The Devil in Ermine Read online

  ‘And I suppose Mistress Shore is murdered too?’

  ‘Do not talk such folly!’ I snapped. ‘No one’s been murdered!’

  Her shoulders sank in relief, but as footsteps passed behind us, she crossed herself vehemently and began to finger her rosary. We both stared forward like a couple of stone mourners on a tomb.

  ‘She will survive,’ I muttered, when it was safe to speak again. ‘Probably shogging the gaoler by now.’

  ‘That is not amusing. Where is she?’

  ‘Safe in Ludgate and do not go near her!’ The swift jut of chin told me that she would disobey me. I should need to put a watch on Meg Poyntz. To shame me further, she made great play of praying for the whore.

  I had closed my eyes, wondering why the Almighty had deliberately plagued my life with difficult women, when my sleeve was fiercely tugged

  ‘And what about my father? Did you persuade the duke to let him leave England. Harry, please, answer me?’

  I tried to meet her eyes but I could not. The stained-glass Christ I was staring up at did not look sympathetic either. ‘It is not good news, Meg.’

  ‘Oh!’ She would have stormed away but I kept a tight hold on her, cursing my stupidity yet again for meeting her.

  ‘May I assist you, my children?’ An elderly priest had seen our quarrel.

  I instantly buried my face in my hands and Meg put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘My brother is troubled, Father. He has come to pray to the Lord Our God to weaken his anger against his enemies.’

  ‘Wrath is a deadly sin. Do you want to confess, my son?’

  ‘Thank you, not just yet.’ My voice was muffled. I did not dare look up. A dry hand descended upon my head and a benediction was uttered. The sandals shuffled away, and I was able to strip my fingers from my exasperated expression. ‘This is ridiculous. Let us go back to your inn.’

  ‘I am not at your perpetual disposal, my lord.’

  ‘For Blessed Christ’s sake, I did not mean that.’

  ‘Hush!’ she scolded piously. ‘You are in His House. And in His Name, answer me, you did intercede for my father, did you not?’

  ‘Meg!’ I groaned.

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘I swear to you in this holy place that I have not been privy to any decision-making.’

  But she was no fool. ‘Stop playing with words, Harry.’

  ‘Very well. He is to be executed, Meg. I was too late to stop the order. Gloucester gave it without consulting me.’

  She clapped a hand to her lips. ‘Blessed Jesu!’ I thought for a moment that she might retch but she was winding up her anger. ‘I cannot believe this. You of all men had the power…’ She crossed herself with duty and speed – and fled.

  I found her leaning her shoulders against the side of the church with tears pouring down her cheeks and splashing her bosom. I reached out my arms but she knocked them aside.

  ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

  ‘Abuse your aunt not me, woman! Your father was hostage for her good conduct. Instead she conspired.’’

  ‘Conspired?’ she hissed. ‘What, to keep her children safe? Oh, I thought that you would help me. I trusted you.’ She was close to screaming at me.

  I glanced behind me. A hairy old beggar was watching us, too far away, thank God, to hear our conversation.

  ‘Bridle your temper!’ I snarled. ‘Or, by Heaven, I’ll have you thrown into Ludgate alongside that gossip Shore!’

  She spat. ‘You devil! You are…you are filth, my lord of Buckingham.’ She would have run but my hand was an iron manacle about her wrist.

  ‘If I deserve the gutter, so do you! By Heaven, you strumpet, I daresay you only lay with me to save your father.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Her sobbing stilled and she glared up at me like a little girl, resentment mingled with guilt in the shiver of her lips.

  I looked down into those beauteous green eyes, awash with tears, and dreaded to find treason in her. ‘Filth, am I? I thought for just one precious week of my life that there was more than self-interest in a woman’s embrace, that despite my part in your father’s downfall, that you liked me for myself.’ I raised my hands in instinctive supplication as if a perverse god was listening. ‘That some happy coincidence of the planets, some wondrous alchemy, made us more than bedfellows. Fare you well, Meg. Be advised and do your grieving in your mother’s arms, not mine.’

  Contrition flared in her face. ‘No, you’ll not shun me, Harry. I love you, you fool!’

  She reached a hand to my sleeve but I left her. The beggar rattled his bowl as my shadow fell across him and I put my hand up to hide my face.

  When I reached the safety of my house, I sent two reliable men to find Meg and take her to one of the properties I owned off Cheapside. For her own sake as well as mine. She was becoming too great a risk.

  CHAPTER 9

  On the following Monday, the day Prince Richard was promised to leave Westminster Sanctuary, we drove the full weight of the Royal Council against Elizabeth. The entire council met at the White Tower and then we travelled together by barge to Westminster in full public view.

  With a loud clanking of armour, the men-at-arms, who accompanied us, surrounded the sanctuary and lined the route the Prince would take to Westminster Palace. Lord Howard and my great-uncle of Canterbury led the deputation appointed to meet with Elizabeth at the abbot’s house, while my cousin and I, and the rest of the councillors assembled in the Star Chamber at Westminster.

  We had held some of the full council meetings here but King Edward’s massive chair at the head of the board had not been occupied since his death and its emptiness still haunted my cousin. Even I felt Dead Ned’s absence keenly, for the palace, unused since April, was hollow without his laughter, and miserable without his splendour.

  There we waited for damn nigh two hours while Elizabeth wrangled with the abbot and the deputation. I could not sit drumming my fingers any longer so I found myself a window onto the courtyard. It was cursed hot outside. The soldiers were cooking in their steel casings, and the commoners waiting for a sight of Prince Richard were competing for the shade of the archway. At last the trumpets sounded.

  Westminster Hall with its high hammer beam roof was cool and sombre; Elizabeth had stripped the expensive tapestries from the walls and Richard had not had time to see to its refurnishing. The paraphernalia of the law courts had been stowed away so the floor of the hall could be packed with our retainers.

  I took my place at the dais to welcome the boy on behalf of the Royal Council and my colleagues arranged themselves like an arrow shape on either side of me. The fanfares sounded, the heavy doors were swung wide and King Edward’s younger son, dapper in a mustard tunic with one leg matching and the other clad in black, stood blinking between Howard and the Archbishop, taking in the hushed hall of waiting faces. The roly-poly little knave was not at all flummoxed. In fact, he gave us a huge grin and everybody cheered. Then, hand in hand with the archbishop, he walked through the bowing ranks towards the dais. Uncle Bourchier conducted him up the stairs and I knelt on the second step down and kissed his hand and then to echoing huzzahs, I rose and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Throughout my speech to the gathered lords, the child looked mighty pleased with himself and when I had done, he doffed his black cap and inclined his head graciously to the assembly. They loved him for it and there was further applause.

  ‘What happened?’ I whispered to Howard as he came alongside me with a triumphant sucked-in smirk.

  ‘A snivelling struggle from the Queen but your great uncle’s reassurances swayed her in the end. God’s Rood, the performance in kissing him goodbye and telling us he had an ague and must be kept warm, and all the while the little rascal was fidgeting to get away and have a taste of freedom.’

  It was time to escort him to his other uncle and with my Uncle Canterbury on one side and myself on the other, church and state guided him to where the Lord Protector stood waiting at the door
to the Star Chamber, wearing that expression of foolish indulgence that some mothers have for their babies. Perhaps being his namesake, Uncle Richard had a greater kindness towards this nephew.

  ‘Uncle Dickon!’ exclaimed the princeling with delight and then he realised he had forgotten the occasion so he extended his hand regally, saying grandly: ‘How does your grace?’ This brought guffaws of laughter. Prince Richard looked round at everyone with bubbling satisfaction and back to his uncle, who could hardly keep his face straight as he took his hand.

  ‘Your grace, I am in good health, and you?’

  Prince Richard sniffed. ‘I have had a runny nose.’ Uncle Richard laughed, and flung his arm around the child’s shoulders.

  ‘Come on, Dickon,’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘Let’s take you to the king’s grace. Are you glad to be out of the sanctuary?’

  The boy nodded vigorously. ‘There was nowhere to play properly.’ He looked up pleadingly. ‘Uncle, would you give me a bow and arrow, please? I started lessons before…before his highness my father died and I was truly improving and…’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ laughed my cousin, sweeping him along. ‘We shall ask the Lieutenant of the Tower to have a butt set up for you and you can perhaps persuade your brother to do some practice too. He has spent too much time indoors lately and needs some exercise.’

  The rest of us followed them back into Westminster Hall.

  ‘I wish this one were king instead, even if he is keeping me from being a duke,’ muttered Howard. ‘There is more of his father in him.’

  ‘Just as well he is not,’ I muttered. ‘Gloucester is finding it hard enough to consider deposing his brother.’

  We had to remember they were bastards.

  IF you want something made known in the swiftest time to the widest audience in London then the preacher at St Paul's Cross is your man. On Sundays, after early morning mass, crowds gather in the churchyard to hear the special sermon. There is always a famous cleric invited and often the speaker is a friar. Dominicans and Franciscans seem to attract the cleverest to their orders.

  On the surface of it, my cousin was lucky that the preacher who had been engaged for Sunday 22nd June was Mayor Shaa’s brother, Ralph, who had a fine reputation as an orator and was likely to draw a good crowd. Brother Shaa was amazed when we summoned him to Westminster, but as the situation was made clear to him, his eyes began to sparkle at the prospect of mitres and benefices falling from the hand of a grateful king. He spent an hour at the abbey delving through the Holy Bible for a fit text and returned jubilant and incomprehensible.

  “Spuria vitulamina non dabunt radices altas nec stabile firmamentum conlocabunt.”,’ he proclaimed, brandishing his notes. How I detest the bad breath of religious pedantry.

  ‘I missed the meaning of that.’ Richard told him bluntly.

  ‘Your pardon, my lord. “But the multiplied brood of the wicked shall not thrive, and bastard slips shall not take deep root, nor any fast foundation.”’ We still looked at him blankly. ‘“Bastard slips shall not take root”. Bastards, your graces! The Book of Wisdom, which follows The Song of Solomon.’

  ‘Ah!’ My cousin looked across at me.

  ‘Amen,” I said dryly.

  ‘Perfect, then.’ Relief shone in Richard’s face as though Shaa’s discovery of the verse had bestowed God’s absolution. Truly, sometimes my cousin thought like a village idiot.

  I HAD survived many a sermon at Paul’s Yard in my youth by eyeing the London wenches. What I had also learned was that, firstly, it was wise to arrive early and, secondly, there was no use trying to charm my way up any petticoats when the girls had been listening to a two hour onslaught on sin and adultery. But the latter was far from my mind when I arrived at the cathedral that morning. Since there was no sign of the Gloucesters, I bade my retinue mingle with the gathering crowd and wholeheartedly accepted an invitation from my new friends among the city merchants to join them on their stand.

  Brother Shaa had a sunny morning for his eloquence and consequently there was a large turn-out. St Paul’s Yard was wearing a very different face from its weekly appearance. The stalls that usually sprawled into the very nave of the cathedral had been cleared away. In fact, the poet who called himself Piers Plowman might have likened the scene to his fair field full of folk. Instead of the greasy-tongued touters and scabby beggars, the yard was packed with guildsmen squiring their wives and sweethearts, and clusters of apprentices. Around me, the merchants’ wives with their little spire caps and fluttering veils were all in holiday humour, showing off their finery, easing their necklines lower and biting their lips to make them cherry red. But for once I was more interested in the preacher. And, Devil take it, where was Richard?

  Below the pulpit, Brother Shaa waited, grinding his jaw as the hour drew close. He tarried in mounting the wooden steps, clearly still hoping that the Lord Protector would arrive. The crowd began to fidget and when his brother signalled him to begin, the wretched man hurtled through his introduction like some green esquire galloping at a quintain.

  Oh, it was a botched up business. The congregation, used to chastisement for coveting each other’s wives and asses, looked as obtuse as scarecrows at the mention of ‘bastard slips’. As for the peroration where Shaa was supposed to point to my cousin and proclaimed that he was the very image of his father the Duke of York? Well, Richard missed the important flourish.

  When he did arrive, his servants noisily cleared a way for him to a position within twelve paces from the pulpit and Shaa, seeing him at last, halted in mid-sentence and went right back to the beginning of the ‘Richard is the most English of York’s sons’ and did the huge arm gesture bit all over again. The White Boar men around the duke cheered and so did my retainers, but most people stood with their mouths hanging open like nesting holes. I should have laughed had the matter been less sensitive.

  The intelligent aldermen who understood were scowling daggers at the Lord Mayor for not letting them in on the matter earlier, and as those more canny amongst the crowd grasped Brother Shaa’s meaning, an unpleasant hush fell over the great yard. The faces of the wives so charmed by Prince Edward a month earlier turned stony, while the men looked at each other with ‘I told you so’ expressions.

  Well, thank Heaven, London wives do not have a say as to who governs England, otherwise we should be ruled by whichever underdog takes their fancy, and a change of king every Sunday.

  I knew my duty. Before the crowds slunk away, I led some of my merchant associates to meet Richard, and made a deep obeisance. His cheeks were a dull red with embarrassment but he greeted everyone blithely enough. While our retainers mingled with a loud show of conviviality, he drew me aside.

  ‘Holy Paul! What a fool I was to permit such mummery as this. I am now the laughing stock of London.’

  ‘Not that, I assure you,’ I answered cheerily. Tyrant, maybe. ‘Tomorrow is the important day anyway. Just leave Parliament to me.’

  That did not banish his scowl. ‘I hope to Heaven you are right, Harry. By the way, Anne and I are moving over to Mother’s for the week so the people will know we have her support.’

  ‘Excellent! I applauded, patting his arm. ‘Now off you go to dinner and do not worry. Leave everything t—’

  ‘What is the matter, Harry?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I exclaimed, espying a woman who on first glance looked like Meg, and on second nothing like her. ‘Leave everything to me!’

  MY HEART was galloping when I took my place on the front bench in Westminster Hall next day. It was my purpose to recommend that the House of Lords that Parliament should offer the crown of England to Gloucester but some would call it treason. My intent was known and I ignored Archbishop Rotherham’s glare from the benches opposite and smiled sweetly at Bishop Alcock. Stillington was almost hidden behind the bulk of my great uncle but at least he was there and I would have no hesitation in fishing him out from that pond of mitres to give evidence.

  ‘Blust me! You’v
e drawn a fine crowd yonder. There are abbots come out from under their stones that I haven’t seen in years.’ My lord of Suffolk joined me and young Lincoln stepped over the front bench and sat down behind me. I was very glad of their company.

  ‘Hope it goes well, Harry,’ Lincoln whispered, a hand on my arm. ‘You all primed up?’

  ‘He’s looking tight as a virgin’s cunny,’ muttered his father. ‘How long do you reckon this will take?’

  ‘I’ve a lot of arguments to set forward, sir.’

  ‘’Spose you have. Look, if you see old Kempe over yonder nodding off, start winding up. He’s always the first to go. I remember one session when all the bishops except Lionel Woodville were snoring their blessed heads off. Well, you won’t see young Lionel here today, that’s for sure.’ Suffolk rambled on but I could hardly pay attention.

  I was cold but the sweat of my hands was ruining the ink of my notes. Would everyone be able to hear me when I spoke? Even though we were all drawn up close where the crimson woolsack sat upon the dais, the hall seemed high and vast for one man’s voice to fill. Howard came to shake my hand and wish me well and so did several other Yorkist lords but the wars had thinned the ranks of noblemen. Hastings, Rivers, Dorset, of course, were missing. George’s son, Warwick, had the wits of a changeling and was too young. The Lancastrian lord, the Earl of Oxford, was a prisoner in Hammes and Lord Stanley was still mewed up in the Tower. Some had deliberately stayed away, not wishing to assent to the inevitable. The inevitable. Yes, so I hoped. Richard was relying on me.

  Upon the appointed hour, the mace was carried in and Chancellor Russell took his seat upon the woolsack. When he finally called me to make my address, I was so nervous that my hands were shaking. But when you believe in what you are saying, when you are prepared and have the right words, when you have the courage to look them in the eye and forget your notes, the magic begins. There was no more rustle of chasubles and soon I could hear that wonderful stillness in my listeners and knew that I had them.

  God knows how long I spoke for, too long probably – Kempe did nod off – but my arguments fell on rich soil and the congratulations afterwards were heady fare for a man who had starved all his youth for a kind word. Here at last was something I could do truly well. Ah, if only Elizabeth and the rest of their kinsmen had been there to hear me. That would have shown them that the boy duke they had tried to render impotent was now a kingmaker.