Royal Mistress (49 page)

After discussing a few items, Will remembered to ask John Morton about his well-known cultivation of strawberries. At that moment, they heard voices coming from the outside staircase, and conversation stopped when the protector entered with Francis Lovell on his heels.

“Good morrow, my lords,” Richard said, pleasantly. “I pray, do not let me interrupt your train of thought. What were you discussing?”

Will noticed Richard was holding his left arm stiffly, as though it was compromised, but as all soldiers had old wounds that pained them from time to time, he thought nothing of it. He also knew the duke was prone to backaches. He laughed. “I am ashamed to say ’twas not state business, your grace. I was asking if Bishop Morton’s famous strawberries had ripened yet.”

Morton, seated between Stanley and Rotherham, nodded. “And I told them they were indeed ripe and that I should send for some for everyone after the meeting.”

Richard smiled. “Very well, then. Shall we proceed with the discussion at hand: the coronation.”

Will sat back and observed how quickly Richard made decisions, agreeing to this and opposing that, all the while giving thoughtful reasons for both. He would have made a good king, Will was thinking absently, when with sudden insight, he realized that Richard had every right to be king for, certes, young Ned was a bastard and ought not to wear the crown. Had he been wrong to keep silent all these weeks—or indeed years? A few beads of sweat broke on his upper lip as he pondered his vow to Edward. Nay, it was the right thing to do. He had given his word to see Ned crowned. Besides, he had no intention of sullying his dearest friend’s honor by disclosing a foolish deed done in Edward’s youth.
Eleanor Butler was dead, Elizabeth was queen, and Ned would be crowned and rule well with Richard and Will close by his side.

“Lord Hastings, did you hear me?” Richard’s impatient voice interrupted Will’s ruminations, and he turned his attention back to the protector. “Did you wish Doctor Morton to send for strawberries or not? He is willing.”

“Aye, with pleasure,” Will answered, noticing a change had come over Richard. If Will had been superstitious, he might have believed the duke had been able to read his thoughts. “Strawberries would be a welcome change from”—he picked up a wizened piece of fruit from the bowl on the table—“dried plums.”

Without warning, Richard scraped back his chair, stood, and announced his departure. There did not seem to be any reason for the haste, but he left the room with Buckingham following closely behind, and those councilors remaining looked at each other perplexed.

“Strawberries must disagree with him,” Morton said, shrugging. “Now, where were we?”

N
ot an hour later, the men heard the sound of running footsteps upon the White Tower staircase and Richard stalked in, his face as sour as spoiled milk. All at the council table rose as one, startled to see him again so soon. He surveyed the room, his eye lastly falling on Will.

Then Richard pointed to his left arm. “There is sorcery afoot, my lords. Look at my arm, it has no feeling. ’Tis useless.”

As Richard was looking at him, Will answered good-naturedly, “I have experienced the same numbness after waking from a deep sleep, your grace. Mayhap ’tis nothing serious.”

“ ’Tis witchery, I tell you,” Richard snapped, rubbing the arm, “and I blame it on the queen and her accomplice, the harlot Jane Shore.”

Will’s legs felt weak, but he held on to the table and stared, horrified, at Richard. “Jane Shore is no accomplice and certainly no witch!” he averred. “Why accuse her, my lord?”

“She consorts with that sorceress, that spawn of Melusine, Elizabeth Woodville,” Richard almost spat. “Do not pretend you did not send your leman with messages to the queen. The lawyer Catesby witnessed one of her visits.”

Before Will could recover his astonishment, Richard thundered, “I would ask each of you, my lords, what would
you
do if you discovered a plot to destroy me, the protector of the realm and guardian of the king? A heinous conspiracy conceived by one I thought was a friend.”

Will felt no fear for himself, as he was innocent of any wrongdoing, but he quickly assessed who else at the table might be guilty of betrayal. He dismissed Jack Howard and his son, Thomas; they were solidly behind Richard. He knew Morton and Stanley were closely tied through Stanley’s wife, Margaret Beaufort, the Lancastrian countess of royal lineage and mother of the exiled Henry Tudor, whose ambition for her son was no secret. Morton had served Lancaster until it was expedient to change coats and follow York, and Stanley was known to be easily led. As well, Will had heard that Margaret Beaufort had been seen entering the lodgings at Westminster Abbey on more than one occasion. Perhaps these three were plotting with the queen to overthrow Richard. It was the only possibility, Will concluded.

“I am waiting,” Richard barked. “What would you do?”

All were speechless for a moment, whether from fear, Will could not tell, but on his part his innocence prompted a response. “I think I speak for all present, your grace,” he said, his expression grave and his voice sincere. “The cowards should be punished as all traitors must.”

Richard’s gloved fist hammered down on the heavy wooden table, making the goblets jump, spilling inkhorns and scattering parchments. “Then punished they will be!” he declared, glaring at Will and shouting, “Treason!”

As though prearranged, men-at-arms appeared out of nowhere,
causing chaos in the room. The lords, who were still standing, were rudely pushed aside as the soldiers rushed at Will, locking his arms behind his back. Lord Stanley was knocked to the floor, and hitting his head on the corner of the table, blood flowed from a gash to his head. Seeing Stanley bleeding reminded Will instantly of Stanley’s dream. He suddenly felt cold as he watched, helpless, as the injured councilor was pulled to his feet. Across the room Morton cowered against the wall, but he, too, was apprehended, as was Archbishop Rotherham.

His skin the color of the gray stone wall behind him, Will struggled with his captors before insisting: “I am innocent of any wrongdoing, my lord duke. I swear on your brother’s grave. What is it you think I have done?”

“You have betrayed me, the council, and the English people.”

Will frantically tried to imagine the nature of his betrayal. Richard was a reasonable man; he would listen to the truth—to reason. “I ask again, Duke Richard, what is this betrayal? I confess that I have lately taken Jane Shore as mistress, and I swear ’tis the only thing I have done that might displease you, but that is hardly betraying anyone except my wife. Besides, have you forgotten your past—” He bit his tongue; no need to rile an already rabid dog.

Richard glared at him. “Your morals disgust me, my lord. I long ago rejected my sinful past, but your liaison with my late brother’s harlot is not reason for arrest. You have betrayed England by your silence and your conspiracy.” He turned to the men-at-arms. “Take these three to a cell,” Richard commanded them, pointing to the two bishops and the bloody Stanley. Even in his confusion, Will noted the trio did not resist. Were they indeed guilty of conspiring? But he was not a part of it; he had to convince Richard that he was not part of any plot.

Richard spoke a few words to Thomas Howard, who bowed and retired, giving Will a sad look as he left. Will did not notice; he was confounded by the reference to Jane and the queen,
and wondered if Jane, too, had been arrested. But his own danger seemed far more imminent.

Alone with Richard, Buckingham, and Jack Howard, Will felt certain he could assert his innocence and be heard. He began in a level but serious tone.

“I have never had discourse with those three lords outside council meetings, Richard. I swear. If they have done wrong, I am ignorant of what it is. I am and always have been a loyal supporter of the house of York, first serving your father and then your brother, as his closest advisor and friend. ’Twas I who wrote to you at York begging for you to come to London immediately, have you forgotten? Why would I betray you? And in what way have I done so? I deserve to know, if I am to be imprisoned for it.”

Richard leaned both arms on the table. Will noted, staring, that the left one seemed just as strong as the right now. It seemed far from useless. Had that just been an excuse to accuse Jane of witchcraft; or worse, could Richard have his sights set on the crown?

The protector leveled his cool, slate eyes at Will. “You want to know what you have done?” he repeated. “You withheld from me that my nephews were bastards. Were you prepared to see an illegitimate son of my brother wear the crown, flying in the face of all the laws of this land?”

Will tasted the bile in his mouth and tried to swallow. So that was it, he thought, Edward’s secret was out. But how did Richard discover it? No one else knew except . . . dear God almighty, Stillington! And then the image of the bishop of Bath and Wells’s litter arriving at Crosby Place the night before rose clearly in his mind.

“I can explain, my lord,” Will said, trying to control his panic. “My oath, renewed to your brother on his deathbed—”

Richard banged his fist on the table again. “I will not listen to your lies or your oaths. You have no excuse. Your loyalty now is to me as protector of the crown, not to my dead brother. I have lain awake all night pondering your reasons for keeping this terrible
secret from the people of this realm, and I can only deduce that by conspiring with the queen you seek to displace me and resume your position as the king’s closest advisor.”

Will shook his head vigorously and tried to ease his guards’ viselike grip on his arms. “Nay, Richard, you have it wrong. I have never thought to displace you, and I have never communicated with the queen in sanctuary. I swear my silence has all to do with the promise I made your brother. The secret of the precontract was safe with me—”

“Ha!” Richard cried. “You are condemned by your own admission. Away with him,” he ordered, raising his left arm and pointing at the door. “Find him a priest to shrive him, but I will see him dead with his secret before noon!”

The room swam dizzily as Will fought to remain erect. “Dead, my lord? You mean to execute me? Here? Now? Without trial?” In a tremendous force of will, he threw off his guards and stood his ground. Now he regarded Richard with contempt. “You are a hypocrite, Richard of Gloucester!” he cried, red spots of anger standing out on his cheeks. “It seems you use your ‘useless’ arm quite well again,” he could not stop from saying. “And you stand there and pontificate about morality and justice, and yet you refuse me a fair trial. Who are you to be judge and jury? Who are you to play God?” The guards were fighting with Will now, and he fell to his knees. “I have been York’s staunchest supporter for all fifty-two years of my life. You at least owe me a trial.” But Richard had turned toward the window and avoided Will’s accusing eyes.

“Take him away, I say!” Richard barked, his fists clenched and his mouth a thin, grim line. “Find a place to punish him. I will see him no more in this life.”

The guards pulled Will roughly to his feet and all but dragged him from the room to the staircase. It was so clear to Will that Richard intended to take the crown that, having nothing to lose now, he began struggling with his captors, shouting: “Remember
your oath, Richard of Gloucester! You pledged to protect your nephew’s right. God help you if you fail.” Then he made a last desperate attempt to appeal to Buckingham and Jack Howard. “Mark my words, my lords, Gloucester seeks the crown.”

The three men left in the room above stood silent, each with their own memories of the man who had all but ruled England for the past fifteen years. Only Jack Howard felt pity for the councilor and friend who had served his king loyally and with honor.

Yet no one had stepped forward to defend him.

A
solitary magpie hopped upon the lawn outside the White Tower searching for grubs, but it took flight when soldiers clattered down the staircase and out into the sunshine. Will saw it and then his brave heart succumbed to tears. “One for sorrow,” he quoted the old adage, wondering why his legs would not support him. His guards dragged him along the path, looking for somewhere to carry out the protector’s orders.