The Devil in Ermine Page 10

  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.