The Devil in Ermine Read online

  ‘Why not?’ I demanded, annoyed to discover that it was only Hastings, the Lord Chamberlain, behind the mystery. Being high in the King’s favour, he never needed help from me so it was perhaps a friendly alert that some of my manors were at risk – probably a warning of another Woodville scheme to acquire other people’s property. Certainly, not the restoration of the Bohun lands that King Edward had always withheld from me. Or the chance to govern Wales. That privilege had gone to a Woodville, the Queen’s eldest brother.

  ‘Another fund-raising expedition into France?’ I muttered. I had been left out of the last one.

  He dropped to one knee and proffered the letter. ‘My lord, if it pleases you.’

  I dabbed my hand dry on a napkin, and took the missive from him. It was warm and sweaty from its nest of clothing. Hastings’ seal was genuine. I scowled and broke it.

  ‘Trusty and well-beloved, I greet you well etc....

  Give credence to what the bringer of this letter shall relate and collect as many men as you may in all haste.’ The half-smile on Nandik’s lips was that of a jouster before he delivers the bloody coup de grâce.

  ‘The King is dead, my lord.’

  In shock I dropped the letter in the plaguey bathwater. The ink had run by the time I retrieved it but the date was still legible – written at Westminster three days before on the Feast of St Guthlac.

  ‘How?’ I whispered. Forty was a fair age for a battle-scarred prince, but England without old Ned was almost inconceivable. ‘Was it canker of the belly? He was complaining of his digestion when I was last at court.’

  ‘I am told he went fishing for perch and took a cold.’

  ‘God save his immortal soul,’ I murmured, drawing reverent fingers across my hypocritical heart. Sweet Christ! The best tidings I had ever heard. Edward of York’s great hulk coffined at last! May all Thames perch be canonized!

  I could imagine the scene around the royal deathbed: Edward’s queen, Elizabeth Woodville, and his life-long friend, Hastings, each desperate to hold onto high fortune, staring at each other across the coverlet, both thinking about the twelve-year-old heir to the throne far off in Ludlow. Their eyes must have met in mutual enmity; the Queen’s shadow, steeple-like upon the wall, threatened by the solid shape of the King’s friend. Was their hatred already streaking out across the kingdom like black lightning splitting the realm?

  I am getting away from reality. It must have been more mundane than that: air heavy with incense, the chaplain’s whispered prayers as he gave Edward the last rites, the perfect tears on Elizabeth’s perfect cheeks and Hastings supervising bowls of steaming water to ease the kingly breath.

  And earlier this week, we had not sensed a plaguey thing in Brecknock. No comets. No prophecies from some old slattern. One would think that a king's death....

  ‘Your grace?’

  My thoughts were so full, I had forgotten Nandik. Now I waited, tense as a virgin bride, for Hastings’ message.

  ‘My lord bid me speak plainly. The Queen’s grace is sending several thousand retainers to bring his highness the Prince of Wales from Ludlow to be crowned straightway. Lord Hastings bids me tell you it was King Edward’s will that my lord of Gloucester should become the Lord Protector, but that the Queen is determined he shall not. She desires to become Regent and rule the realm. It is Lord Hasting’s wish and his humble suggestion that you, my lord, and his grace of Gloucester should intercept the Prince and escort him to London. My lord has written to my lord of Gloucester in like vein.’

  Hastings had his wits about him, by Jesu. Ha, despite the prostrating grief he must feel for his dearest friend’s demise, he was damned well out to save his own skin and hang on to his rung of power.

  So it was a matter of choosing between the Queen and Gloucester.

  I smiled but, by Heaven, I could have whooped so loud they would have heard me in Hereford. After all these years of impotence, I was invited to play the powerbroker.

  ‘Get off your knees, Master Scholar. You shall be well rewarded.’ I gestured him to leave but he grabbed my damp fingers to his lips.

  ‘The holy saints preserve your grace.’

  ‘Aye, if they’ve a mind to.’ I retrieved my hand, my mind aflame with possibilities: if Richard of Gloucester, King Edward’s brother, did not reach the south in time to intercept the Prince then I might manage it for him, but I needed to be swift and silver-tongued. Whoever held the new king would win this game. And, oh God, how I hated the Queen.

  I dispatched Pershall to find Cat and I summoned my most trustworthy household knights, Knyvett, Latimer, Limerick and Delabere. When I told them the tidings, they could see the chance of fat rewards from Gloucester. Cat would be a different matter. She would not like me opposing her sister so I purposed to tell her very little of my intentions.

  I wrote a swift message to Richard of Gloucester in my own hand suggesting that I could meet him on the road, somewhere we could greet the Prince together and then proceed with the boy to London. Lest the words could convict me of treason (if this horseshoe of luck swivelled upside down), I ordered the knight, who was spurred up to carry my missive, to privily assure Gloucester of my loyalty and to tell him I was acting on Hastings’ advice.

  I also sent a messenger to Cat’s brother, Anthony Woodville, Lord Rivers, who was the Prince’s tutor and in charge of his household at Ludlow, to kiss hands and assure him I should like to join their retinue on way to London. Could he advise me of their plans?

  I have to say I loved Lord Rivers as much as I enjoyed a slap in the face. Posturing upstart! And because he was in charge at Ludlow, he virtually ruled Wales. A duty that should have rightfully fallen to me!

  …collect as many men as you may in all haste.

  Hell take it, I would have to dispatch urgent commissions of array and send out messengers at daybreak. I needed the numbers quickly.

  ‘Fetch me every man who can write a fair hand and bring more candles!’ I ordered my pages, and soon my outer chamber was like a rookery.

  With writing boards slung about their necks, my erstwhile scribes perched on chests, stools and bedsteps or propped themselves against the walls. The air smelled of ink and the scratching of their quills was like the labour of busy insects. As each man finished a letter, I sank my seal ring into the soft orange wax.

  My advantage was that Ludlow lay in the Welsh Marches, whereas poor old Richard of Gloucester had many more miles to cover. Even if he came posthaste down from Yorkshire, there was a good chance the Prince’s escort could evade him.

  It would demand cunning. I would need to keep my cards close to my chest. Given a choice, I saw myself in Gloucester’s camp. My grandmother and his mother were sisters so he was my second cousin. But, more to the point, I knew, like me, he thought that the Woodvilles were jackdaws masquerading as peacocks and that they needed plucking.

  ‘My lord?’

  Knee deep in secretaries, I swiftly halted in mid-sentence and smiled at my wife. Cat is twenty-six years old. She is not as beautiful as the other Woodville siblings, but passing fair. Like her royal sister, she has gilt hair, eyes the hue of aquamarines and a dimpled chin. She is taller than Elizabeth, so she does not need to wear the wire-and-gauze edifices that the Queen favours.

  Cat – Catherine Woodville – was yoked to me when she was eight and I was but ten. Her family, the progeny of a foreigner and a steward, is the millstone about her neck as far as I am concerned. She brought me nothing. No dowry even. And every time I look upon her, I am reminded of her sister, the Queen, whom I loathe. Unreasonable, I agree. Had she and I liked each other, we might have shared the shaft of marriage like two carthorses in step. Yet she has borne me children and, thanks to the diligent snuffing of candles in our bedchamber and silent fantasies in our minds, we now have four healthy infants. However, our verbal intercourse, performed in the light of day or under reasonable illumination, is unquestionably dull and lacking in passion.

  ‘Well, Cat?’ She was standing benea
th the lintel of my inner chamber, still as a saint in a niche, watching me with the air of a Patient Griselda. A stance she has sculpted to perfection.

  ‘Sir Nicholas has just informed me the entire household is to go into mourning but then he rushed off without telling me more and Pershall said it was better I should ask you directly. Whose funeral is it?’

  I did not answer her straightway but led her into the privacy of my inner chamber.

  ‘It could be Elizabeth’s.’ I crossed myself mockingly and then leaned against the end of the bed, folding my arms.

  She closed the outer door and stood with her back against it. ‘Indeed?’ she challenged dryly. ‘The messenger told me she was in good health when he left Westminster.’

  ‘Certainly he spoke the truth, she being departed from the cares of this world, the pomp and....’

  ‘Just the truth!’ she cut in. ‘Who is dead?’

  ‘King Edward, dearest.’

  ‘Sweet Mother of God! Harry! That is horrific news. Oh, my poor sister!’

  Poor! Elizabeth was the greediest bitch in England.

  My wife sank onto the nearest settle, her fingers to her lips, her mind already whirring, Woodville-like, with a thousand consequences.

  ‘You do not need to worry about what you shall wear, Cat. I should imagine the obsequies at Windsor are over by now.’ Edward had spent a lot of money on St George’s Chapel as his shrine for posterity.

  ‘Well, I shall still come with you to Westminster. Elizabeth will need—’

  ‘Elizabeth will have the rest of your kinsmen for support.’ I cut in, and strode across to stand in front of her, unable to resist drawing her to her feet and framing the fine bones of her face within my fingers. ‘Much as we treasure each other’s company, light of my bedchamber, I wish you to remain here and have masses said for the King’s grace. I intend to join Prince Edward’s retinue before he reaches London and I shall have to ride hard.’ It was tempting to tell her I was throwing my cap into the ring with Gloucester. I should have liked to see her Woodville lips go slack in shock and imagine they were Elizabeth’s. ‘Now if you will forgive me, dearest…’ I swept her towards the door. ‘I have a multitude of preparations to make.’

  ‘Damn you, Harry Stafford!’ she cursed beneath her breath as I urged her through.

  With so many crowding the antechamber, she could not very well argue further but she took hold of one of their writing boards, perused it, and, frowning, stared about her. ‘Why are you sending for so many men?’

  I wrapped a husbandly arm around her shoulders and moved her out into the passageway.

  ‘I cannot very well arrive like a pauper, and – whether your family cares to remember it or not, my sweet duchess – I am the second duke of the realm and a Plantagenet.’

  ‘Are you? Why I had quite forgotten.’ Then her fingers tightened around the golden cross upon her bosom. ‘I need to write to the Queen and… and Anthony. You will be seeing him as well.’

  Yes, I hoped to see Rivers – preferably wearing a noose! His neck, not mine.

  ‘Of course, you must send your sympathies to them.’

  I swung round and beckoned one of the secretaries. ‘Attend her grace.’

  ‘You will need mourning tabards for everyone, my lord, and…’ She paused, realising the enormity of what must be done to array my entourage.

  ‘Yes, plenty to do and I should appreciate your…’ I forgot what I was saying as our eldest son, five years old and spoiled, hurtled in.

  ‘I want to come with you, sir!’

  Bess, his young broomstick of a nursemaid was at his heels, twisting her hands in her waistcloth, her face apologetic.

  ‘Ned!’ Cat’s arm whipped out and she held the child to her skirts, although he deserved chastisement. Aware that everyone was listening, she decided to use this to her advantage. ‘Let us accompany you, my lord, or perhaps we could take the road to Oxford and meet you at Westminster? Ned has seen so little of the world.’ She ruffled our son’s hair and the boy looked at me with her eyes.

  ‘No! Especially since he lacks the manners of a duke’s son.’

  ‘You never take me,’ he howled petulantly. ‘You never take us anywhere. I’m sick of living in Wales. Why can I not go to Westminster and be a page like you were?’

  ‘I have said no!’ And let the Woodvilles destroy my son as they had tried to destroy me?

  Jesu! I had been nine years old when I had blurted out that marrying a Woodville was beneath me, and they had never forgiven that. Whether it was being made to look a fool when I served in the Queen’s household as a page or denying me an heiress for my bride, they had made me pay for my childish insult a thousandfold. Cat was given to me with no lands, no titles and no dowry. I, a duke with the blood of kings in my veins.

  ‘My lord,’ she began again. Perhaps something had shown in my face. ‘Truly, I long to see my family again and they will think little of me for staying back here at such a time.’

  ‘Out of the question, my dear. Your women will slow our company.’ And Cat’s loyalty to Elizabeth was as predictable as the sunrise. I did not need a female Judas at my elbow. ‘Let us discuss this no further! To bed with you, Ned!’

  If a man is not seen as ruling his wife and children, how may he rule a dukedom? I was angry with her for letting our son question my authority. Even when I went to say goodnight to my children after all the letters had been sealed, Ned was not there. I was tempted to march straight to my wife’s demesne and quarrel further, but the nursery was a warm haven. The wetnurse was singing softly as she fed my baby son and my little daughters were kneeling in their night kirtles before the fire, waiting to be put to bed.

  This was my precious time each day. Tonight I would tell them about a little dragon who lived on Pen-y-Fan. I loved having their soft arms around my neck as they cuddled into me before the hearth.

  But the story was soon over. ‘I have work to do, Princess,’ I told Bess, my eldest poppet.

  ‘I’m not a real princess, Papa,’ she told me solemnly. ‘But I should like to be one when I am grown.’

  ‘So you shall,’ I agreed. My thoughts, too. If a steward’s daughter could marry a king, surely my daughter could wed a prince? ‘God willing, my darling.’ I carried her small hand to my lips. I should make sure she would have a husband who would love her. ‘Now even pretend princesses must go to bed.’

  I wondered then if I should ever see my beloved little maidens again after I left Brecknock. The enterprise I was resolved upon would be seen by my enemy, the Queen, as treason. Gloucester and I could have our heads chopped off if we acted against her and failed.

  Ned still did not come to bed. Sure enough, I found him in Cat’s bedchamber, twanging the strings of a lute. Sufficient to grate my nerves. I try to be a father to him but, God knows, I am not sure how, for I had no fathering. By the time I was Ned’s age, my grandsires had been slain in the wars between Lancaster and York and my father had died of the plague.

  ‘Be quiet!’ I admonished my son and turned to my wife. ‘Did you have to make that bother in front of my secretaries, madame? It is bad enough that our son is running amok without you trying to undermine my authority too.’

  ‘Our son spoke the truth,’ Cat muttered, setting down her wine cup. ‘I have a right as your duchess to attend the coronation. Why are you being so difficult?’

  ‘Well, Cat,’ I murmured picking up the crystal bottle of Hungary water that stood beside the ewer on her wash table. ‘Maybe it is because you are a Woodville, think like a Woodville and use the same cloying scent your sister uses, so you even smell like a Woodville.’ I tossed the phial at her. ‘As for you, my tiny rebel.’ I caught my son by the waist. ‘Bedtime and a story.’

  ‘Truly, my lord father?’ His little face was alight with pleasure.

  ‘On my honour.’ I lifted him into my arms. ‘Rascal.’

  ‘The story about how you slew the white boar.’

  ‘No, not that one,’ I said wear
ily. ‘We’ll save that one for another day.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Tinker, tailor, peacemaker, kingmaker?

  Collared swans and flaming cartwheels, stitched in metal thread, glinted on the sarsynett pennons above my retinue as we left Brecknock. The three hundred Welshmen, who were jingling in harness behind me, were all wearing Stafford knots, freshly embroidered, on their scarlet and black tunics, thanks to Cat and her women doing their duty.

  Lord Rivers had suggested that Gloucester and I might meet the Prince at Northampton since it was on their route from Ludlow and then we could all travel to London together. So be it! I would throw my support behind Gloucester as Lord Protector but if matters went awry, I might end up on the scaffold instead of a cushioned bench at Westminster.

  ‘I could wish a thousand men at our backs,’ muttered Uncle Knyvett. ‘What if Gloucester doesn’t trust you?’

  It was certainly a possibility. Gloucester had sent me back a polite, curt message: no army! He was bringing no more than three hundred retainers. He suggested I do the same.

  In his shoes, I would have arrived at Northampton with half of Yorkshire to protect me. For all he knew, I could have been secretly in league with the Woodvilles to trap him. It would have been easy. With my three hundred added to the retinues marching from London and Ludlow, we could have had him bound, gagged and on his way to the Tower of London in no time.

  ‘All I know, uncle,’ I replied, ‘is that it will require some deft footwork on my part.’

  ‘Gloucester has always kept his nose out of trouble, Harry. Happen he’ll just go along with the Queen’s plans.’

  ‘Not if I can help it. And the trick will be not to arrive before Gloucester, or his fur will be on end with suspicion. God willing, I’ll have a chance to talk with him before the Woodvilles descend on us.’

  I had already sent one of my henchmen to reserve lodging in the town but now, as we neared Northampton, I dispatched outriders ahead to sniff out the situation. If Richard had already arrived and there had been trouble between him and the Woodvilles, I might be riding in for his funeral and would need to hide my disappointment.