By Loyalty Bound: The Story of the Mistress of King Richard III (27 page)

The girl put down the tray she was carrying on a coffer and gave Ann a half-hearted curtsey. “My Lady Richmond bids you attire yourself to travel,” she informed her. “She has decided to leave for Lathom.”

Anne swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. The sun was still low in the sky and she judged it was not long after dawn, which came early in the summer months. The girl was already taking Anne’s gowns down from the pole ready to fold them for the journey.

“Which gown will you wear, my lady?” she asked.

“The dark one,” said Anne as she poured herself some of the watered wine and wondered what had prompted this sudden decision to leave.

Men came to carry the coffers down the stairs and within the hour she was sitting opposite the countess in the Stanley carriage as the horses jerked them out of the courtyard into the quiet city streets.

The three-day journey in the humid summer weather left Anne sticky and uncomfortable as the carriage rocked from side to side, making her head ache and her stomach revolt. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, they approached the shrine of Our Lady of Evesham where the countess had expressed a desire to pray. For what, Anne was not sure, but she was looking forward to a brief respite from the heat and the travel sickness within the cool walls of the abbey.

The road was crowded with pilgrims making their way towards the shrine, some on foot and some on palfreys or donkeys. They had halted once again as they waited for yet another group to move aside for them when a groom came to say that some approaching horsemen needed to pass.

“Who is it?” demanded the countess.

“It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said the groom apologetically.

“Buckingham? Tell him that I desire to speak a word with him,” she said.

Anne had thought that Buckingham was with the king on his progress, and the countess also betrayed her surprise as she fidgeted with the rosary beads in her hand whilst they waited for the tall figure to dismount from his horse and approach them.

“Good day to you, cousin,” he greeted the countess, kissing the hand she extended to him. “I apologise for any delay to your journey. Where are you bound?”

“To the shrine of Our Lady, and then on to Lathom,” she told him. “It grows too hot for me in London and I shall feel more comfortable away from the city. Do you no longer accompany the king?” she asked him.

“No.” Anne watched as the duke’s mouth turned down at the corners. Buckingham looked petulant, as if he had been deprived of a favourite toy, and she wondered if he and Richard had fallen out over some matter. “I begged his leave to attend to my own affairs in the Welsh Marches,” he said. “He is to continue north, to York, and has lords enough without need for me,” he added with a note of jealousy.

“And did you speak to the king again concerning my son?” asked the countess, not pursuing the grudge that Buckingham appeared to be harbouring.

“I did press the matter on your behalf, my lady,” he told her. “I urged the king to consider your suggestion that a marriage between Henry and one of the daughters of the late King Edward would be propitious.”

“And you told him that we would ask no dowry, only that Henry be allowed to come home?”

“I did, my lady.”

“And what did he say?” asked the countess, searching the duke’s face for any crumb of favourable news.

“He said that he would think on it.”

The countess grimaced in frustration. She was desperate to have her son back in England and Anne had some sympathy, knowing what it was like to be parted from a child.

“It would be a good match,” said the countess, “as well as bringing about an alliance between the houses of Lancaster and York.”

“Indeed it would,” agreed the duke and Anne watched as the glimmer of an idea seemed to burn in his eyes. “And what of the princes?” he asked.

“Moved to the White Tower and provided with new attendants,” muttered the countess. “Even though it was promised that the younger would be returned to his mother.”

“The...” Buckingham hesitated and glanced at Anne and the countess drew a finger to her lips and shook her head.

“Come to visit me at Lathom, my lord,” she told him. “Bring me news from your prisoner, Bishop Morton – and see that you treat him well.”

“My lady,” he said, raising her hand to his lips again and nodding his head in Anne’s direction before returning to the horse that was tearing at the sparse, trampled grass on the roadside.

As she watched him put a foot to his stirrup and mount the horse Anne wondered what secrets he shared with the countess, who was once again passing her beads through her fingers in silent prayer.

James Harrington walked along Petergate very early in the morning beneath the banners of welcome that had been more than enough to impress the southern lords who had ridden into the city with Richard on the feast day of St John the Baptist. The sun had shone brilliantly on the royal party as he and the civic dignitaries had greeted the king and queen and their myriad attendants and led them into the city – although James had exchanged a menacing glance with Lord Stanley. It rankled with him that the man was given such prominence. Of the Duke of Buckingham there had been no sign, and when James had enquired about his whereabouts he had been amazed to learn that the duke had gone off to his own lands. Now, as he walked towards the Minster to check that everything was in place for the day’s celebration, he pondered again on Buckingham’s absence. It seemed to James to be the height of disrespect. As the new Great Chamberlain and Constable of England, Buckingham should have remained at the king’s side throughout his progress and he wondered what had occurred between Richard and the man who had advised him so closely during recent days.

The west door to the church stood part open and James walked up the wide, shallow steps and went in. It was dark and cool after the brightness of the summer morning outside and he stood for a moment taking in the quietness and the scent of the incense. The prie dieu where the king had knelt to lead the congregation in the Paternoster was still in place, though it would not be used today. James walked slowly towards the altar, looking around to ensure that everything had been done according to his instructions. The king and queen were bringing their son, Prince Edward, to mass before going to the nearby palace of the Archbishop where young Edward would be invested with the sword and golden rod of the Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester. James was keen that nothing should be overlooked. He was proud that Richard had entrusted him to attend to affairs in the north and he hoped that if he did the job well his responsibilities might be confirmed on a more permanent basis. Although his role as a knight of the body to the late king had been an honour, his heart lay in his northern homeland and he was happier here than he had ever been in London.

In her chamber at Lathom House, Anne heard visitors arrive just in time for dinner. At first she thought that it must be Lord Stanley and his son, returned from York, but, as she paused at the head of the stairs, her spirits sank when she heard the voice of the man she least wished to see.

“Still free from the clutches of Old Dick, I see,” Sir William Stanley greeted her.

“I beg you not to speak of the king using that derogatory name,” said Anne, stiffly.

Sir William laughed. “It’s a fitting nickname for a man who might as well have sold his soul to the devil. For all that he rides around the country, drumming up support and delighting the townsfolk with his air of charm and his refusal of their benevolences, there are some clear-sighted folk who can see the truth.”

“And what truth is that, Sir William?” she asked, annoyed with herself for being drawn into a discussion with him.

“The truth that he is no rightful king and that there is another with a better claim than his.”

“You mean the Lord Edward?”

“I would if the lad were still alive.” Anne stared at Sir William as he gulped down the wine brought by a servant and thrust out the cup for more. “The princes have disappeared from their chambers in the Tower,” he told her.

“Maybe they have been sent to live in the household of some gentleman?” she faltered.

“Murdered, more likely,” replied Sir William.

“No,” said Anne, shaking her head in disbelief. “Richard would never do that!” She thought of the way he doted on his own children, the love and loyalty he had always shown his brother, and his promise to provide for the nephews who had been placed under his care and protection.

“Open your eyes, Anne, and see the man for what he is!” said Sir William.

“And pray for the safety of all those who cross his path – especially those who seek to hinder his ambitions. Remember the way he had Hastings executed? His brother’s closest friend. Why do you insist on taking his part? Sweet Anne...” He reached to grasp her hand. The scent of his stale sweat repulsed her and she turned her head away. She smelt his wine-wet breath before his lips dampened her cheek and she squirmed to try to free herself from his grasp. “I could give you so much more if only you would be kind to me,” he told her.

“I have no intention of ever being kind to you, Sir William. Please let me alone,” she told him. But his words had sown doubt in her mind. Was Richard capable of ordering the execution of his nephews? She tried to convince herself that it was all rumour and lies spread by his enemies to discredit him, but she couldn’t quite shake off the memory of him admitting he had killed old King Henry. But children? His own family? Surely not.

“Your lover will not be king for long,” added the countess from her chair by the hearth. “My cousin Buckingham, with all of the late Lord Hastings’ men at his side, is already rallying troops. When he is successful my son will come from France and he will be crowned the true king of England. You will see. You and your bastard children who have brought such shame on the Stanleys will not seem so privileged then.”

Anne did not reply. She pulled her hand from Sir William’s and went back to her bedchamber where she sat on the edge of her bed for a long time, trying to make sense of what she had been told and wondering what she could do to warn Richard of the growing conspiracy against him.

Robert Harrington stepped back as the king flung down the letter in fury. His blue eyes blazed with anger and his fingers strayed to the knife at his belt.

“He says he has a malady of the stomach!” he fumed, waving a hand towards the letter from the Duke of Buckingham, whom he had ordered back to court. “I can only conclude that what my spies tell me is true and that he is promoting a rebellion.” Robert watched as he shook his head in disbelief. “He had every cause to be loyal. He is the most untrue creature living,” said Diccon, the anger in his eyes replaced by hurt. “But he will not succeed! I will see him and his rebels subdued! Who else has a hand in this do you think?” he asked, dropping to a chair and meeting Robert’s eyes. “Dorset? I suspect that he is being well hidden by Mistress Shore, whom I was kind enough to release from her prison cell. And it would not surprise me to find that Stanley and his wife have meddled here too. I know they both hate me.” He sighed. “I have only ever tried to do what I believe is right. God forgive me, but I sometimes wonder if He has deserted my cause.”

“God sends difficult tasks to test the strongest,” replied Robert by way of reassurance. “With prayer we will prevail. I am sure of it. His will be done,” he added as he made the sign of the cross.

“I pray that you are right,” said the king. “Whilst Buckingham and Dorset do the work of the devil I am sure that the common men who march with these traitors are good Christians. I think I may issue word that no commoner who has been blinded by their lies will be harmed if he lays down his arms and withdraws. It may be that we can stop this before any blood is shed.”

But a few days later, they had to admit that peace could not be achieved by words alone and they were forced to march to battle in their own defence.

As Robert watched a freshening wind flutter the flags and banners of their army, heavy droplets began to fall. Before long the rain had become a torrent, driving into his face, blinding him and wetting him through to his inner padded jacket. Beneath the horses’ hooves the road was a quagmire and he felt his stallion slip beneath him as they slithered downhill towards the River Severn. What sort of battle could take place in such inclement weather, he wondered.

They paused around mid-morning in the shelter of some woodland and the king sent Robert ahead with a small party of men. As they headed cautiously through the trees Robert heard the torrent of water, and when they came in sight of the river he saw that it was in spate from the rain on the hills and there was no chance of crossing. On the far bank the Welshmen who had ridden in support of Buckingham were already turning for home and the rebel army appeared to be in disarray. Robert felt relief seep through him along with the rain. There would be no battle that day, nor any other judging by the reluctance of Buckingham’s men.

Back at their camp, Robert handed the reins to a squire before squelching across the wet grass to where the king was sheltering under a large oak tree. The rain was spattering on the leaves above them and he heard a distant roll of thunder across the Welsh hills.

“They are trapped on the far side of the river, my lord,” he said. “The rebel troops are beginning to disperse and flee.”

Diccon’s wet face broke into a smile that belied the gloomy weather. “Then it seems our prayers are answered,” he said. “Let the common men go unharmed,” he ordered, “but bring me Buckingham – and Dorset. Send the dogs after them if necessary, although I suspect the traitor will run for home. Go to surround his house and tell the men that when he comes out they may help themselves to his goods and chattels.”

It turned out that, on seeing his men desert him, Buckingham had fled to Shrewsbury and taken refuge, disguised as a labourer, in the household of Ralph Banastre who had remained loyal to him. But the thousand pounds reward that the king had offered for his capture had concentrated Banastre’s mind and he had handed the fugitive over to the sheriff of Shropshire.