learning, he still looked a desperate knave.

‘Your grace, at Northampton, you showed some interest in astrology. With your grace’s consent, if I had the exact date and time of his grace of Gloucester’s birth, I could—’

‘That is very generous of you, Nandik, but I should point out that you could have your balls cut off and stuffed down your throat for such a deed, and I truly have no wish to see your left shoulder in York and your right leg in Southampton, nor distribute your ashes after the bonfire. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Perfectly, your grace.’ He bowed and backed towards the door. ‘I just wanted to let your grace know, however, that the current position of the planets is in the Lord Protector’s favour.’

Oh, Nandik was so hungry for a sinecure.

‘Thank you.’ I could have consulted a bawd from a Southwark alleyway and heard the same. To content him, I drew out a rose noble from my purse. ‘Here, buy yourself some boots to go with your new clothes. On your way out, tell Pershall that I am ready to disrobe, and ask my uncle to attend me.’

‘Is that all, my lord?’ He seemed astonished that I had not asked him about my own future. I did not need to. I had it already planned.

 

‘WHY this sudden curiosity about Bishop Stillington, Harry? Thinking of becoming Archbishop of Canterbury and need a recommendation?’ Uncle Knyvett sat down on the bed while Limerick lifted off my collar of sunnes and roses and Pershall removed my shoes.

‘It’s those lizard eyes.’ I slid my rings off into a coffer while my points were unfastened.

‘Savin’ your pardons, my lords,’ butted in Pershall. ‘Wasn’t he that bishop what got tossed into the Tower when George of Clarence was shoved in a barrel?’

‘The duke did not get shoved in a barrel, Pershall. He was privately executed and you are talking about one of my cousins so show some respect.’

‘Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord.’

‘Oh, go and charm your way beneath a cookmaid’s skirts, Pershall. Out! I’ll manage now, Nick, sleep well!’

I checked the door after they had gone to make sure none of the servants might hear our conversation. Limerick had taken on new men to cope with all the extra feasting and there was a fair chance some of them had been bribed to spy on me.

‘So what’s gnawing at you, Harry?’ asked Uncle Knyvett, yawning.

‘I’ve been thinking about George’s death all day. Is it possible that he discovered indisputable proof that Dead Ned was an archer’s by-blow?’

‘Well, you heard all the evidence in the treason trial, my lad.’ Uncle Knyvett’s sour expression told me he did not want to dredge up the sludge, but my mind was buzzing.

‘But I didn’t hear everything. That is just the point.’ I paced, tapping my fist against my palm. ‘All along, it was the King who made the accusations. I was just a cipher. Truly, it was…it was as if there was some hidden grievance between them that was never aired.’

‘There was a sackful of plaguey differences between ’em. The duke drank too much to keep his jealous thoughts to himself. Can’t we stow this until morning?’ He slid off the bed.

‘But did you not think it curious that his execution was done privily, not on a scaffold before a crowd of his peers? Since I sat in judgment on him, I surely should have witnessed his death.’

‘Aye, so you should have, but I reckon King Edward was ashamed of killing his own brother.’

I quickened to my argument. ‘Or maybe he wanted to make sure George made no final speech.’

‘They usually order the drummers to drown ’em out, but you could be right. Do we still need to chew the cud on this one, Harry? I am heading for bed. All I can tell you is that I was not in George’s confidence, thank God, else I’d be under a slab by now.’

I could understand his reluctance but I could not let go the matter. ‘Wait, please think back, it is important. Who did George trust the most?’

He shrugged. ‘Tom Burdett, of course. Poor devil, hanged, drawn and quartered.’

‘So he cannot blab. Anyone else? Bishop Stillington, for instance?’

‘Possibly.’

‘As Pershall said, the King did shove him in the Tower for a while.’

‘True.’ He digested that and then said, ‘So what’s to be done?’

‘Well, I am resolved to meet with him. And since he knows you, be a good fellow and arrange it.’

‘Hang about, that might not be so easy. He is boarding at that fat slug Alcock’s house. In fact, I’ve never seen the pair of ’em apart.’

‘And Alcock is the Queen’s man to his backbone. You know what, uncle,’ I purred, ‘I feel like some serious religious discourse after all this carousing. I believe I shall invite Bishop Alcock, Bishop Kempe and Chancellor Russell to supper.’

‘Ha! Not Stillington?

Of course not, I shall be seeing him while the other three are here. But, dear me, who is to entertain the bishops while I am indisposed?’ I offered my best smile.

‘No, Harry,’ he groaned, raising his palms to ward me off.

‘But there are just two weeks to the coronation, two weeks to play at kingmaking.’

‘Play! That’s an ill word for it.’ He swallowed and ran a finger beneath his collar. ‘Blessed Christ! I shouldn’t be encouraging you. They’ve still got some barrels at the Tower, Harry.’

‘It will not be the Tower, I swear to you.’

 

AT four o’clock next day, the three bishops arrived to sup with me but by the time dear old Knyvett explained that I was in bed with stomach cramps, the cooking smells from the kitchens had them salivating, and they willingly stayed to enjoy the feast without me.

At Clerk’s Well, the bells of the tower of St John’s were competing with the neighbouring priory to ring out five o’clock as I arrived for my assignation with Stillington. With Bannaster, Pershall and Nandik following somewhere behind me, I felt utterly at ease and rather relived to be free of my full entourage.

The footpaths across the fields at Clerk’s Well were full of people. It was a fine summer evening and there was plenty happening: guildsmen rehearsing interludes, young men practising their wrestling for the August bouts at Smithfield and maidens kicking up their heels to timbrels. It is a district wholesome to the nose and more accessible than Southwark.

Stillington was already waiting beside the stone curb that ran squarely round the famous well. He was clearly used to dukes misbehaving. If he was surprised to see his grace of Buckingham in a chaplain’s second best habit, then he gave no sign of it, but fell in beside me. No one took notice of a pair of drab clerics as we strode in the direction of Skinners Well. Judging by his sour expression, winkling information out of this wary churchman might prove as hard as getting a mother superior to roll in the hay.

‘You had no trouble slipping the leash, my lord bishop?’

He scowled. ‘I have a friend I visit at the priory. Will this take long?’

‘As long as we like. After all, there is no need for Alcock to restrict you any more since the Woodvilles have lost their cudgels. I daresay you are feeling more secure about your future now.’

‘My future is in God’s hands.’ Oh no, not piety as a buckler!

‘Then you have changed your stripes, bishop,’ I clucked. ‘I thought your major sin was speaking out. Since when have you become so meek?’

He folded his lips tightly. Well, it was a daft question so I offered to buy him a beef pie.

‘No, I do not want a beef pie,’ he said tersely. We walked in silence until he finally said, ‘Perhaps you would like to come to the point.’ Ah, that was a show of interest at last.

Because I was missing supper and my belly was gurgling, I rebelliously stopped a pretty pie peddler. The bishop averted his eyes from the wholesome charms above the tray.

‘Here.’ I thrust a pie into his hands. ‘Let us just say my guilty conscience is prompting me to look after you and at last I have the opportunity to do so.’

Stillington glared at the pastry crust and then at me.

‘You must understand that I was ordered to proclaim a death sentence upon your friend the duke,’ I explained to him. ‘A verdict I bitterly regret. But for his sake, I should honestly like to make amends.’ A lie, I am afraid, but I hoped it might thaw this stubborn cleric.

‘Aye, by the Blessed Virgin, it should not have come to that,’ he muttered, his eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the path and he bit into the pastry.

‘But now we have a change of government, my dear bishop. Our Woodville bitch is muzzled but, of course, there is not the slightest doubt that if she regains her authority she will have you murdered.’

He choked. His eyes watered and his thin lips were flaked with crumbs by the time I had thumped him back to normal breath. Still distressed, he wiped a hand across his mouth and cast the remainder of the pastry to a stray dog. I unstoppered the leather flask from my belt and passed it over to him.

‘King Edward shielded you, is that not so, bishop? He did not trust you enough to give you high office again, but he wouldn’t stoop to your murder. I hope you say a daily prayer for him.’

‘I pray for all of them.’ He handed back my bottle and we walked on. His head was bowed, his clasped hands, like Pontius Pilate’s, writhing in the generosity of his sleeves.

Time for pressing my seal on this softening wax.

‘The dead are dead, Stillington. It is the living that need you. Pray for Richard of Gloucester. And if you want to save your own skin, by Heaven, you had better make sure Gloucester stays in power, and there is only one way to be sure for all time.’ I took a deep breath and a guess. ‘Give him the proof he needs, Stillington. The apple from the Tree of Knowledge. God’s mercy, you helped him when he was courting Lady Anne. Why won’t you help him now? He needs to know for his safety. For his son’s safety. He’s not a jealous drunkard like his brother was, but honourable and just. Things need not go wrong this time.’

Stillington did not answer.

‘For the love of Christ!’ I almost shouted, clapping my fists to my temples. ‘You did not hesitate to give the apple to George, pips and all, though the damned fool did not deserve it. God’s truth, bishop, why do you wait now, when the occasions is so ripe?’

He continued walking, his eyes on the path before him, and the stray dog danced backwards in front of us, slobbering for further dainties. I began to think that any secrets were an illusion on my part and that I had been punching into thin air.

‘My lord.’

At last! I glanced down at the old man, my fingers crossed. He was running his tongue over his thin lips like a reptile. But when he spoke, it was not the assurance I sought.

‘Am I to pray for you as well, my lord duke?’

‘Certainly, if you can spare any.’ I answered with brittleness and not a little astonishment. ‘What is the matter? Do you not trust me? Heaven preserve me, do you think this is a snare set by Bishop Cock-and-Balls?’

He swallowed, clearly discomforted. ‘You are married to the Queen’s sister and… and you are the heir to the House of Lancaster.’

‘Yes, and I have been behind Gloucester like a loyal shadow ever since King Edward died. If you doubt me, ask him. In any case, I do not want your secrets, Stillington, take them direct to him. I’m not a messenger boy.’

‘No, but you want the Bohun inheritance and only a king can give it to you.’

For an instant, I was struck to stone like Lot’s wife and then realising we were standing on the path like quarrelsome lovers, I shook myself back to civility and turned on my heel.

 

THE three bishops were still consuming some of my best Rhenish and malmsey when I slunk through the postern gate as stealthily as any cutthroat. My head was still reeling. I was confused, afraid and exposed, as though Stillington had peeled back the skin of my face to show the ugly mess beneath. I walked into my bedchamber, my palms to my eyes. The urge to scream and kick shook me.

‘Your grace? Harry?’ A pair of slender arms encircled my waist and a woman’s cheek nestled against my back.

‘Meg?’ I whispered, turning, my heart lifting like a lark. ‘Meg! Oh, my darling, you should not be here.’ My fingers touched her soft hair where it blessed her cheekbones and I feasted on her loveliness like a weary pilgrim come at last to kneel and wonder.

‘I was careful, my lord. No one saw me. I hid when your servants came back to turn back the bed covers.’

‘Oh beautiful, beautiful Meg.’ I kissed her then, savouring each caress of her lips on mine, and it was some time before either of us spoke again.

‘Your grace.’ She surfaced from our depth of ocean first.

‘Harry to you,’ I whispered, drowning in the green deep of her gaze.

‘Harry.’ She tugged at my sleeve. ‘Look.’ A strange mournful sound broke through the enchantment.

‘Meg?’

‘No, that was not I. Look!’ She turned me and I cursed.

The skinny dog had followed me home. It had nosed open the unlatched door and stood halfway in, head and tail downcast. Only its eyes were raised in hope. I stared back and the beast’s tail gave a faint, questioning wag.

Meg put a knuckle to her lips, reeled away and collapsed laughing on the chest at the end of my bed. The dog regarded her with reproach and fixed its baleful look once more on me and I began to laugh, too, and suddenly the world seemed good and wholesome again.

‘Lord’s sake, a morsel of pie and it has followed me all the way from Clerk’s Well.’

‘Clerk’s Well.’ That made her laugh more. ‘What in Heaven’s Name were you doing in Clerk’s Well, my lord,’ and then she bit her lip. ‘Forgive me.’’

Stillington’s lie was adaptable. ‘I have a friend at St John’s Priory.’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Would you take me there?’

‘He smells and they do not like women visitors,’ I teased.

‘No, to the meadows, I mean. Here, boy,’ she snapped her fingers coaxingly at our forgotten visitor and it came forward cagily, with an eye on me. It knew on which side the bread was buttery.

‘Hmm, I might.’ Our gazes danced together. I could hardly breathe, jealous that she was caressing the dog when I still had to beg for her favours. ‘Are you staying the night?’ It was too direct perhaps but she glanced up at me through her coppery lashes.

‘Would you like me to?’

‘If Poyntz isn’t likely to run me through with his sword.’

‘If my aunt your duchess will not slay me with her bodkin.’

‘Oh it would not be a bodkin. She would probably knock you over the head with a hurdy-gurdy if she cared, but she doesn’t, Meg, not a whit.’ I opened my arms and she was in them within an instant.

‘I should hate you,’ she whispered lovingly, winding her fingers through the hair at my nape. ‘Oh God, make me hate you.’

‘Your father is a knave and your uncles are vipers but I want to buy you the moon and stars.’ For those words, she kissed me and smiled. Excellent! I gently loosed her arms from my neck and strode to the door and slid the bar across.

Meg was feeding the dog when I turned. She held some out to me as well.

‘You, madame, are a liability,’ I muttered, slapping a wedge of cheese onto a hunk of bread. ‘I have a trio of venerable bishops in my hall, a virtuous cousin in Crosby Place who believes in marital fidelity, I am supposed to be sick with stomach cramps and there is this dog not to mention that I am about to make love to my brother-in-law’s daughter.’

‘Are you?’ That soft warm laugh that came from her heart.

‘Divinely, exquisitely, unless you like it rough and passionate. The dog can lick your soles while I….’

‘I think I would prefer “exquisitely”, Harry.’

‘With candles?’ I asked hopefully.

‘As many as you like.’ She came across and undid the laces of my shirt. ‘Do you take a vow of poverty on Mondays?’

‘Oh this,’ I shrugged, realizing I was still clad in a simple dark gown. ‘I was not meeting a woman.’

‘I suppose I should not ask.’

‘No.’ Her fingers were loosening the laces that held my hose to my gipon and then she slid her hand down my codpiece and I groaned in utter ecstasy and then I was pushing her collar down her shoulders and pulling away the flimsy covering between her breasts as I had longed to do the moment I had first seen her. My hands slid inside her bodice. Delicious pointed breasts quivered against my palm and the sweet nipples tightened as I rubbed my thumbs across them and kissed her with all the passion of my dark soul. Her fingers continued to play upon my prick, stroking and freeing me. I undid her belt, my breath quickening. I wanted her more than any other woman in my entire life. I wanted to bury myself in her, hold her, possess her and ride to the stars.

I am not sure how we reached the bed but I remember lifting her up onto it and pushing up her gown and petticoats. Tiny curls of flame hid the sweet adit between her thighs. I drew my fingers away creamy with her longing.

‘Oh, Meg.’ She was watching me, her eyes wide, as if I had cast some spell upon her. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘Love me, Harry. All of me. Harry.’

I kicked the muddle of gipon and hose away and tugged my shirt over my head. She was leaning on her elbows gazing at my body.

‘Man enough for you, my lady?’

‘Oh yes, yes, my lord.’

I made love to her with her hair around us like a fire. I stripped her naked and caressed her, until she was pleading with me and I was at such a pitch that the world receded, and as she shattered, I released, with a loud gasp of exquisite pleasure.

We were adulterers, sinners, and Hell was waiting to welcome us in with torches lit, but entering her had been like entering Paradise.

I lay back sated, and she fell asleep with her face against my breast and her hair tickling my throat, and I was like a man blessed by God.

 

I WAS in a deep sleep when Pershall shook me. I awoke to straightened bedclothes and a happy, smelly dog alongside my shins. Meg was gone.

‘I thought you did not like black dogs, my lord. Isn’t this—’

‘Yes, it is, Pershall. All the way from blessed Skinners Well. Did you not notice the damned animal following me?’

‘No, can’t say I did, my lord. You see, Nandik and I were busy discussing free will an’ such like.’

‘Free will?’ I said dangerously.

‘It might scrub up into quite a handsome creature.’

‘Then go and scrub it.’

‘Me, my lord, I don’t do dogs.’

‘You do now. It goes with the position, Pershall. How about you and he enjoy yourself in the stables!’

Where had Meg gone, my pretty bastard? Back to being a respectable matron, the Queen’s niece? Every inch of my body remembered, ached, for her. Overnight, I had become enthralled but it was not a healthy condition when I needed my wits sharp as pikes. I was still feeling off balance when Uncle Knyvett came to join me for breakfast. He would have got more conversation out of the abbot of a silent order. But then I recalled that he had done me a huge favour.

‘How was supper then?’ I asked, when the servants had withdrawn.

‘You owe me, lad.’ He placed a cherry stone upon a spoon and catapulted it at me. ‘How did you fare?’

‘I am not sure if our friend Stillington knows anything to make a difference.’

‘Never mind, worth a try. By the way, I did not know your fellow Pershall owned a dog.’

 

CHAPTER 7

I managed a few minutes alone with Richard before the Royal Council meeting and slid in an apology.

‘Been behaving like a rowdy student,’ I confessed. ‘Stuffing myself to perdition all over the place while you’ve been straining your eyes over dispatches.’

He only laughed. He was so irritatingly reasonable. ‘Nonsense, I’ve found it invaluable to have someone reliable and responsible meeting everyone on an informal level. You’ve done fine work, Harry, saved me a lot of time for what really matters. I can’t do both and I much prefer my side of the bargain.’

It was pointless arguing with him and if he preferred to see me with a halo round my head instead of half-moons under my eyes, that was his folly.

He caught me off guard again later. It was during the meeting – a humdrum bread-and-ale session to argue out details about Parliament and the Convocation. London in June was going to be so crammed with notables that all the castles and cathedrals of the kingdom would be quite deserted and if the Frogs launched a massive assault they would easily conquer us.

Everyone droned on and on. I stopped paying attention.

‘Cousin! I repeat, Is that agreeable to you?’ The Lord Protector’s stern tone cut through my musing. The councillors were all staring up the table at me with great amusement.

‘Your pardon, my lord, what was that you said?’

Richard shifted irritably. There was a flicker of something I could not fathom in his eyes. ‘Do we have to go through it all again, Buckingham? I have a meeting with his highness at the Tower in half an hour.’

‘Your pardon, my lord, I admit that my thoughts were elsewhere.’

The Duke of Suffolk gave a great belch of laughter. ‘Buckingham, we’ve just assented to you becoming the Chief Justiciar of Wales and you weren’t even listening, you daft happ’th!’ He rose and reached out across the table to shake my hand. I was dazed and could only stare speechlessly at Richard, who was laughing with the rest. My thanks were stammered and breathless.

Wales was mine! Lonely, perverse, damnable Wales, mine at last! My trusting cousin had given me the means to establish a vast net of retainers just as Hastings had achieved in the Midlands. Henceforth I could summon up an army of Welshmen and array troops from Shropshire down to Somerset, and since all castles, garrisons, appointments and incomes in Wales now fell within my jurisdiction, I should easily be able to pay my soldiers and maintain a proper ducal retinue without falling into further debt. My eyes were moist as I clasped his hand and accepted the document confirming my appointment.

‘This should have happened a long time ago,’ Richard said for all to hear.

Hastings’ congratulations to me were noticeably tepid, so in retaliation I loudly invited Catesby, his devoted retainer, to dine on the pretext that I needed the fellow’s opinion on a manorial dispute. Hastings watched us depart, with narrowing eyes.

 

NEXT day the fire really started. Bishop Stillington visited the Lord Protector and the effect was little short of a miracle. I did not hear of it until I was leaving the royal lodging at the Tower and Hastings, booted and spurred, almost collided with me in the stables. I gave him good-day and would have passed him but he thrust up a hand against my shoulder and slammed me against the nearest wall.

‘Get out of here!’ he roared at the grooms, and shoved his riding crop tight across my gullet. ‘What in Hell is going on, Buckingham?’ he snarled.

‘I do not know what you mean,’ I gasped in all sincerity. He was almost choking me. Yes, I could have defended myself but I didn’t want to make matters worse. Getting a spray of his saliva and a close view of his sweating pores was distasteful enough.

‘For Christ’s Sake, boy, you poxy well know all right. He refused to see me. Me! Not even Ned ever did that to me, so what stinking, arselicker has been pouring filth about me into his ears?’

‘You have picked the wrong arselicker, Hastings. I have no time to listen to hearsay.’

He glared, a tiny muscle twitching angrily in his cheek, but then someone else gave a loud cough and he eased his force on my throat.

Bishop Morton and Lord Stanley were standing, slack-jawed, at the rear stalls. They must have ridden in with Hastings.

‘Are you not making rather a fool of yourself, my lord?’ I chided softly, jerking my head towards the others. ‘Unless there is something or someone you don’t want the Lord Protector to hear about?’

‘You poxy coxcomb!’ he sneered loudly, grabbing the neck of my mantle. ‘When I think of the many times I stood by you as a child.’ Liar! ‘I know my household is riddled with your friggin’ informers.’

‘You planted Nandik in mine,’ I countered smoothly.

‘Nandik!’ he scoffed. ‘That trumped-up scarecrow. Better get rid of him before the pair of you are hauled before the courts for witchcraft and treason. Ha, played at horoscopes already, have you, lad? What do you hope to learn? That you’ll one day be king? Nandik will say anything you pay him to.'

‘Lord Hastings,’ I replied coldly with all the hauteur I could muster, ‘you overstep your rank. Perhaps adultery with Mistress Shore is addling your wits.’

I think he would have driven his fist into my belly but before I could hurl the old goat off me, the Lieutenant of the Tower came running in

‘My lords!’

With an oath that would have made a virgin faint, Hastings flung me away from him and hurtled out, leaving me to ease my collar back into its original position. I brushed aside the Lieutenant’s concern and sent him after Hastings.

‘Sweet Mother of God! What caused that?’ I exclaimed, turning to Morton and Stanley, who must have heard every word.

Stanley shrugged and came forward. ‘Old Dick wouldn’t see any of us. Seems like he’s in a real puther, been running round like a dog with its balls lopped off ever since…’

‘Since what?’

‘Really, my son,’ Morton beamed at me. ‘I am surprised you don’t know. Bath and Wells squeezed in an audience with our august Protector early this morning. One presumes it was to deliver some tidbit that he’s been saving ever since Malmsey George’s demise. A lovely aroma of intrigue, hmm?’

An aroma that made me ravenous.

‘Where is my cousin now?’

Morton bestowed the responsibility of answering onto Stanley with a broad smile.

‘Gone home to “mother”.’ It was not respectful but what else could you expect of a Stanley?

 

RICHARD was in swordplay in the courtyard, when I arrived at Crosby Place. He had forgone dinner at Baynards and seemed to be slashing at Huddleston, his duchess’ brother-in-law, in the hopes of spending some of the pent-up misery that was so obvious in his face.

He was scarlet with exertion as he joined us later in the great chamber for the meeting of our inner council and he did not bother to change his apparel. His collar was loosely tied at the neck and he had merely pulled on a sleeveless satin jacket over his sweaty shirt. A far cry from his normal fastidious self.

I raised questioning eyebrows at him as he came in but he ignored me. It was a bread and butter meeting but he sped us through faster than a whore on a busy night, and then curtly announced he wanted to see me alone and disappeared into his inner sanctum slamming the door.

“I think I am about to be beaten for getting the wrong answers in my hornbook,’ I muttered, pretending to be as perplexed as the rest.

‘Brawling before school, I heard,’ corrected Lovell with a light smile that barely masked his anxiety. ‘I hear you and Lord Hastings had words this morning.’

‘Search me why.’ I answered. ‘Is that what has angered him?’ I nodded towards the closed door.

Lovell shook his head, perplexed. Howard gathered up his papers and hugged them to his chest. ‘If it’s aught else, do us a favour, Harry, and find out. We need to know.’

They were upset, his good men and true. Until now, we had all been heading towards the coronation upon the same barge, golden tassels, purple canopy, the lot, all happily waving but now the future seemed as hazardous as shooting London Bridge.

 

MY cousin, the queen bee, had discarded his jacket, and was sitting at his table of papers, with one hand supporting his temple. The chamber was hotter than a brothel and it was a wonder he could concentrate on anything. Across the table, his chief secretary, John Kendall, was struggling to consult one of the Patent Rolls. It was flowing off his lap onto the floor and an undersecretary was on his knees rolling it back up. Loyaulté was in the corner on his sack looking disgruntled, and snapping at a blue fly.

I had to wait while the three finished their business before my presence was coldly acknowledged by my cousin. Kendall deposited his burden into his assistant’s arms, wiped his hands on his flanks and offered me his vacated stool. I declined to be seated.

‘Open the window before you go, John,’ Richard muttered, pulling savagely at the lower lacing of his shirt. He flung himself back in his chair and put his feet up on the table. While the room emptied out of the servants’ door, he watched me sternly, carefully choosing his words.

‘Two grown men squabbling like jealous children,’ he sneered.

‘Hastings attacked me for no good reason,’ I replied.

‘Holy-friggin-Paul! I have enough to contend with without the twin pillars of my protectorate having dogfights in public. Do not let it happen again!’ He swung his feet down and took a warrant from the nearest pile but I refused to be dismissed like an erring schoolboy.

‘Hastings is as guilty as Lucifer, Richard, and you know it. He is openly jealous of my influence with you, he’s ingratiating himself with the Prince and he’s kissing hands with the Queen again.’

He did not look up. ‘I do not want to discuss it further, cousin, you can see I’m busy.’

I slammed my hand down upon the table making the inkpots shudder.

‘For Lord’s Sake, Richard! We are discussing the security of the realm. You know as well as I do that Mistress Shore is a messenger between Hastings and Elizabeth. She pleasures him by night and then minces down to the sanctuary by day to dandle your nephew and nieces while she gives Elizabeth a full report on last night’s pillow talk.’

He swore at me but I persisted.

‘He has been listening to rumours that say you are bloody enough to seize your nephew’s crown. The city’s edgy with it. You only have to stick your nose out of doors to smell the uncertainty. There is an anti-pope in your protectorate, Richard, with a shadow conclave ready to move in on us at any moment.’

‘Oh, Christ bless us,’ he said nastily, ‘is this some peculiar ability learned in Wales, some fey instinct for nosing trouble or—’

‘God’s Truth!’ I roared at him. ‘Listen to me! You may be bent on self-destruction but I’m not. I know how the Woodvilles do things and right now they’re gradually moving in on you like a pack of bloody wolves. The city’s crawling with them. I've seen faces from the old days in the streets. They’re bringing in supporters from Kent and Surrey, not to mention the new recruits who fear losing their offices to your northerners.’ He opened his mouth but I did not give him a chance. ‘Oh yes, I know how they do things,’ I muttered. ‘They tried to turn me into one of them, remember. It’s Stony Stratford all over again and we need a show of strength. You must send for more soldiers from Yorkshire, men you can trust.’

‘Don’t talk like a fool! I can’t do that,’ he replied savagely. ‘That would only confirm the rumours. I’ll end up with more fucking enemies than I have already.’

‘Then you have no alternative but to arrest Hastings.’

He clapped his hands to his ears. ‘No! Arrest our greatest ally? I’ll not hear of it! Christ, that would start a fire! On what proof? Just because he lies with a foolish strumpet and spends time with the Prince. He’s the boy’s friggin’ chamberlain, for Christ’s sake. You call that treason?’

‘Then test him out,’ I retorted, calming down. ‘Make it known that you are sending for extra soldiers. If he is guilty, he will move quickly.’

He sniffed loudly and stared at the writing in front of him.

‘Christ love us!’ I muttered. ‘We’re vulnerable. Hastings’ men could have surrounded the inner council an hour since and we’d have been penned like silly sheep – hauled off to the Tower with barely a blade drawn. We have to protect ourselves.’

I tugged a blank sheet of parchment from the pile and seated myself on Kendall’s stool.

‘To whom shall I address it? The Mayor and Aldermen of York?’ Richard did not answer. He had hidden his face in his hands and there was no movement behind his ringed fingers, so I started without his consent:

Right trusty and well beloved, we greet you well, and as you love the weal and surety of your own selves, we heartily pray you to come unto us to London in all the diligence you can possible after the sight hereof, with as many as you can defensibly arrayed, there to aid and assist us against the Queen, her blood adherents, and affinity, which hath intended and doth daily intend, to murder and utterly destroy us. I paused, changed the punctuation and added: our cousin the duke of Buckingham and the old royal blood of this realm.’

‘How about sending Ratcliffe with it?’ I suggested, and finished the letter off: as our trusty servant, this bearer, shall more at large show you, to whom we pray you give credence, and as ever we may do for you in this time coming fail not, but haste you to us hither.’

I pushed it over to him and he slowly unpeeled his fingers from his face, read it, and then tossed it away from him.

‘I see. You don’t like my writing,’ I jested, grabbing it up. Inside, I was angry. Why would he not confide in me? I had been behind him at Stony Stratford, for God’s sake! And then I heard a muffled sob. Tears were running down my cousin’s cheeks. Loyaulté trotted over and snuffled his knee, gazing up at him with a pitying whine.

For an instant, I was at a loss. Was this my cousin who had always seemed so resolute, a man of steel nerves and common sense? I must have stared at him slack-jawed. He just sat there, mechanically fondling the hound’s head, staring into nothingness while tear after tear welled out silently.

Maybe Stillington had told him he was a bastard as well. Well, it was not so impossible. Proud Cis might have had another hiccough of infidelity.

‘Richard!’ I went round the table and crouched down beside him, unclenched his other hand from the curl of the chair arm and held it in my own. ‘This is not like you. What is it, my friend?’

He swallowed, barely able to speak, and turned his face to me heavy with sorrow.

‘What have I done, Harry? Am I so great a sinner? I never once failed Ned, not once, and now God—’ His lips quivered but the words disobeyed him. I eased up to my feet, laid my arm about his shoulders and I held him to me until the shaking ceased, then he pulled back from me, knuckling away the moisture on his cheeks.

He needed time to recover so I went to the door and called for his page to bring us some strong drink, and while I waited by the closed door, I said to him gently, ‘If you need my help, then I am here. What has changed since yesterday when we made merry?’

‘Only the whole damn world!’ The slender fingers clenched into fists over his heart. ‘There was a time when a man might…’ His hands uncurled and fell despairingly to his sides as he took a deep breath and strived to bring himself under control again.

The page scratched at the door and I swiftly took the flagon and dismissed him. I poured out some fortified wine and wrapped my cousin’s fingers around the cup. He swallowed slowly and gradually grabbed back the reins of his emotions. I waited and at last the revelation came:

‘Harry, remember in Northampton we spoke about my brother George and why you were instructed to find him guilty, because…because if he outlived Ned, he would try to seize the crown?’

‘Are you going to tell me that tale about your mother and the Fleming is true and that Dead—’ I caught my error in time. ‘That dear old Edward had no right to the crown?'

‘Oh that’s true alright.’ He laughed bitterly, filling his cup again. ‘My mother was so infatuated, she could not help herself.’

So the speculation was true. I could have whooped.

Careless Aunt Cis. No sponges in vinegar. What a shame.

I tapped my fingertips together consideringly. ‘Then Edward had no right to the throne but George did and so do you.’

Ha! I was tempted to ask him if he had ever reserved a barrel of malmsey at the Tower with his name on it but that would have been too cruel. Instead, I said: ‘No wonder the poor wretch pickled himself. This means, of course, that you are the rightful king.’

He ignored that. ‘That is not the worst, Harry.’

‘God forbid! If you are not the Duke of York’s son, keep it to yourself.’

But the revelation was coming now. My prayer this morning to the Saint of Lost Causes had not been in vain.

‘Harry, the Bishop of Bath and Wells came to see me today. He swore to me on the Holy Gospels that he performed a trothplight between Ned and the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter, and that when Ned married Elizabeth secretly in ‘64, Eleanor was still alive.’

It was so simple but it took my breath away. A trothplight was as good as marriage if made before a priest.

‘No wonder the Queen wanted George silenced. It is a wonder Stillington survives.’ I strode to the window, hugging my shoulders. Now there were two reasons to make my cousin king. ‘Have you only the old man’s word for it, though?’ I asked over my shoulder. ‘Eleanor’s not doing embroidery hidden away in a nunnery somewhere?’ Richard pulled a face. ‘Ah, no Lady Eleanor,’ I murmured, and came back to sit down on Kendall’s stool, hard put not to laugh.

What a mess! Better than I had hoped. Dead Ned had managed to destroy his own dynasty before he had even sired an heir. To marry in secret and twice!

‘Eleanor was four or five years older than Ned and a widow, just like Elizabeth. Foolish, eh?’ Richard wryly shook his head, his humour raw and painful.

Foolish? I could not think of one Plantagenet king who had managed to master an intelligent woman – Eleanor of Aquitaine, Isabella the fair, Margaret of Anjou, Elizabeth Woodville, and now, rising from her grave, Eleanor Butler.

‘What happened to her eventually?’

‘She took holy orders, and she died four years after Ned married Elizabeth. You see, it makes my nephews bastards.’

How could it?

‘Whoa, surely Ned and Elizabeth took their marriage vows again once Eleanor was dead?’

‘No, that’s the cursed crux of it. I do not think so. You know how slack-willed Ned could be at times.’

‘Yes, but Elizabeth never leaves a blasted stone unturned.’

‘That’s the irony, Harry. I do not think she knows. Ned never blessed well told her. You see what this means.’

‘Indeed I do!’ I replied, springing to my feet and sweeping him an obsequious bow. ‘King Richard III, by the grace of God.’

‘No!’ he snapped, recoiling violently.

Hmm, how could I persuade him? I needed a touch of Satan’s methods, but the kingdom of England was already on the table.

‘Forgive me, Richard, but your dilemma as I see it is purely an emotional one. The kingdom has never prospered under child kings. If you take the crown now, it will prevent civil war later when the Queen gets her tentacles back into the boy.’

He ran a finger along the edge of his table. ‘I could shut Stillington away somewhere and pretend I never gave him audience this morning.’

‘You could.’

I let a silence fall between us and strode across to the window. Down in the garden the duchess and her bastard sister, Lady Huddleston, were laughing as they picked flowers. With broad-brimmed straw hats to keep the sun off their faces, they looked like moving flowers themselves from where I stood. My duchess would have been with them if she had not been so dyed a Woodville, and then I thought of Meg and my heart ached that I must persuade her to return home. I was running a huge risk in seeing her.

Behind me, Richard fisted the table, so angry still. I did not want to leave him alone and I wondered about sending a page to fetch in the duchess. He had not confided in her yet but the Kingmaker’s daughter might like the idea of wearing a crown – it had always been her father’s dream.

‘Listen, whatever you decide, Richard, I shall back you to the hilt.’ I said, tracing my hand slowly along the stone transom.

‘I know, Harry.’

He thrust back his chair and strode across to brace his hands against the chimney mantle. There he glared down at the bronze summer screen that hid the hearth, and toed it angrily.

‘I tell you after today Hell will hold no surprises for me. There’s a knotted cord about my temples and God’s tightening it, second by second. You know what I want to do? I want to go home to Middleham.’

Of course he did, and second best had been going to his mother. I wonder what she had counselled or admitted. Mine would not even have listened; she would have swung the conversation round to buying new bed hangings.

In a while he turned to face me. ‘Harry, I know you and Ned did not see eye to eye but…’ That made me wince; if there were such beings as guardian angels, Dead Ned’s and mine faced each other with flaming swords. I guessed what was coming. ‘I loved my brother,’ he was saying as though I was some magistrate that need to be convinced. ‘How can I do this to his sons? Even if I disinherit them, they will always be a rallying point for any opposition. They will have to be kept under surveillance for the rest of their lives, for the rest of my life, and my son’s after me. If I permit either of them to marry, then their children will be a threat to my son’s children.’

Mine, too, I thought. He forgets I am in line to the throne as well.

‘Well, then,’ I muttered, ‘let them inherit, but I predict they will be a constant threat to us. Wasn’t that the issue at Stony Stratford?’

‘But Ned’s boys.’ He looked so conscience stricken that I felt shamed by the blackness of my thoughts. Was the will of God an argument worth airing? Stillington being sent by the Almighty? Maybe not. Hmm, I should have asked Pershall and Nandik what they had decided about free will.

I half-sat on his table and waited.

‘What’s in the name of bastard anyway?’ He was asking softly. ‘Edward is still my brother’s son.’

‘But, without a scrap of Plantagenet blood in his veins. My dear Richard, bastards do not inherit. It is against the law, so is bigamy.’ Ah, I thought at last. The Law! Here is the touchstone.

‘I thought you of all people upheld the laws of England.’ I chided. ‘But let’s ignore them, shall we? Why not let any jack out there can claim the throne? Heaven help us, next instant, we shall have Henry Tudor putting up his hand.’ I held no mercy in my face. ‘Would you not like to do things your way for a change? Implement all those ideas you have been brewing up over the years? Didn’t you tell me we need a law to prevent juries being bribed and coerced, and what about your suggestion to publish the laws in English instead of Latin so that any man with schooling might understand them.’

He gazed at me in agony. ‘Yes, of course I cursed well would. I have a shopping list as long as your arm. But what will history say of me if I snatch the crown from my nephews? There’s plenty out there have already marked me for a villain.’

I shrugged. ‘Make sure the chroniclers tell it your way. Do you think anyone now cares overmuch that Henry Bolingbroke deposed Richard II? Reign long and well and no one will give a turd.’ Before I could gather breath again, he said, ‘Leave it, Harry.’

I folded my arms with an appropriate sigh.

‘I need more time,’ he muttered, cradling his shoulders and stretching his neck back. ‘Holy Paul, I can’t even think straight any more.’ He collapsed in his chair.

Poor wretched Richard of Gloucester! I remembered the times I had wanted to crawl into some dark place, no matter how mean, and wish the earth would heave me off its back.

Outside the heavy door to the antechamber I could hear the voices of his friends; inside his fingers tapping against the vellum were the only sound as though he was adding up each side of the ledger. I respected him that day for his integrity. I even envied him for the agony the decision gave him. But I had not underestimated him; inside his Libran shell, the man of action was struggling to be heard.

‘Very well, Harry,’ he said at last, his fist clenched.

‘You are going to do it?’ I demanded, suppressing a whoop that would have been heard as far as Smithfield. And it had been me he had confided in before the rest!

He rang the little handbell for a page and commanded that Stillington be summoned in. I had not realised the bishop was still on the premises.

‘You want me to hear his testimony?’ I asked, confused.

‘No, I want the council to hear him.’

‘The Royal Council? Is that not—’

‘God, no, I mean our council here and if it be their advice, only then shall I shall lay Stillington's evidence before the full Royal Council when the time is right. Make no mistake, I shall not take the crown without the consent of Parliament.’

‘Very well.’ I should have expected this, but he was right, it had to be done properly.

‘Give me a few minutes to compose myself, would you?’

I hesitated as I reached the door. ‘Have you decided what you are going to do about Hastings?’

The pain in his face that he should betray his brother’s sons whereas his brother’s friend would uphold them unto death was plain.

‘Let us wait and see, Harry. I hope with all my heart that you are wrong.’

 

MOST of his inner council were still in the grand chamber when I emerged. Lovell was leaning against the transom of the window, arms folded. The rest were still at the board.

‘Well, what’s the pother about?’ asked Suffolk. He unfolded his hands from across his belly and sat forwards.

‘He’s on his way to tell you.’

‘Thank God for that!’ muttered Howard. ‘Now we can swat whatever gadfly is biting him. You’ve done a good job, Buckingham.’ Well, he thought so, but Ratcliffe was staring at me as though I was the damned gadfly and Lovell’s expression had an envious tinge.

Richard came in with his usual purposeful manner but any fool could see his face was damp from a sluicing and that the skin around his eyes was red.

‘It is fortunate most of you are still here, good friends. I have just summoned the Bishop of Bath and Wells. He has some information that presents us with a crisis, a grave crisis. And I ask you to carefully evaluate his testimony before you give me your advice.’

‘Perhaps you could explain the situation while we are waiting, Dickon,’ suggested Lovell quietly.

Richard nodded and sat down wearily at the head of the table. I slid into my place opposite Suffolk. I read amazement on their faces in all its forms as he sorrowfully explained about Dead Ned’s conjugal duplicity.

Howard exchanged glances with his son, Thomas, and was the first to reply.

‘Tom and I have to declare our interest. If little Prince Richard is no longer to be Duke of Norfolk, the duchy falls to me by right of inheritance. But that would be the least of my reasons for advising you to go ahead, Dickon. I know you would serve England well.’