The Devil in Ermine Read online

  London was too busy feasting to care a jot. Prince Edward’s household was set up in the royal apartments at the Tower and the royal councillors divided their time between there and Crosby Place like cheerful bigamists.

  ‘Have a care, Harry, or you’ll be getting a belly on you.’ Uncle Knyvett jabbed a finger into my waist as the tailors measured me for my coronation clothes. He was right: life had been a whirligig of banquets, all part of the game to discover whether my ‘good lordship’ would prove more useful than Hastings’. Whoever had the ear of the Lord Protector needed to be fed and watered. A good job Richard had two!

  The grovels were never blatant, merely causal references between the loach in green sauce and the suckling pig with hot codlings, or a meaningful look above the raised cup. Knights, merchants, the desperate and the despicable, they hopped about my Lord Protector’s friends like hungry fleas.

  Out of my alliance with my cousin was growing something greater than respect. I feared it might be the altruistic friendship that forgives shortcomings and I found it disturbing. Why? Well, isn’t friendship a form of slavery, a shackle of sentiment that clouds reason and dulls ambition?

  As if to counteract these spasms of purity, I burned the candles to their stubs as I caressed the pretty flesh that slid between my bedsheets, imagining each wench to be my elusive green-eyed sylph. And then one morning I was getting into my barge on the watersteps of Baynards Castle after a honeycakes and kiss-your-hand-audience with Proud Cis, Richard’s mother, the Duchess of York, when I saw her.

  Her. Mid-river, rowed by a water boatman. The girl who had been haunting my dreams. She was sitting stately as any princess with some plumpish, heavily-veiled woman beside her.

  I hauled my dawdling Uncle Knyvett onto the barge, grabbed my helmsman by the arm and pointed. ‘Matthew, follow that boat!’

  YOU would not think we could lose her but we did. The little craft swiftly wove in among the merchant barques off Queenhythe, whereas my oarsmen battled to keep our lumbering barge clear of the mooring ropes and the swarm of small wherries bearing folk to the city. By the time we reached the landing steps, she and her companion had disappeared.

  ‘You can’t go chasing after virgins, Harry,’ muttered Uncle Knyvett, as we resumed our journey back to Dowgate. ‘Didn’t you listen to your cousin’s lecture in Stony Stratford? It’s all wedding rings and fidelity from now on.’

  ‘Would you like a swim among the turds?’ I countered sweetly. ‘He’s not married to Cat Woodville.’

  But Uncle Knyvett was right. I had more important matters on my agendum.

  ‘What was the harvest from the taverns last night?’ I asked Pershall as he dressed me for dinner at Goldsmiths’ Hall.

  ‘Interesting, your grace. The lads all went out stealthylike, without the livery, as you requested.’

  ‘And the gossip?’

  ‘Gossip is “Uncle Dick from up north” would like to make himself king. Aye, and they’re giving a new thirly-whirly to the old scandal about her ladyship of York.’

  ‘The Flemish archer?’ I smiled dismissively. I was more intent on wondering what I could do to ensure that Richard fulfilled the alehouse prophecy.

  ‘No, my lord, just you wait on… While you were seeing her grace this morning, I chewed some cud with one of her grooms, an ancient what used to go on campaign with the old duke. Seems to me his lordship was away slaughterin’ the Frogs or some other poxy whoresons when King Ned was conceived.’

  ‘Godssakes, Pershall, you never asked him direct?’

  ‘No, of course not. Circumloc… well, whatever, is one of my many talents.’

  ‘Hmm, but if—’

  ‘Aye, if,’ he cut in. ‘It would mean that them little princes have no royal blood, your grace, and your cousin of Gloucester is the rightful heir. But the funny thing is the rumours aren’t coming from the Lord Protector’s affinity, not with him being her son and so forth. No, indeed, my lord, there was a fine brawl at the Swan with some of his grace’s White Boar fellows defending my lady’s good name. No, my money’s on someone else trying to stir up mischief. It wouldn’t be Lord Hastings neither. His men are all puffed up like courtin’ pigeons about serving the new king.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I blew out my cheeks pensively. ‘Ask Sir Nicholas to give our lads some more ale money for tonight and tell them to fan the flames – the talk about Proud Cis and the archer – hot as they can.’ I wanted people speculating that if Dead Ned had no true Yorkist blood, then the Prince had none either.

  Pershall bowed. ‘It shall be done. An’ I should hire a food taster if I was you, your grace, and afore you say it, I’m not putting my hand up for the extra wages.’

  ‘Pershall?’

  He grinned at my perplexed face. ‘Word is the Queen would like to poison you and your cousin Northern Dick.’

  And who was spreading that one?

  PERHAPS Richard did have a food taster or maybe the Queen lacked imagination. I survived supper at Crosby Place next evening and returned to find a huffy Pershall roosting on the stairs to my bedchamber.

  ‘You might have told me you had made an arrangement, your grace,’ he muttered, springing to his feet. ‘An’ what with Lord Hastings havin’ sent you a pretty harlot for supper tied up with a ribbon.’

  ‘An arrangement? What arrangement?’

  ‘Well, you tell me, my lord. But all I know is there’s two of ’em up there. I know you like a threesome o’times, my lord, but I don’t think those two are like to get along. Morelike scratch each other’s eyes out. I’ve put ’em in separate rooms so you can have one at a time if you’d rather. Do you want to bang on the floor when you’ve finished?’

  I stared at him in amazement and then with a deep breath, thrust my hat and cloak at him and headed softly up the stairs. I went furtively to the nearest door and glanced in. A young woman was lolling against my pillows, grooming her nails. It was the serving wench that Hastings had goosed that first morning at Crosby Place (and probably had a leg over since). I did not want his leftovers.

  ‘My cousin will have a visitation from God if he hears of this,’ I muttered. ‘Pay her off!’

  ‘I daresay it will be noisy removing her.’

  ‘I shall be noisy if you do not. You and Bannaster shift her hence or you can both look for another master.’

  ‘But she’s a beauty,’ whispered Pershall to torment me.

  ‘So is the Queen.’ I turned to him again. ‘You say there are two? Where in Sweet Christ’s name is the other one?’

  Smirking, he pointed to one of the guest chambers and then, with a grin, strode across and opened the door.

  ‘My lady, his grace of Buckingham.’

  I could have kicked the grinning sot from here to Greenwich. He had left me with no choice but to go in.

  Sometimes Fortune smashes her fist into us as though we are butter. That’s how I felt. Before me stood the young woman with the auburn hair and green eyes.

  She curtsied formally, her gaze modestly on my toecaps and then she lifted her lashes and looked in my face with eyes like sanded emeralds. I had the impression of fragility but her healthy, honey skin denied that. Nor, I hazarded, was she untouched, for there was no rigidity in her bearing but a gracious confidence. I had been wrong in thinking her scarce out of childhood. I was wrong in every way save that she was very beautiful.

  ‘My lady,’ I began, for unquestionably my visitor was no ploughman’s get and the flattery would do no harm. ‘I pray you be seated. Shall you take some refreshment?’

  She shook her head. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was as I had imagined, soft and rich yet with a recognizable burr of the west that was quite delightful. ‘Your man has looked after me very well, my lord. I did not think to wait so long.’ Her lips tightened and for an instant she betrayed some uncertainty.

  ‘It is almost curfew, my lady.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes, my lord.’

  I swallowed. I was growing hard just drinking in her beauty. In my i
magination I was already stripping away the triangle of green silk covering her breasts, sliding my hand beneath her generous collar.

  ‘I do not seek to delay you, my lord. I…I am here to give you a petition.’ That shot my gaze up from where her necklace of coral and crystal lay above her delicious cleavage.

  ‘A petition?’ The flare of disappointment in my eyes must have been high as St Paul’s spire save that she was too busy drawing out a sealed parchment from beneath her belt to notice.

  ‘I apologise that I deluded your attendants, my lord, but the matter is vital.’

  ‘I see.’ I reached the window and opened the lower lights. How absurd that anything but self interest could have drawn her here. I took a deep breath of the chill air, thankful my shaft was subsiding to flaccidity.

  ‘Your grace, please?’ Passion and despair fought in her voice.

  ‘I do not usually consider petitions at this time of night, demoiselle,’ I answered over my shoulder. ‘Do your parents know you are here?’

  ‘I doubt it since you have imprisoned my father.’

  I turned abruptly. ‘I have not imprisoned anyone.’ Except a Welsh whoreson, who had been cutting the leather straps of our horses’ harnesses in the fall, and was still locked up in Brecknock keep.

  ‘Then one of us is a liar, my lord of Buckingham, for my father is Anthony, Lord Rivers.’

  ‘What? Rivers does not have a daughter.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’ Defiance blazed in her voice as though her entire life had been a battle for respect. ‘Acknowledged before witnesses. I’m his bastard.’

  The bastard from Bristol way. I could only stare at her, cursing Heaven for a very bad jest. Oh Jesu, a very bad jest. Tainted blood. My wife’s niece. Another damned Woodville.

  ‘My name is Margaret.’ I felt the scarring in her, heard the pain of childhood. Some compassion must have flowed out of me for her head jerked upright as though I had openly voiced a slur upon her virtue. So she did not want my pity. I could understand that.

  Rivers’ daughter. Did she love her father whom she must have hardly ever seen? Did he love her? No matter, I would no more set him free than I would bare my throat to a bloody-fanged wolf. Just my cursed luck, why did she have to be a Woodville?

  She had set the petition on the small table and stood watching me with her hands clasped between her breasts. In the silence between us, the sudden unpleasant thumps of wall and stifled curses beyond the door echoed louder than cannon fire.

  ‘Is that the cat being put out for the night?’ Margaret Woodville asked dryly. She meant to rile, a corner of her mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Something like that,’ I managed to answer, wishing I might cross to the aumery and pour myself a throat-searing mouthful.

  The haphazard knocks and grunts receded down the stairs. My visitor’s mouth finally serifed into a faint smile. Oh, Devil’s arse! She had seen the other wench.

  ‘I should have thought a man like you would have better taste.’ Then she instantly looked ashamed and murmured an apology. But it had been like having my cheek scratched by a diamond ring. Give her due, the wench had courage but if she wanted mercy for the paradox she called her father, she was dancing with the devil.

  ‘I do have taste, mistress. It is mirrored in my eyes at this very moment.’ She did not like that but before she could insult me further, I added swiftly, ‘But, of course, you are here to discuss some means of twisting the screws on me.’

  ‘Is there any, my lord?’ A coin of hope flung in a saint’s spring. Did she not know the saints do not listen? I might, however. Playing games with her could be amusing.

  ‘There is always hope but I cannot help you, mistress. You would be better speaking to the Lord Protector since it was on his orders that your father was arrested. I am sure if you throw yourself on your knees and wash his shoe beaks with your tears…’

  She flicked a disdainful glance at my clean ones and picked up her unopened letter. ‘I beg your pardon then for disturbing you, your grace.’ Too proud to bargain.

  ‘Believe me, I am sorry I cannot assist you.’

  Resentment chilled those green eyes. Cannot or will not?

  I took hold the door handle and nearly collided with Pershall. The whoreson had been eavesdropping.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ I said with sweetness, observing the parallel scratches down the left side of his neck. ‘Seek out Bannaster and ask him to give this young woman an escort to…?’ I looked round at Mistress Woodville with a querying eyebrow.

  She hesitated, but the thought of making her way back alone across the city dismayed her more. ‘St Martin Le Grand, your grace,’ she admitted. Presumably the Queen drew the line at accommodating bastards in Westminster Sanctuary.

  ‘Ah, near Aldersgate?’ I returned towards her.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Seen hide or hair of your cousin my lord of Dorset then, mistress?’

  Her cheeks sunk into concaves. ‘No, my lord.’

  I do not think it was my sudden proximity that made her eyelids shield her eyes like pretty visors.

  ‘But there was a great to do, Mistress Woodville. A hue and cry within and without the gate, all over the ward you are dwelling. Surely you must have heard that?’

  ‘I heard the baying of dogs, my lord, out in the fields.’ Her chin rose and those green eyes were staring up into mine without blinking.

  I drew a deep breath. Another world, another name, I would have kissed her.

  There were voices at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘It sounds as though your escort awaits you. Join the petitioners at Crosby Place, mistress. Who knows, his grace may be moved by your arguments – if you have any.’

  ‘Or the King might,’ she countered bravely. ‘He is my cousin as well.’

  A tight smile from me. ‘A little cousin still, but I am sure he will listen.’ I gestured that she proceed to the door and stood there with my hand upon the latch but half out on the landing, she turned.

  ‘Please.’ Just the touch of her hand on my wrist was like a summer fire on dry kindling. ‘I truly beg your pardon for my rudeness. Please may we speak again?’

  Could Samson resist Delilah, her breath sweet, her eyes moist? A Delilah Woodville? No, he could not.

  ‘I am sure our paths will cross again, demoiselle.’

  ATTENDING the morning court of an uncrowned twelve year old in his apartments at the Tower of London was like watching a score of grown birds feeding a cuckoo chick. As soon as I could leave without giving offence, I made my excuses and withdrew with my retainers.

  Uncle Knyvett gave me the wink that he wanted a word so I gestured our entourage to go towards the water gate where my barge was waiting, and let him pluck me by the elbow. He drew me aside beneath the cherry trees of the inner bailey.

  ‘A waste of a good morning,’ I commented, staring up the walls of the Wakefield Tower where Henry VI had been murdered.

  ‘You can say that again. By the saints, Harry. This whole business is woolly. Do you know what I mean? If you have a strong man as king, well, he’s the King and what he commands, everyone does. But with a boy, particularly this one.’ He pulled a face. ‘I reckon we are looking at a future Saul not a Solomon, and it doesn’t bode well for you, my lad.’ I nodded and let him have his head. ‘What’s more, if the old tale of Proud Cis and the Flemish soldier of Rouen is true, then that pimply boy preening himself back there has no more royal blood than I do. So, what I am thinking, Harry, is that Richard of Gloucester would make an exceptional king.’

  ‘That’s treason, Uncle Will,’ I scolded.

  ‘And what else occurred to me, Harry,’ continued Uncle Knyvett, as though he had just discovered that milk comes from cows, ‘and I’m sure to you too, was that if the plague were to carry off Gloucester next August, then you’d be the next man for the throne.’

  ‘Christ, uncle, does the sun go round the earth?’ Me, King of England? Of course, as the last heir of Lancas
ter, I had dreamed of that. But there was still Richard’s legitimate nine year old lad, although he was reputed to be delicate, unlikely to make old bones – unhealthy issue from two people closely related.

  ‘Let us come at this from another direction then. What do you reckon would prevent Gloucester becoming king, Harry?’

  ‘Apart from his grace’s conscience which is as big as Canterbury Cathedral?’

  He grinned. ‘Aye, apart from that little hiccough?’

  ‘Hmm, let me see, if England was governed from York, he would not have a problem, but this is London and the people here don’t know enough of him to trust him. I’d say that if the Queen and Hastings decided to give each other the kiss of peace, they could whistle up the whole of southern England and the midlands against us. Gloucester doesn’t see it. He thinks everyone except the Woodvilles loves him because he’s been a good boy up north.’

  Uncle Knyvett rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘Then you just have to make sure Hastings and her ladyship do not become friends.’

  ‘Or…’ My mind was whirling. What coincidence of planets would make Richard take the throne? ‘Heigh-ho, that might be the answer, uncle!’ I exclaimed, shaking his hanging sleeves. ‘We have to make sure they do become friends again.’

  He pulled away. ‘No, come on, that’s like asking a man to believe in fairies, Harry. The woman wants his head. She’ll bide her time until the boy’s of age and then the moment Hastings sets a foot wrong, she’ll have the kites pecking his lordship’s handsome eyes out on London Bridge.’

  ‘Ah, but they do not have to be really friends,’ I said softly. ‘Gloucester just has to believe they are.’

  He snorted. ‘Well, I haven’t a poxy clue what you are raving about. I just know that my head would feel safer on my shoulders if Gloucester were really in charge.’