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  “Invasion is imminent,” Richard said without inflection. He met Stanley’s small shrewd eyes.

  “Well I know that. The moment there is news, I shall rush to your side to crush the disreputable bastard.”

  “Your stepson,” said Richard.

  “I’ve never met the man. He’s dear to my wife’s heart; not to mine.”

  Richard averted his eyes. “I shall present your request to the council.” Stanley’s footsteps receded down the stairwell. He sank into a chair, a hand to his head. He was drained, weary to exhaustion. He couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, couldn’t feel. Nothing mattered, or would matter ever again. The cold would last forever.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 29

  “Ill doom is mine to war against my people and my knights.

  The king who fights his people fights himself… and the stroke

  That strikes them dead is as my death to me.”

  “You can’t grant Stanley permission to depart, my lord!” said Catesby as he stood at the council table, his long face pinched and white in the dimness of the gloomy stone chamber. “He intends to betray you! ’Tis the only reason he makes the request at this time!”

  Ratcliffe said, “My lord, it would be madness to let him leave now.” He spoke quietly, but beads of perspiration glistened on his face and his eyes were anxious. “He is a cunning man, unworthy of your trust. He could muster a great army and bring it to the field against us. You must not grant permission.”

  Richard sat listlessly at the head of the table. He made no response. Rob hunched over the table and focused his hazel eyes on Richard, “Stanley’s a man with a finger to the wind, ready to change sides if Fortune blows the other way. It would be folly to let him go. You know full well what he intends!”

  “No,” said Richard, “I only suspect. Suspicion is not enough on which to judge a man.” Twice before he had condemned on the basis of suspicion alone. It would not happen again.

  Kendall looked up from his papers. Richard’s secretary was now a full member of the royal council, had been tested through many trials, had proven true, and Richard valued his judgement. “Sire, the Stanleys have always juggled their allegiance to their benefit,” he said. “Trust is a word they barter for their own gain.”

  “Aye!” urged Conyers. “’Tis how they’ve survived four kings and grown ever more powerful in an age that’s claimed the lives of men far better than they. He must not be allowed to depart at this critical juncture.”

  Still Richard said nothing.

  “Richard,” Rob persisted, “if Tudor triumphs, Stanley will be stepfather to a king. He made cause against you with Hastings, and if Buckingham’s revolt had succeeded, he would have betrayed you, and well you know it. When Warwick won, he was at his side, and when Warwick faltered, he betrayed him.” Rob waited. Still no response. Richard sat staring absently at the window, a faraway look in his eyes. “Would you,” Rob added urgently, “having kept this most cunning lord under your care this long, let him depart on the very eve of Tudor’s invasion? The solution is simple. Hold him in custody until the invasion is over.”

  “Aye, aye!” cried Richard’s councillors with one voice.

  Richard stirred, heaved a sigh. He went to the window, unlatched it, pushed it open. The rain had ceased and the morning air felt fresh and cool against his cheek. Sparrows flew below the window, building nests in some far corners of the castle wall. He watched as they disappeared around the bend. In a small garden below a woman hung up her washing and an old man played chess with a young boy beneath a tree. He let his gaze wander over the thatched roofs of cottages beyond the castle walls to the swans gliding along the River Trent and the long fields of barley and rye that stretched on either side of the river. The hillside was pastoral with sheep, and windmills turned, white cloths billowing in the wind like sails. He looked north, to the rich green of Nottingham Forest, and back to the machicolated town walls. All along the high road to the castle people went up and down, carrying their wares on their backs, dragging their mules and their carts. Chickens clucked; sheep bleated; dogs barked. And men betrayed. So it was in King Arthur’s time. So it would always be.

  He turned back to his councillors.

  “Last Christmas I dispatched commands to Cheshire and Lancashire that they were to obey Stanley in the event of invasion. If I trusted him then, why should I not trust him now? He was Tudor’s stepfather then, as he is now. I have always known his history. What has changed? He’s done nothing against me.” Softly, he added, “I intend to grant the permission he seeks.”

  A shattering din of voices arose. Francis slammed a fist down on the table. “’Tis a damnable folly! Your blind clemency will be the ruin of you, Richard!”

  Silence fell. Richard gazed at him with shock and he was dimly aware that everyone in the room was staring at Francis with mouths agape. Never had his friend spoken to him in this way, never forgotten that he was his overlord and King. Never, in fact, had Richard witnessed his gentle, mild-mannered friend lose his temper with anyone, yet now Francis’ face was blotched red with fury. “Are you so blind you don’t realise what’s been going on? Tudor made me an offer to betray you—lands, titles, whatever I desired! What do you think he’s offered his own stepfather?”

  Richard stared at him mutely, mouth slack with disbelief. He tried to speak, but no words came. He swallowed, licked his parched lips. “Tudor dared approach you?”

  “In Southampton! I found a missive on my pillow with instructions where to leave my answer.”

  Richard held his breath. His chest felt as if it would burst. “And your answer?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? I told him to slither back to hell, where he came from! You can be sure he fared better with Stanley.”

  Richard threw his head back, and laughed, but his laughter was sharp, without mirth, edged with bitterness, and it broke off abruptly. Foul Tudor dared approach Francis! Such daring intimacy meant that spies and informants were all around them, had infiltrated his household and government at every level. It meant that Tudor feared no one and nothing. That Tudor was so bold—and Richard so vulnerable—he’d even come after Francis, his boyhood friend. A sardonic voice spoke in his head. And why not? it said. Didn’t he score before, with Buckingham?

  “Damned, vile, whoreson—God rot his lying soul! He sought to strike at my bosom, like the loathsome viper he is!” He made his way to the head of the table, took a seat, motioned his councillors to do the same. He took a moment to compose himself, said as steadily as he could, “As you all know, I never sought the Crown. It was our dream—Anne and I—to put distance between ourselves and court. Contrary to Tudor’s lies, I set aside my brother’s sons unwillingly… For the good of the realm… For the safety of those I loved… And because I set them aside, the Crown has weighed heavy on my head—”

  His hands, resting on the table, trembled. He removed them from view and forced himself to continue. “I have pursued justice for my people. I have tried to earn my right to the throne. ’Tis all I can do. The rest is God’s will.” He looked down at his ringed fingers. His ruby signet caught the morning sun and glinted. He thought of blood. Ever since Barnet, rubies made him think of blood. “Stanley must be allowed to ride away, so that his allegiance be freely given. Freely, or not at all. God’s will must be done.”

  “But—” a chorus of voices objected at once. Francis’ rose above them all. “But,” he said, “you are a commander, my lord. The outcome of battle is God’s will, yet no commander goes into battle without a plan, without strategy, and expects to win. Or disables himself to give the enemy a foolish advantage.”

  “I will not circumvent God’s will. I will not force myself on England.”

  “By releasing Stanley, you’re challenging God.” exclaimed Rob. “You’re stripping yourself of armour and handing Tudor a sword to slay you with. Is that what you want? After all Tudor has done to you, do you want him to win?”

  “Aye, ’tis so!” agreed e
veryone in the room.

  “All I have left is my humanity.” Richard crushed the quaver in his voice and met their gaze. “I won’t let kingship strip me of that, too.”

  “Let us compromise, my lord,” said Catesby. “Let Stanley give us his eldest son as surety for his good behaviour.”

  “Aye,” agreed Kendall. “At least then we’d have something. He may not give us his support, but at least he won’t give it to Tudor, either.”

  “His son? A man would never endanger his son. I might as well keep Stanley himself.” Richard looked from face to face. He saw the fear, the desperation, and the hope. He was talking about their lives, too, he suddenly realised. By demanding Stanley’s son, he was blunting the test he had set for himself, but these men had put themselves and all that they cherished into his hands. He owed them something. “Catesby, my clever lawyer, you have your wish. We shall inform Stanley that since decisive events are approaching, I need men of experience about me. He cannot leave until his son is here to act as his deputy during his absence.”

  Sighs of relief resounded around the table.

  ~ * ~

  Lord Stanley sent for his son, George, and Richard welcomed the young man warmly. There was thunder in the hot summer air as Stanley mounted his destrier in the courtyard and Richard stood by to wish him Godspeed. Their eyes met and held. He knows his son is a hostage, Richard thought, and he knows I know it. Lord Stanley doffed his velvet hat and crinkled his ginger beard in a smile. “Farewell, my lord King.”

  Richard watched him ride westward with his retinue and disappear into the hazy heat of summer.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 30

  “I know not what I am,

  Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King;

  Behold, I seem but King among the dead.”

  High on his rock, alone with his thoughts, Richard posed for his portrait in the Castle of his Care. He found himself increasingly at the mercy of his moods of late, and often he cut the sessions short, much to the painter’s dismay. When he couldn’t keep the memories at bay by force of will, the only remedy was change: a plunging into activity where there had been solitude; solitude where there had been activity. He knew his erratic behaviour was unsettling to his men, but he was unable to control himself. Idleness was alien to his nature, and for most of his life, there had not been enough time to do all that needed to be done. Now time, empty and meaningless, moved the days slowly and allowed his mind to fill with thoughts of the past.

  To aggravate matters, August was hot and sweltering, rendering Nottingham Castle more oppressive than ever. On the tenth day, he decided on impulse to move five miles north, to the lodge in the park of Beskwood in Sherwood Forest. Not only was it cooler there, but relieved of the painful reminders that Nottingham was wedded to in his mind, posing for his portrait at Beskwood Lodge became a soothing pastime, despite his restlessness.

  Maybe it was the earliness of the hour, he thought, gazing over the treetops to the hills ringing Sherwood Forest. The lodge had not stirred yet, and birdsong and splashing fountains made music on the fresh morning air. Sometimes he imagined he heard Anne’s laughter in the water, and sometimes he saw Elizabeth’s gentle smile in the pattering of the rain on the foliage. Here, in this chamber, at this hour, the past came alive in a comforting way. He inhaled deeply. Ah, the past; when he was young. Grief was fiercely felt then; but so was joy. There had been hope then.

  He brought his gaze back to the painter dabbing at his portrait. He liked the old artist and enjoyed his company, though he missed Francis, who had returned to Southampton a few days after the council meeting. But Rob was with him, and Humphrey Stafford, Scrope of Bolton, and Jack, and others dear to his heart. Though he was unable to find pleasure in their pursuits, he went hunting with them in the afternoons, and he shared their evenings in the great hall where they drank and made merry to relieve the tension of waiting for Tudor.

  It seemed to him that his entire life had been spent waiting for Tudor. What would happen once he landed? The realm had seen enough of war and, as long ago as Barnet, men had failed to answer the call to arms. Would they heed his summons now? And what of Stanley? He had wilfully armed Stanley. Would those arms be turned against him? He twisted his signet ring.

  The painter was laying down his brush. He moved to the canvas. An uncanny likeness. He studied it a long time. It was a strange feeling to see himself reflected so clearly through someone else’s view. When he looked into a mirror, he didn’t catch the sadness in his eyes, or notice himself toying with his ring. The artist had captured a depth unknown even to him.

  “You do an excellent likeness, Memling,” he said.

  “’Tis all in how you hold the brush, Sire.”

  In Richard’s mind, John said, “’Tis all in how you hold the sword, Dickon. See—”

  Richard forced the memory away. “Until tomorrow, then, my good—” Frantic footsteps interrupted him. Amid shouts, the door was thrust open. Jack, Scrope, Ratcliff, and Rob burst into the chamber. Jack’s doublet was unbuttoned at the neck, as if donned in haste, his curls unruly, his eyes wide with alarm. Francis was with them, looking dusty and weary. Richard blinked in bafflement.

  “Francis? What are you—” In a heart-stopping moment, he knew what had happened—knew with every instinct of his being; knew before Francis fell to his knees and spoke the words.

  “The waiting is over!” cried Francis. “Tudor has landed! Sire, Richard—Tudor has finally landed!”

  ~ * ~

  The next hours were frenzied. While his followers attended to the business of preparing the army to march, Richard sent urgent dispatches to John Howard, Percy, Brackenbury, Stanley, and his other captains, summoning them to his side. At the same time, he took his leave of Jack, sending him north, to Sherriff Hutton. His nephew was his heir to the throne. They could not both take part in the battle, and Elizabeth and the children would be glad of his company. Meanwhile, details poured in about the invasion.

  Waving the red and green dragon banner of Cadwallader, Tudor had landed at Milford Haven with fifteen ships and a force of some two thousand men released from the prisons of Normandy. One could not find anywhere, came the reports, a more evil lot. Such was the contribution of the court of France to Tudor’s effort. In return, in the event of his victory, Tudor had promised to cede to France the territories of Calais and Guisnes. His commanders were his uncle, Jasper Tudor, and the Earl of Oxford, and among his English band of followers were many who had fled to Brittany after Buckingham’s rebellion, such as the four-hundred-pound seven-foot giant, John Cheyney. But, noted Richard inwardly, Bess Woodville’s son, chicken-livered Dorset—of no use even to vile Tudor—had been left behind as a pledge for the money that the French King had loaned the Dragon.

  On the fifteenth day of August 1485, at Beskwood lodge, while Richard carefully observed the sacred Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, he received Lord Stanley’s reply to his summons.

  He was closeted with his advisors in a small upstairs room that functioned as an informal council chamber. Though it was lit by many tall tapers and opened onto a wide passageway with mullioned windows along the length of one side, the room was dark and filled with shadows. The wood walls were hung with blue silk fabric, the plank floor covered with dull reed matting, and there was only a single window. A summer storm was brewing and the dismal morning heightened the gloom of the chamber. The guard at the door admitted Stanley’s messenger. Not trusting himself to read his dispatch, Richard passed it to Francis, who cut the white ribbon with his dagger and broke open the seal. He scanned the contents and the colour drained from his face.

  “Stanley says he’s suffering from the sweating sickness and is unable to join you at this time.”

  Richard’s mind spun. It wasn’t possible! What manner of man places his son in danger? Epithets and cries of Traitor! raged around him. He shook himself to clear his head, realised that someone had seized the messenger. With enormous effort he lifted
his hand, waved the man gone. “He’s had no part… in this.” Even speech was difficult. He dropped into a chair. “Catesby, bring me… George Stanley.” Catesby had no chance to comply, for at that moment, amid a rumble of thunder, footsteps sounded in the passageway. Black-garbed Sir Ralph Ashton appeared at the door.

  “Sire! Urgent tidings!” He strode across to Richard, gave a quick obeisance. “George Stanley tried to escape. I apprehended him in the attempt. He has already confessed—I lost no time getting it out of him.” Over Richard’s head, Ashton exchanged a meaningful glance with Francis. Though Richard had welcome Stanley’s son warmly and made him an intimate, Francis had made sure he was carefully watched by able men before he’d left for Southampton.

  Richard roused himself from his lethargy. He lifted his head and looked at Ashton. Like Buckingham, Stanley would be quick to confess before such a man. Dressed in black, with his hard rheumy eyes, bloodless complexion, and purple scar slashing his cheek, Ashton’s demeanour was fearsome. In any case, Stanley’s son was not one to throw himself away for a cause. Richard waited for his Vice-Constable to continue.

  “He and his uncle Sir William have plotted with Henry Tudor to betray you, but he swears his father intends to stay true. He’s thrown himself on your mercy and implores permission to send Stanley a message.”

  “It’ll do him… little good.” A man who would gamble his son’s life was a man without humanity. “But let… him try.” He knew he was mumbling. His mouth was dry and his tongue, like his head, his hands, and the rest of his body, seemed suddenly an ungainly weight. He motioned for wine. Gripping the cup with both hands, he drained it, not caring that he spilt more than he swallowed.