Authors: Sandra Worth
In his royal apartments in the Keep that he had enlarged and brightened with oriel windows, stone carvings, silk carpets, and colourful tapestries, Richard paused only long enough to remove his hunting clothes and wash, intending to go down to the chapel for Compline. He had just shrugged into the grey mantle his squire held for him and picked up his psalter when there was a knock at the open door.
“Ah, Stanley,” Richard said pleasantly, trying to suppress the sense of unease that suddenly gripped him at the sight of the red-bearded, stocky figure.
“My lord,” replied Stanley, with a smile on his shrewd face that didn’t reach his small green eyes, “may I have a moment?”
Richard dismissed his squire with a wave of the hand. “By all means,” Richard said. “You are welcome.” He waved him to a chair.
“I prefer to stand, my lord. I’ve been sitting all day and my legs require stretching. Much as I enjoyed our hunt today, you can’t know what a day’s ride can do to a body full of years.” He gave a chuckle.
“You may have more years than I, Stanley, but few men would wish to engage you in battle. In my campaign against the Scots, I never had a more worthy captain.”
“I thank you for your confidence in me, my lord, and would have you know it’s returned. I hold you in high regard, not only as King, but as the most admirable general and valiant knight
I’ve e’er known in battle. ’Tis to my great honour that you call me friend.”
“Aye… friend,” murmured Richard, studying his face. Half in anticipation, half in dread, he said, “’Tis why I made you steward of my royal household… so that you would always be in close attendance on me.”
“My honour, and also my pleasure,” said Stanley with a slight bow.
“So what brings you here at this late hour?”
“Sire, as you know, I have been at your side since before you became King.” He paused, then continued. “’Tis a long while. Much business attends me on my estates. Your Grace, I beg leave to retire to Cheshire for a brief respite. I have long been absent from family.”
“I see,” murmured Richard. Stanley’s eyes told him nothing, and the smile behind the red beard was in place. He settled his gaze on the window. The garden was dark; no stars were out. He gripped his psalter tightly in his hand. Had he not always known this request would be made? He had hoped to win Stanley to him with favours and justice and mercy; had hoped Stanley would serve him with the same assiduous loyalty he had shown Edward for over ten years. And for over two years Stanley had done so. For two years he had refrained from requesting leave to depart court and Richard had not had to face the possibility of his disloyalty.
Now it is clear
, he thought with a sick plunging of his heart. No matter how virtuous his court, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what manner of man Tudor was, Stanley was Tudor’s stepfather and he would side with Tudor. At best, he might take no side at all; at least until he knew who the winner would be. In either case, Richard had failed. He felt paralysed, numb. “Your family?” he said. “Lady Margaret?”
Stanley shook his head. “My lady wife maintains a separate household in Lincolnshire. As you know, our marriage was made for the usual reasons, unlike yours with Queen Anne—”
Richard winced.
“There is little affection between us, my lord,” Stanley added gently. “’Tis my sons and my brother, William, I wish to see.”
Richard fought to control his swirling emotions. Oh, how he needed to believe Stanley! To believe that he was loyal! That there was still goodness to be found in man! And yet… and yet—
“Invasion is imminent,” Richard said without inflection. He met Stanley’s small shrewd eyes.
“Well I know that. The moment there is news, I shall rush to your side to crush the disreputable bastard.”
“Your stepson,” said Richard.
“I’ve never met the man. He’s dear to my wife’s heart; not to mine.”
Richard averted his eyes. “I shall present your request to the council.” Stanley’s footsteps receded down the stairwell. He sank into a chair, a hand to his head. He was drained, weary to exhaustion. He couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, couldn’t feel. Nothing mattered, or would matter ever again. The cold would last forever.
~ * ~
Chapter 29
“Ill doom is mine to war against my people and my knights.
The king who fights his people fights himself… and the stroke
That strikes them dead is as my death to me.”
“You can’t grant Stanley permission to depart, my lord!” said Catesby as he stood at the council table, his long face pinched and white in the dimness of the gloomy stone chamber. “He intends to betray you! ’Tis the only reason he makes the request at this time!”
Ratcliffe said, “My lord, it would be madness to let him leave now.” He spoke quietly, but beads of perspiration glistened on his face and his eyes were anxious. “He is a cunning man, unworthy of your trust. He could muster a great army and bring it to the field against us. You must not grant permission.”
Richard sat listlessly at the head of the table. He made no response. Rob hunched over the table and focused his hazel eyes on Richard, “Stanley’s a man with a finger to the wind, ready to change sides if Fortune blows the other way. It would be folly to let him go. You know full well what he intends!”
“No,” said Richard, “I only suspect. Suspicion is not enough on which to judge a man.” Twice before he had condemned on the basis of suspicion alone. It would not happen again.
Kendall looked up from his papers. Richard’s secretary was now a full member of the royal council, had been tested through many trials, had proven true, and Richard valued his judgement. “Sire, the Stanleys have always juggled their allegiance to their benefit,” he said. “Trust is a word they barter for their own gain.”
“Aye!” urged Conyers. “’Tis how they’ve survived four kings and grown ever more powerful in an age that’s claimed the lives of men far better than they. He must not be allowed to depart at this critical juncture.”
Still Richard said nothing.
“Richard,” Rob persisted, “if Tudor triumphs, Stanley will be stepfather to a king. He made cause against you with Hastings, and if Buckingham’s revolt had succeeded, he would have betrayed you, and well you know it. When Warwick won, he was at his side, and when Warwick faltered, he betrayed him.” Rob waited. Still no response. Richard sat staring absently at the window, a faraway look in his eyes. “Would you,” Rob added urgently, “having kept this most cunning lord under your care this long, let him depart on the very eve of Tudor’s invasion? The solution is simple. Hold him in custody until the invasion is over.”
“Aye, aye!” cried Richard’s councillors with one voice.
Richard stirred, heaved a sigh. He went to the window, unlatched it, pushed it open. The rain had ceased and the morning air felt fresh and cool against his cheek. Sparrows flew below the window, building nests in some far corners of the castle wall. He watched as they disappeared around the bend. In a small garden below a woman hung up her washing and an old man played chess with a young boy beneath a tree. He let his gaze wander over the thatched roofs of cottages beyond the castle walls to the swans gliding along the River Trent and the long fields of barley and rye that stretched on either side of the river. The hillside was pastoral with sheep, and windmills turned, white cloths billowing in the wind like sails. He looked north, to the rich green of Nottingham Forest, and back to the machicolated town walls. All along the high road to the castle people went up and down, carrying their wares on their backs, dragging their mules and their carts. Chickens clucked; sheep bleated; dogs barked. And men betrayed. So it was in King Arthur’s time. So it would always be.
He turned back to his councillors.
“Last Christmas I dispatched commands to Cheshire and Lancashire that they were to obey Stanley in the event of invasion. If I trusted him then, why should I not trust him now? He was Tudor’s stepfather then, as he is now. I have always known his history. What has changed? He’s done nothing against me.” Softly, he added, “I intend to grant the permission he seeks.”
A shattering din of voices arose. Francis slammed a fist down on the table. “’Tis a damnable folly! Your blind clemency will be the ruin of you, Richard!”
Silence fell. Richard gazed at him with shock and he was dimly aware that everyone in the room was staring at Francis with mouths agape. Never had his friend spoken to him in this way, never forgotten that he was his overlord and King. Never, in fact, had Richard witnessed his gentle, mild-mannered friend lose his temper with anyone, yet now Francis’ face was blotched red with fury. “Are you so blind you don’t realise what’s been going on? Tudor made me an offer to betray you—lands, titles, whatever I desired! What do you think he’s offered his own stepfather?”
Richard stared at him mutely, mouth slack with disbelief. He tried to speak, but no words came. He swallowed, licked his parched lips. “Tudor dared approach
you
?”
“In Southampton! I found a missive on my pillow with instructions where to leave my answer.”
Richard held his breath. His chest felt as if it would burst. “And your answer?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? I told him to slither back to hell, where he came from! You can be sure he fared better with Stanley.”
Richard threw his head back, and laughed, but his laughter was sharp, without mirth, edged with bitterness, and it broke off abruptly.
Foul Tudor dared approach Francis!
Such daring intimacy meant that spies and informants were all around them, had infiltrated his household and government at every level. It meant that Tudor feared no one and nothing. That Tudor was so bold—and Richard so vulnerable—he’d even come after Francis, his boyhood friend. A sardonic voice spoke in his head.
And why not?
it said.
Didn’t he score before, with Buckingham?
“Damned, vile, whoreson—God rot his lying soul! He sought to strike at my bosom, like the loathsome viper he is!” He made his way to the head of the table, took a seat, motioned his councillors to do the same. He took a moment to compose himself, said as steadily as he could, “As you all know, I never sought the Crown. It was our dream—Anne and I—to put distance between ourselves and court. Contrary to Tudor’s lies, I set aside my brother’s sons unwillingly… For the good of the realm… For the safety of those I loved… And because I set them aside, the Crown has weighed heavy on my head—”
His hands, resting on the table, trembled. He removed them from view and forced himself to continue. “I have pursued justice for my people. I have tried to earn my right to the throne. ’Tis all I can do. The rest is God’s will.” He looked down at his ringed fingers. His ruby signet caught the morning sun and glinted. He thought of blood. Ever since Barnet, rubies made him think of blood. “Stanley must be allowed to ride away, so that his allegiance be freely given. Freely, or not at all. God’s will must be done.”
“But—” a chorus of voices objected at once. Francis’ rose above them all. “But,” he said, “you are a commander, my lord. The outcome of battle is God’s will, yet no commander goes into battle without a plan, without strategy, and expects to win. Or disables himself to give the enemy a foolish advantage.”
“I will not circumvent God’s will. I will not force myself on England.”
“By releasing Stanley, you’re challenging God.” exclaimed Rob. “You’re stripping yourself of armour and handing Tudor a sword to slay you with. Is that what you want? After all Tudor has done to you, do you want him to win?”
“Aye, ’tis so!” agreed everyone in the room.
“All I have left is my humanity.” Richard crushed the quaver in his voice and met their gaze. “I won’t let kingship strip me of that, too.”
“Let us compromise, my lord,” said Catesby. “Let Stanley give us his eldest son as surety for his good behaviour.”
“Aye,” agreed Kendall. “At least then we’d have something. He may not give us his support, but at least he won’t give it to Tudor, either.”
“His son? A man would never endanger his son. I might as well keep Stanley himself.” Richard looked from face to face. He saw the fear, the desperation, and the hope. He was talking about their lives, too, he suddenly realised. By demanding Stanley’s son, he was blunting the test he had set for himself, but these men had put themselves and all that they cherished into his hands. He owed them something. “Catesby, my clever lawyer, you have your wish. We shall inform Stanley that since decisive events are approaching, I need men of experience about me. He cannot leave until his son is here to act as his deputy during his absence.”
Sighs of relief resounded around the table.
~ * ~
Lord Stanley sent for his son, George, and Richard welcomed the young man warmly. There was thunder in the hot summer air as Stanley mounted his destrier in the courtyard and Richard stood by to wish him Godspeed. Their eyes met and held.
He knows his son is a hostage
, Richard thought,
and he knows I know it
. Lord Stanley doffed his velvet hat and crinkled his ginger beard in a smile. “Farewell, my lord King.”
Richard watched him ride westward with his retinue and disappear into the hazy heat of summer.
~ * ~
Chapter 30
“I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King;
Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”
High on his rock, alone with his thoughts, Richard posed for his portrait in the Castle of his Care. He found himself increasingly at the mercy of his moods of late, and often he cut the sessions short, much to the painter’s dismay. When he couldn’t keep the memories at bay by force of will, the only remedy was change: a plunging into activity where there had been solitude; solitude where there had been activity. He knew his erratic behaviour was unsettling to his men, but he was unable to control himself. Idleness was alien to his nature, and for most of his life, there had not been enough time to do all that needed to be done. Now time, empty and meaningless, moved the days slowly and allowed his mind to fill with thoughts of the past.