The Devil in Ermine Read online

  ‘Draft a proclamation,’ he was saying to Kendall. ‘Set down that there has been a conspiracy, an attempt on my life by the Queen’s supporters, and that the Lord Chamberlain…’ He looked hard at me, ‘is dead. There is to be no need for any panic. Everyone should go about their business as normal. Say that Hastings and the Queen plotted to overthrow the Royal Council, mention that Hastings was an evil councillor to my brother, that last night he lay with Shore, one of the conspirators, et cetera.’

  It sounded like a fabrication although it was the truth, and his secretary’s expression told him so. ‘Do what you can with it, John. Ask Lord Howard’s advice if you need help. I wish Ratcliffe were here,’ he said, blaming me further.

  ‘Howard has gone. What are you going to do about Shore?’ I asked as Kendall bustled away to get an army of scriveners busy so that the whole city might hear the official news within the hour.

  Richard looked at me sourly. ‘She’s still here? Oh, I care not, send her to Ludgate gaol. Let her do penance as a whore.’

  ‘In a shift with a candle! That should draw the crowds.’ That provoked a sullen lift of eyebrow. ‘If you will be advised by me, Richard, I suggest you send Morton away from the south as you have done with Rivers. I have a strong keep at Brecknock.’

  He shrugged haughtily. ‘I’ll consider it.’

  Encouraged, I overstepped the line. ‘We might as well flog this matter and get it over. Are you going to request Parliament to draw up an act of attainder upon Hastings?’

  His face contorted like a mask of Rage.

  ‘Holy Paul!’ he roared. ‘You are as greedy as the fucking Woodvilles! And which of the late Lord Chamberlain’s manors does your grace have his eye on?’

  ‘No,’ I protested sincerely, backing away. ‘I mean, is it not usually—‘

  ‘Must we persecute a whole family because of one man’s failings? Oh, my God, it will be bad enough trying to explain to poor Aunt Kate why Hastings was executed without the proper process of the law! Oh, this was done ill, very ill.’

  I could not answer him. His mercy in this instance shamed me but I was not going to buckle beneath his insults. If I stared back with arrogance, it was at his provocation. I had removed Hastings from his path, taken the ugly decision from him.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered, storming away with an angry toss of his hands as though everything had slid out of control. When he turned round again, he was himself again, with a soldier’s backbone. ‘I am going to Westminster to see the Chancellor and make sure there are no misunderstandings. In view of this crisis, I am going to suggest the Royal Council send out writs postponing the coronation.’

  I was not at all pleased. ‘That is madness if you want to keep the guilds on side.’

  ‘I did not say there would be no coronation, Harry, just a matter of whose. We need a few days for things to calm down. You can clear up things here. Tell Kendall to send out a summons to all the royal councillors for a meeting here tomorrow morning and you had better have your evidence of the conspiracy ready.’ I nodded obediently like one of his men-at-arms. Ha, should I have saluted?

  There was, of course, little real conspiracy. He did crush it in the egg.

  ‘What about Stanley? Shall I arrange for his trial for high treason?’ That brought him to an abrupt halt in the doorway. He turned, his expression sarcastic.

  ‘Another beheading? I thought, Harry, that you had promised to ask me to be merciful.’

  I raised my head up defiantly. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Catesby was on his way down just as Stanley was grovelling to you.’ His eyes challenged me to deny it. Catesby, it seemed, was springing phoenix-like from Hastings’ embers, anxious to be indispensable to my Lord Protector.

  I slung my cloak over my arm. ‘Well, I have changed my mind. Stanley’s a plaguey time-server. He never got off his arse to draw his sword for your brother and he won’t for you either.’

  ‘Two things, cousin,’ lectured Richard, his hand poised on the door ring. ‘One, the Stanleys can bring several thousand against me in the field, and two, the realm is sufficiently purged, and if it is still sick then it is not worth the bloody fucking remedy. Good day to you.’ With a curt inclination of his head, he left me. The soldiers followed him and I was left alone.

  I walked into the empty council chamber, and stood staring at the long candlesticks lying like fallen saplings across the overturned benches, and the ink puddles on the table, still dripping onto the floor. Hastings’ hat was lying under the table. I did not touch it. I wondered if his spiteful ghost was already watching me.

  Over by a window where a scrivener had sat, I found a sheet of paper that had not been trampled, and retrieved a quill from the fallen pot. I set them on the part of the table that had not been sullied, righted the bench alongside and lit a candle from one of the torches in the antechamber. Outside the rain beat upon the windows and cleansed the yard. Inside there was no sound but the scratching of my quill.

  Forcing myself to do the task was healing. I was concentrating so hard that I did not hear anyone come in.

  ‘Lord Howard said I should find you here.’ Uncle Knyvett quietly sat down beside me with his back to the table. ‘You do have secretaries, you know.’ He watched me wave the letter to dry the ink, fold it and drip sealing wax upon the overlap. ‘I heard what happened. Do you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I have just written to Hastings’ steward offering all the Lord Chamberlain’s men-at-arms service in my household. I want it to go to Thames Street straightaway.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said gravely, and thrust it into the breast of his jacket. ‘I’ll dispatch several men instantly to spread the word. Were you hurt in any way?’ I shook my head. ‘Everyone was in a real pother at the house, I might tell you, and your little wench came running in distraught. Thought you were dead at first. She’s waiting there now.’

  I put a hand to my forehead and smoothed back my damp hair.

  ‘I do not know what to do next,’ I whispered. ‘I feel utterly spent, as though some brawny fishwife has wrung me out like a dishcloth.’

  Uncle Knyvett put his arm about me. ‘Go out for a gallop beyond the city walls.’

  I blinked around me at the chaos. ‘But Gloucester left me in charge.'

  He urged me to my feet. ‘You just tell me what must be done here, Harry, and I’ll see the Lieutenant and sort things out.’

  I rode back through Billingsgate and Candlewick with a score of men at arms at my back and it seemed to me the streets were deserted, and those few citizens that were about shrank back and touched their foreheads in fearful respect.

  I DID not see Meg that day, thank Heaven. Pershall, on his own authority, had escorted her back to her lodgings and pretending to be a jealous lover, paid a local horse boy to bring him word if she left or entertained any visitors. His tidings that she had been lodging at Mistress Shore’s house had me furious.

  ‘Do you need spectacles, man, or would a new brain be better?’ I snarled at Bannaster, who had always seen her home before. He stood before me, staring at the knots in the floorboards, his mouth puckered like a child’s. Stout hearted, he could not add up a ledger but he could crack heads together like walnuts.

  ‘She allus said goodbye to me at Paul’s Yard so I never saw her dwelling. How wuz I to know it were important, my lord. You never worried abaht it with your other whores.’

  I told him to piss off and then relented and gave him extra ale money. Even then he refused to let Pershall usher him out.

  ‘My lord, you know your manor of Yalding be up for a new steward?’

  ‘It is not a good moment to mention it, Bannaster. Today has been…somewhat fraught. Could you just go and get drunk instead?’ But he stood there stoutly, cap in hand.

  ‘It’s like this, my lord, the wife’s of a mind to leave the farm at Wem and move to Kent.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Too late, I fear, Bannaster, the new man’s already
appointed. You can go and work for him if that’s your fancy.’

  He curled his lower lip. ‘Wouldn’t suit, my lord. She allus wanted to be a steward’s wife.’

  ‘Next time, perhaps.’ I was not sure how long my temper would hold. ‘I should not want to lose you from the household, Bannaster, but now, if you do not mind…’ I walked my fingers in the air and he finally understood the message.

  Yalding! I denied Bannaster’s wife Yalding! Oh God, if only I had known the consequences, she should have had every frigging acre of it the damned place and more besides.

  All I desired at that moment was to drink myself to oblivion. What happened at the White Tower was repeating in my mind over and over and over. I barred my door and reached for the flagon and then I remembered George of Clarence and set it back down. Instead, I went to my private chapel but if I pleaded for heavenly absolution, none came.

  I DID not want to return to the White Tower next day but there was no choice. I was glad I had kept a clear head the night before. My evidence was heard. But looking at the faces of my fellow royal councillors, I knew their acceptance of the triangle of treachery was based not on intelligent assessment of the facts but fear. Richard said not a word of his decision to execute Rivers. It was clear he was not going to tell me either.

  The other matter that riled me as I strode down to By-Our-Lady Tower was that Catesby and Tom Howard, not to mention the Yorkshire henchmen too, were dogging Richard’s heels, begging how they might serve him, right ravenous for rewards. I knew I had to be mature and accept that the strength of his government would be spread over many shoulders, but in cutting down the Hastings lion, it seemed I had unleashed the jackals.

  I decided, therefore, to look in on Stanley and chew the cud awhile. From Richard’s remark about him yesterday, I presumed that peace and reconciliation might already be gestating like healthy twins in my cousin’s mind and within a few weeks, the old weathercock would be free again. Maybe I should mend matters with them, too?

  Stanley did not have much to say for himself but Bishop Morton did.

  He was guarded by thrice the number outside Stanley’s quarters. Seated on a settle by the window with his slippered feet on a yellow footstool, he reminded me of an overweight dragon sitting on its tail. A small leather-bound prayer book rested on his paunch, supported by one podgy hand while the other snaked in and out of a bowl of strawberries on the small table at his elbow.

  ‘Are you actually the real Morton or a changeling?’ I mused aloud, leaning back against the doorpost, my arms folded languidly.

  He smiled the sort of expression you see on the crocodili sea captains bring back in baths of water from Alexandria.

  ‘They do not make changelings in my size,’ he said ruefully. ‘As you see,’ he waved a hand towards the locked door, ‘I am amply protected from such eventualities. Can you tell me for how long?’

  ‘One never knows with you, bishop. Forever might be a good idea. Even if you were dead, I should put a guard around your grave and a couple of men at the far end of the churchyard in case you try to burrow your way out.’

  Morton chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that made his bulk vibrate before the sound actually erupted, like the fire mountains that are said to lie off the coast of Naples. He gestured to the strawberries. ‘Have one! Fresh from my garden at Ely Place.’ I shook my head. The plump hand stilled above the fruit and then it chose the reddest, most perfect strawberry. ‘You know,’ he continued, talking with his mouth full. ‘I think we underestimated you, my boy.’ His use of pronouns made me curious. We?

  I cocked my head on one side. ‘Gloucester and I?’

  ‘Fishing for compliments? No, I mean just you. I doubt our august Lord Protector could have managed on his own.’ I waited for something more but another strawberry disappeared into his mouth. He extracted its leafy coronet from between his lips and rubbed it free of his fingers onto the table. ‘A pity about Lord Hastings though. The dear Lord Protector will never get that blot off his hands, I’m afraid.’

  Either he was ill-informed or he chose to absolve me. Very curious.

  ‘I must be getting on,” I said briskly. “I just came by to make sure you were comfortable.’ I straightened up and turned to slap my hand against the door for the guard to let me out.

  ‘Buckingham.’ It was the way he said my name.

  I looked round slowly with studied hauteur. The ugly whoreson was not even looking at me, but down at his book as if reading. ‘There are two sayings in our Lord’s Book that may be useful for you to consider, your grace: St Luke’s Gospel, chapter 23, verse 42, and the second epistle of the blessed St Paul to Timothy, verse 5. Your chaplain will look them up for you if you cannot manage it.’

  ‘Not all dukes are illiterate.’ I glared at the tonsured head, angry with myself for rising to his jibe. He glanced up momentarily and beamed, his smile like Circe’s.

  I rode from the Tower amused at his contumacious good humour but wishing that all fat bishops who grinned like stone devils might be wiped from the face of the earth. Curiosity nags at you, doesn't it, like an ache in the guts and as my chaplain was still on his sick bed, I sent Nandik to look up the two references and translate them into English for me. I expected a ‘pride goeth before a fall’ homily but Nandik read out:

  ‘“And if a man also strive for masteries, yet he is not crowned, except he strive lawfully.” That’s from the letter of St Paul to the blessed Timothy, your grace.’

  An ecclesiastical sermon obliquely given, far more tactful than accusing me of executing Hastings unlawfully.

  ‘And the verse from St Luke?’

  ‘Oh, I did not have to look that one up, your grace. It is the Penitent Thief at Our Lord’s Crucifixion. "And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.”’

  Thy kingdom?

  ‘MY LORD of Gloucester has had Mistress Shore’s house nailed up and put a guard around it,’ Pershall informed me when I arrived back. ‘Not that I wish to worry you, your grace.”

  ‘Lord in Heaven!’ Richard being high-handed again. ‘Has he had any of her household arrested?’ My collar felt tight. Had Meg been carrying messages, too?

  ‘Apparently she-who-is-virtuous had the wit to remove herself, if that is what concerns you, my lord. My young informer offered her assistance and tells me she is now putting up at Blossom’s Inn in St Laurence Lane.’

  I let out a breath, so relieved Meg was still at liberty for both our sakes. The last thing I needed was Richard’s suspicion, although after yesterday, he could hardly doubt me.

  ‘I want you to send a purse to her and the instruction that she is to leave London.’

  Although it would pain me to lose Meg, I needed to keep her safe.

  ‘Very well, my lord. And your robes for the coronation arrived yesterday, my lord.’

  ‘Did they indeed! Why did you not inform me straightway?’

  ‘Because you were busy executing Lord Hastings, my lord. May I suggest you try the apparel on this morning, my lord, to make sure it is a proper fit and to give yourself some diversion from rearranging the government.’ My tankard hit the door just as he closed it behind him. Then he opened it again. ‘I have arranged for Mistress Poyntz to meet you at St Mary Bow at five o’clock this evening. I hope that meets with your grace’s approval. May I advise you wear something inconspicuous. The priest’s cassock again perhaps? Then maybe Cheapside may be spared the sight of her berating you.’

  ‘Berating me?’

  ‘She told me that was her intention, your grace.’

  MEG was outside St Mary Bow, with a basket of Kentish cherries on her arm, feeling rather exposed, I imagine, for although she looked of testy humour, she was relieved to see me. The dusky skin around her eyes proclaimed she had slept ill.

  ‘You still stand out in a crowd,’ she complained, her eyes taking in every inch of me at the plain brown doublet and leather cap with flaps that covered my hair. I took her arm and then realise
d we were being watched from above. Standing on a balcony where fulsome bunches of herbs adorned the stone balustrade, was Dame Juliana Shaa, surveying the street like a Roman empress.

  ‘Devil take it! Quick! Round the corner.’

  What a damned cursed meeting place! Right next to Tamersilde, a building used by the nobility to watch processions.

  Meg let me drag her round the corner. ‘A rival mistress?’ she jabbed. Dame Shaa could have rolled me into thin pastry.

  ‘The Lord Mayor’s wife. I tup the older ones on Tuesdays,’ I growled and crossed myself with a prayer to St Jude that woman was myopic. A pox on Pershall! ‘I knew this was folly,’ I grumbled. ‘Why don’t I just stick my neck in the Cornhill pillory and let everyone in London hurl rotten turnips.’

  ‘Hush, I am sure she did not notice you. She must be planning the decorations for St—‘

  ‘John’s Eve,’ I groaned. I had already had my invitation.

  Meg ignored my peevishness and peered around the corner. ‘Hush, she has gone in now.’

  But I was not pleased. ‘Is there somewhere where we can talk without getting – uugh!’ A passing cart with its shouting occupants drowned my curse. My little shrew pointed to the door of St Mary’s.

  ‘I cannot talk to you in there.’ I growled.’ But she was already briskly leading the way into its gloom.

  Within the chilly presence of numerous monuments to long dead haberdashers, we went through the ritual of holy water and lighting candles to Our Lady. Then Meg knelt and, putting her hands together, stared devoutly at the window above the altar and started praying. I settled beside her, seething with impatience.

  ‘Why have you not gone home to Gloucestershire like I bade you?’ I demanded when she was finally done.

  ‘To get rid of me, I know.’

  ‘No, curse it, for your own—’

  ‘What is going on, Harry? What about poor Lord Hastings? God rest his soul!’

  I looked swiftly about me lest any had heard her. Was she a lunatic to rant at me so?