Authors: Sandra Worth
To aggravate matters, August was hot and sweltering, rendering Nottingham Castle more oppressive than ever. On the tenth day, he decided on impulse to move five miles north, to the lodge in the park of Beskwood in Sherwood Forest. Not only was it cooler there, but relieved of the painful reminders that Nottingham was wedded to in his mind, posing for his portrait at Beskwood Lodge became a soothing pastime, despite his restlessness.
Maybe it was the earliness of the hour, he thought, gazing over the treetops to the hills ringing Sherwood Forest. The lodge had not stirred yet, and birdsong and splashing fountains made music on the fresh morning air. Sometimes he imagined he heard Anne’s laughter in the water, and sometimes he saw Elizabeth’s gentle smile in the pattering of the rain on the foliage. Here, in this chamber, at this hour, the past came alive in a comforting way. He inhaled deeply. Ah, the past; when he was young. Grief was fiercely felt then; but so was joy. There had been hope then.
He brought his gaze back to the painter dabbing at his portrait. He liked the old artist and enjoyed his company, though he missed Francis, who had returned to Southampton a few days after the council meeting. But Rob was with him, and Humphrey Stafford, Scrope of Bolton, and Jack, and others dear to his heart. Though he was unable to find pleasure in their pursuits, he went hunting with them in the afternoons, and he shared their evenings in the great hall where they drank and made merry to relieve the tension of waiting for Tudor.
It seemed to him that his entire life had been spent waiting for Tudor. What would happen once he landed? The realm had seen enough of war and, as long ago as Barnet, men had failed to answer the call to arms. Would they heed his summons now? And what of Stanley? He had wilfully armed Stanley. Would those arms be turned against him? He twisted his signet ring.
The painter was laying down his brush. He moved to the canvas. An uncanny likeness. He studied it a long time. It was a strange feeling to see himself reflected so clearly through someone else’s view. When he looked into a mirror, he didn’t catch the sadness in his eyes, or notice himself toying with his ring. The artist had captured a depth unknown even to him.
“You do an excellent likeness, Memling,” he said.
“’Tis all in how you hold the brush, Sire.”
In Richard’s mind, John said, “’Tis all in how you hold the sword, Dickon. See—”
Richard forced the memory away. “Until tomorrow, then, my good—” Frantic footsteps interrupted him. Amid shouts, the door was thrust open. Jack, Scrope, Ratcliff, and Rob burst into the chamber. Jack’s doublet was unbuttoned at the neck, as if donned in haste, his curls unruly, his eyes wide with alarm. Francis was with them, looking dusty and weary. Richard blinked in bafflement.
“Francis? What are you—” In a heart-stopping moment, he knew what had happened—knew with every instinct of his being; knew before Francis fell to his knees and spoke the words.
“The waiting is over!” cried Francis. “Tudor has landed! Sire, Richard—Tudor has finally landed!”
~ * ~
The next hours were frenzied. While his followers attended to the business of preparing the army to march, Richard sent urgent dispatches to John Howard, Percy, Brackenbury, Stanley, and his other captains, summoning them to his side. At the same time, he took his leave of Jack, sending him north, to Sherriff Hutton. His nephew was his heir to the throne. They could not both take part in the battle, and Elizabeth and the children would be glad of his company. Meanwhile, details poured in about the invasion.
Waving the red and green dragon banner of Cadwallader, Tudor had landed at Milford Haven with fifteen ships and a force of some two thousand men released from the prisons of Normandy. One could not find anywhere, came the reports, a more evil lot. Such was the contribution of the court of France to Tudor’s effort. In return, in the event of his victory, Tudor had promised to cede to France the territories of Calais and Guisnes. His commanders were his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and the Earl of Oxford, and among his English band of followers were many who had fled to Brittany after Buckingham’s rebellion, such as the four-hundred-pound seven-foot giant, John Cheyney. But, noted Richard inwardly, Bess Woodville’s son, chicken-livered Dorset—of no use even to vile Tudor—had been left behind as a pledge for the money that the French King had loaned the Dragon.
On the fifteenth day of August 1485, at Beskwood lodge, while Richard carefully observed the sacred Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, he received Lord Stanley’s reply to his summons.
He was closeted with his advisors in a small upstairs room that functioned as an informal council chamber. Though it was lit by many tall tapers and opened onto a wide passageway with mullioned windows along the length of one side, the room was dark and filled with shadows. The wood walls were hung with blue silk fabric, the plank floor covered with dull reed matting, and there was only a single window. A summer storm was brewing and the dismal morning heightened the gloom of the chamber. The guard at the door admitted Stanley’s messenger. Not trusting himself to read his dispatch, Richard passed it to Francis, who cut the white ribbon with his dagger and broke open the seal. He scanned the contents and the colour drained from his face.
“Stanley says he’s suffering from the sweating sickness and is unable to join you at this time.”
Richard’s mind spun. It wasn’t possible! What manner of man places his son in danger? Epithets and cries of
Traitor!
raged around him. He shook himself to clear his head, realised that someone had seized the messenger. With enormous effort he lifted his hand, waved the man gone. “He’s had no part… in this.” Even speech was difficult. He dropped into a chair. “Catesby, bring me… George Stanley.” Catesby had no chance to comply, for at that moment, amid a rumble of thunder, footsteps sounded in the passageway. Black-garbed Sir Ralph Ashton appeared at the door.
“Sire! Urgent tidings!” He strode across to Richard, gave a quick obeisance. “George Stanley tried to escape. I apprehended him in the attempt. He has already confessed—I lost no time getting it out of him.” Over Richard’s head, Ashton exchanged a meaningful glance with Francis. Though Richard had welcome Stanley’s son warmly and made him an intimate, Francis had made sure he was carefully watched by able men before he’d left for Southampton.
Richard roused himself from his lethargy. He lifted his head and looked at Ashton. Like Buckingham, Stanley would be quick to confess before such a man. Dressed in black, with his hard rheumy eyes, bloodless complexion, and purple scar slashing his cheek, Ashton’s demeanour was fearsome. In any case, Stanley’s son was not one to throw himself away for a cause. Richard waited for his Vice-Constable to continue.
“He and his uncle Sir William have plotted with Henry Tudor to betray you, but he swears his father intends to stay true. He’s thrown himself on your mercy and implores permission to send Stanley a message.”
“It’ll do him… little good.” A man who would gamble his son’s life was a man without humanity. “But let… him try.” He knew he was mumbling. His mouth was dry and his tongue, like his head, his hands, and the rest of his body, seemed suddenly an ungainly weight. He motioned for wine. Gripping the cup with both hands, he drained it, not caring that he spilt more than he swallowed.
“My lord,” said Catesby, “we must notify the sheriffs of the realm to proclaim William Stanley a traitor!”
“My lord,” said a voice at the door. One of his Esquires of the Body held a black velvet package in his hands. “This comes from the Red Pale at Westminster, Sire.” At a nod from Richard, the man drew out his dagger and cut the cloth. He handed Richard a small leather volume.
“’Tis Malory’s tales of King Arthur’s court, a first printing,” said Richard with a glance at the gold lettering. “Caxton has retitled it
Morte d’Arthur
.” He opened the book at random and read aloud: “And slowly answered Arthur from the barge, ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and God fulfils himself in many ways. If thou shouldst never see my face again—’” He stared at the words, read softly, “‘Pray for my soul.’” He shut the book, lifted his eyes. His friends were gazing at him silently.
A voice rang out. “Sire!” A messenger entered, bearing the badge of the Silver Lion, Howard’s livery. He bent a knee. “Sire, the Duke of Norfolk sends hearty greetings and would have you know that he will be at Leicester poste-haste, with a thousand men at his own cost!” Richard’s mouth softened. Faithful Howard; Friendly Lion. Loyal friend who honoured oaths and promises. “Tell Norfolk he shall know our thanks.”
Another voice came at the door. “My Liege!” A dusty youth stood between two men-at-arms. His face was familiar. Richard frowned, trying to place him. “He comes from Brecon with urgent news, Sire,” said one of the men.
Ah, Brecon
. He was the lad who’d come about Buckingham. Richard tensed in his chair. The youth entered, fell to his knees.
“Rhys Ap Thomas, he’s betrayed you, Sire—gone over to Henry Tudor, he has! Tudor promised him Wales if he deserted you, m’lord!”
Richard turned disbelieving eyes on Francis. “But he swore to stand true. Swore Tudor would have to pass over his dead body to enter Wales—” he broke off.
Francis stared at him helplessly. Thirty years of civil war had broken the sanctity of oaths, and Richard knew it. Yet he kept hoping to be proven wrong, kept appealing to man’s higher nature, and they repaid him by answering the call, not of loyalty, but of greed. Was he truly so naive? Could he really believe that man was better than he was? Had he forgotten that Judas sold Christ for thirty pieces of silver?
Thunder growled ominously in the distance. All at once rain pelted from the skies. A sudden wind slammed the window open. Francis latched it shut. “Which way is Tudor headed?” Richard demanded unsteadily.
“He entered Shrewsbury three days ago unchallenged,” replied the lad.
Tudor had penetrated nearly to the centre of his kingdom! Was there no one who would stand up for him? He looked at his advisors. “Sir Gilbert Talbot of Shrewsbury… I showed him much favour—”
Francis couldn’t bear it any longer. “No doubt it’s for personal, not political, reasons that Talbot went over to Tudor’s banner, my lord. Lady Eleanor Butler was his kinswoman, and the revelation of King Edward’s marriage pre-contract caused his family much shame.”
Richard sank in his chair, laid his head against the high back. Two other men appeared at the door. Richard gazed at the tall one with the weather-beaten face and his young companion, men from York whom he’d met on happier occasions. “Sponer, Nicholson, welcome. What brings you here? Good news, I pray. We’re in dire need of it…”
Sponer looked at him strangely. “My Liege, the lack of news is why we come. ’Tis rumoured that Henry Tudor landed in the southwest on the seventh day of August, but there’s been no official word. If that’s true, the council wishes to know why Your Grace has not sent the city a summons to arms.”
Richard met Francis’ eyes and knew he’d had the same thought. Percy had been entrusted with the commissions of array for the East Riding—Percy, whose loyalty he had been wooing for nearly fifteen years; Percy, who had sent word a week ago that he was coming with all possible haste, and had not come. Not even plague in York had deterred Stonor and Nicholson, and not even plague would have prevented the men of York from answering his summons. There was only one reason why they hadn’t come. Percy hadn’t told them. He wanted to exclude the men of York because he intended to stand aloof from the conflict. As he had at Barnet. As he had during Buckingham’s revolt.
Richard’s shoulders sagged beneath his doublet. “Express my thanks to the Lord Mayor and the city of York for their loyalty. Tell them that I am in sore need of what men they can send me, for I will give battle to the enemy within days.”
“Sire, if that is so, then I will stay. Nicholson can relay your message.”
Richard nodded; they withdrew. His councillors drew close.
“The Stanleys are playing their usual game of waiting to see who’ll win,” Scrope of Bolton said. “You can neutralize them, my lord. Force them to unite openly with the enemy. Many of their men will desert and they won’t be able to intervene against you in the battle.”
Richard made no response.
“Aye—as for that damned Percy—” exclaimed Rob, forgetting for the moment that he was a Percy himself, “he, too, can be forced to declare himself before it’s too late. Better still, place him in custody. Most of his men will readily follow the royal banner if his treason is made public.”
Richard said nothing.
Francis gazed at the still, melancholy figure in the chair staring out into empty space. Richard’s grey eyes had darkened and he looked exhausted, far older than his years.
“Richard,” Francis said gently, “there’s been no popular rising for Tudor, not in England or even in Wales. There’s no need to rush into battle. Time is on our side. You’ve ordered a hasty mustering and we’re not at full strength yet. The realm is answering your call to arms, but many of those who wish to fight for you are still assembling their retainers and supplies. Others—men like Stonor and Nicholson—haven’t yet heard your call to arms. If we wait, Tudor will lose strength, and we’ll gain it.”
No response. The silence filled with the pounding of rain.
“Sire, Francis is right—time is on our side!” Catesby blurted. “Don’t rush to give battle. Crush Tudor and live to enjoy a long reign!”
Thunder rattled the windowpanes and a flash of lightning lit the room. Richard didn’t seem to notice. The men exchanged glances with one another. Conyers came, knelt before him. “My lord, my King… the people need you. What’ll become of them under a man like Tudor should you lose this battle on which you have decided all must depend? If you don’t allow us more time to undo the mischief Percy and the Stanleys have done, you’ll be marching into an ambush you’ve allowed these lords to set for you.”
Clutching the carved armrests of his high-backed chair, Richard shut his eyes. Aye, he might manage affairs well enough to win against Tudor, but that would not be true redemption, for he would be subverting God’s will by helping himself. And what then? What lay ahead for him then?