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  Richard inclined his head, absolving Brackenbury of blame.

  “In any case, I had no cause to suspect wrongdoing since I knew how you felt about your royal nephew, and for certain, so did the Duke.” Brackenbury cleared his throat nervously. “The Duke was there much of the night, and by morning he and his men had departed. I went straightway to the royal apartments, but they were empty… No sign of the Lord Bastard or his serving lad to be found anywhere. However, in the White Tower, under the foot of the stairs that leads from the royal apartments to the chapel, there was an area newly covered with mortar, still wet. We didn’t know what to make of it.” He looked at Richard with a pained expression. “Sire, if ’tis true that my lord of Buckingham did the foul deed, that could be where he hid the babes’ bodies.”

  Richard’s lassitude vanished, replaced by explosive anger. His blood boiled in his veins. With an oath he kicked a chair over, hurled the table on its side, pulled down the tapestries around the room, and grabbed the wine flagon from the sideboard. He pounded it against the stone sill and flung the battered silver piece across the room. He swung around, eyes blazing with murderous rage. “Kendall! Make a public proclamation! Buckingham is a traitor and all my subjects are to be ready to take up arms on my behalf! Write Chancellor Russell; tell him we leave for Grantham in the morning and to send the Great Seal there immediately!”

  Kendall hastily upended the table with the help of the others. Someone offered him a chair and he fell into it. When Kendall was done, in a rush of feeling, Richard seized the pen from Kendall’s hand and added a postscript:

  And here, God be loved, is clear at last the malice of him that had best cause to be true, the Duke of Buckingham, the most untrue creature living, whom we with God’s Grace shall soon bring to justice.

  He flung the pen back on the table and rose. “Gather your clerks and send out a summons to arms across the land, all of you!” He sagged against the hearth and leaned his head on the mantle.

  Francis went to him, placed a hand on his sleeve. Richard looked at him with wounded eyes. “How could he do it, Francis?”

  Francis had no answer. “If we produce little Richard, the rebellion will collapse,” he offered.

  “It would make no difference to their purpose. We’d merely be toying with the child’s life. Tudor would dispatch him in order to seize the throne. I can’t take the chance.” In a choked voice, Richard said, “I killed him, Francis.”

  “No, Richard. Edward died because he was too ill to be moved. But for his fever, I’d have taken him to Barnard with his brother. He was mortally ill. The infection in his jaw was spreading. In time it would have reached his brain. The boy didn’t expect to live himself. He took confession daily and was preparing himself for death. As for the serving lad, it was not you but Buckingham who took his life. And remember, Richard of York lives—because of you.”

  “Not I… Anne alone. She suspected what I was too blind to see.”

  “It was Anne’s idea to move the boys to Barnard’s Castle, but you gave the order.”

  Richard put out a hand, gripped his shoulder. “‘To be a king, you have to kill a king’… ’Tis my cross, Francis.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 7

  “I shudder, someone steps across my grave.”

  October drew to a close. The weather turned chill and wet. Never had England seen such torrential downpours. For a fortnight it rained without pause, turning roads into muddy quagmires and flooding many. Nevertheless, Richard’s muster was complete. He was ready to leave Leicester for Coventry, heartened to learn that, contrary to what he had feared, the rebellion was not widespread but confined to the south. Standing in the great hall of Leicester Castle by a window overlooking the rain-driven River Soar, Richard dictated a second proclamation to John Kendall.

  “As I, King Richard III, swore before God to rule with mercy and justice, therefore I grant to all my subjects my full pardon for any treasons into which they have been led by the traitor and adulterer the Marquess of Dorset and”—he clenched his fist—“that most vile traitor, the former Duke of Buckingham, Henry Stafford.” His glance, moving across the rain-drenched gardens, fixed on the royal bedchamber in the round tower to the east behind the machiolated walls and battlements of the castle. There, a hundred years before, had died his great-grandfather, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, from whom both he and Buckingham were descended. Though the good duke’s loyalty had been sorely tested by his nephew Richard II John of Gaunt had remained true to his king. Loyalty and honour had counted for something then… How times had changed. Richard dragged his eyes away.

  “Further, I offer a reward for the capture of the Duke of Buckingham of one thousand pounds, or lands worth one hundred pounds per year—” Gasps went around the room. Aye, it was a royal sum, and no doubt would do the job quickly, but it was a sum his purse could ill afford and they all knew it. “For the Marquess of Dorset, I offer—”

  The clatter of hoofs drew Richard’s attention to a drenched knight dismounting in the courtyard below. A crack of thunder made the man look up and Richard saw that it was the grey-bearded messenger he had sent to Duke Francis of Brittany. The man strode into the building. Moments later he appeared in the hall.

  “Urgent tidings, my lord,” said Thomas Hutton, bending a knee. “I have hastened from Brittany to warn you that Henry Tudor intends to invade England with the help of Duke Francis.”

  “My thanks to you, Hutton. By good fortune, we were appraised of his intent some time ago and have set guard on the southern coast. As for ourselves, we are ready to march,” Richard looked up at the dark skies, “foul weather though it be.”

  “No need!” called Francis, lumbering in, accompanied by a soaked, shivering young man. “Howard sends news.” He grinned broadly.

  “Sire,” panted the messenger from London, “His Grace the Duke of Norfolk bids me tell you the rebellion has evaporated!”

  Richard stared at the man in stunned disbelief.

  “The Duke of Buckingham was unable to raise much support except by threats and force. It seems he is a much hated man. His castle of Brecon was looted as soon as he left, and his flank was harassed by a local chieftain as he marched east. A large and loyal band fought bravely for you—and right cleverly—to cut the Duke from bridges and to block the passes along his way. The foul weather sent by heaven played no small part in bogging him down. In the end the Duke was deserted by his men.”

  “Under whose captaincy did this loyal band fight so bravely against Buckingham?”

  “Under Humphrey Stafford, his cousin, Sire.”

  “Ah.” Richard made a mental note of the name and filed it away. “And the local chieftain?”

  “A Welshman by the name of Rhys Ap Thomas, Sire.”

  “What about Buckingham?”

  “Buckingham has fled; we know not where.”

  “And Morton, Dorset, Lionel Woodville? The rest of the plotters?”

  “Morton deserted the Duke, my lord. ’Twas then the traitor Buckingham realised all was lost. It is believed the bishop fled to the fen country where he has friends. Men are on his trail.”

  “Well done,” said Richard. But he had no smile. There was still Morton, and in the shadowy recesses of his mind lurked the dark knowledge that Morton was a dangerous man.

  ~*~

  They went south, to Salisbury. More messengers caught up with the royal cavalcade along the way. The plotters had scattered. Some, like Dorset and Lionel Woodville, fled England for Brittany while others sought sanctuary with friends. It was in Salisbury that news came of Buckingham. The messenger was beaming. “I am sent by the Sheriff of Shropshire, Sire. The Duke of Buckingham has been apprehended!”

  Richard rose from the council table in the privy chamber of the Bishop’s Palace where he had been discussing strategy with his lords. “How was he found?”

  “He took refuge with a servant in Wem and the servant turned him in, Sire.”

  “Judas, betrayed by J
udas… As soon as he’s brought in, he is to be tried by Sir Ralph Ashton.” Richard ground the words out between his teeth, aware of the glances his men exchanged with each other at mention of Ashton. Dubbed the Black Knight on account of his armour, Ralph Ashton was as feared for his cruelty as Tiptoft, the Butcher of England, had been during the wars between King Edward and the Kingmaker. One of his favourite punishments for minor infractions of the law was to roll men downhill in barrels filled with spikes. That, Richard thought, dismissing the messenger and turning back to his lords, should put the fear of God into Harry, the pretty duke of Buckingham.

  ~*~

  On All Hallow’s Eve, the day after Buckingham was delivered to Salisbury, Ralph Ashton came to Richard. He was a man large in build, with pale yellow hair and rheumy hazel eyes. His features were so sharply etched and impassive, they seemed carved of rock, and he clanged as he walked, for he carried a sword at his side that slapped against the nails in his black leather outfit.

  “Buckingham has confessed. He lost no time when he realised I was in charge of matters.” Ashton’s mouth thinned into a cold smile. “He begs one boon, however.”

  Standing on the dais in the silk-curtained hall of the Bishop’s palace, his lords and knights gathered around him on the lower steps, Richard eyed Ashton without warmth. He preferred not to have such men in his service, but he could no longer pick and choose. The realm had been torn by strife for thirty years. First England had been ripped apart over York and Lancaster; then the Yorkist party had divided itself between King Edward and Warwick the Kingmaker. On Edward’s death, it had divided again between those who wanted Richard and those who wished to see King Edward’s sons on the throne. Now Edward’s party had thrown in their lot with Buckingham and the Lancastrian Tudor, and that included much of southern England, for the South had hated the North ever since Ludlow when Henry’s ferocious French-born queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, and her northern hordes had invaded them, burning, raping, and pillaging as they went. And to the South, he was a Northerner. Winning their trust would take time. In the meanwhile, his base of support had been shaved perilously thin and he had to reward loyalty wherever he found it.

  “What does he ask?” Richard demanded.

  “To see you, my lord.”

  “Never,” Richard spat.

  “’Tis what I told him, but he begs an audience. He is most desperate, my liege. I’ve seen men die, but none so fearful. He is beside himself, weeping, hysterical, half out of his mind. What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him he is to be executed on All Soul’s Day and to make ready.”

  A shocked murmur of protest arose from his men. “All Soul’s Day falls on the Sabbath, my lord!”

  “I don’t care if it falls on doomsday!” roared Richard, his grey eyes dark, glittering. “He dies on All Soul’s Day, and that’s final!”

  They were all staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Desperate to get away, he fled the dais. His heart racing, he halted in the passageway to catch his breath and leaned his head against the damp stone and closed his eyes. All Soul’s Day, the second day of November, had been young Edward’s birthday.

  ~*~

  Men hammered in the drizzling rain, erecting a new scaffold in the marketplace for Buckingham’s execution. Richard was conscious of the din as he listened to Ralph Ashton. “My lord, the traitor beseeches you to see him. He has lost all dignity. He is feverish, filled with abject terror, and wildly implores this one boon.”

  Richard looked at the scaffold rising in the shadow of Salisbury Cathedral and let his gaze drift upwards, to the spire standing dark against the grey skies. “You may tell him that well should he be filled with terror, for on Sunday he will be judged by God.”

  “My lord, he says there is something you need to know.”

  Richard hesitated. Then anger swept him. “Never again will I see his vile face in this world!”

  Richard didn’t sleep that night but lay in his bed listening to the chanting of the townsfolk. It was All Hallow’s Eve and evil spirits were about. The castle servants had fastened hazel branches over the doors and windows to keep out witches and the souls of the wicked departed. In town, after an evening of apple-bobbing and fortune-telling around the half-finished scaffold in the market square, people were circling their homes with lighted candles for the same purpose. At the castle there had been mummery and entertainment for the servants, and in a light moment Richard had allowed his fortune to be told by a wise-woman. He would die young, she said, like all the men of his line, and his time would come soon after he saw the castle of Rougement.

  Welladay, what else was new? Only Edward had died in his bed. Everyone else he had known and loved had died before his time, and violently. On Sunday there would be one more.

  ~*~

  All Soul’s Day blew in with freezing rain and a blustery wind. After Mass, as the mighty cathedral clock tolled the hour of noon, Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham, was led into the crowded market square. From a small chamber high in the palace, Richard heard the axe fall and the pigeons scatter skyward.

  As his lords talked among themselves that evening, he sat quietly around a table in the great hall staring into his wine, trying to understand the sense of loss that dogged him. Why had Buckingham’s death affected him so? Maybe because he had felt alone at Edward’s death, and then came Buckingham with Edward’s merry laugh and George’s golden curls. In a moment, he became everything.

  There was something else. A sense of unfinished business nagged at him. What had Buckingham wanted to say? Might there have been more to young Edward’s murder than he had confessed to Ashton?

  Maybe he should have heard him out. And maybe it was nothing, just more lies… Maybe all he’d wanted was one last chance to beg for his life. Whatever it was, it was too late now. He’d never know.

  He shook himself to dispel his gloom. A messenger had arrived. Richard lifted his head and forced himself to concentrate on what the man said… Henry Tudor had appeared near Dorset harbour with only two ships. They had tried to lure him to shore by waving lanterns and shouting that the rebellion had prospered and that the Duke of Buckingham had sent them to conduct him to his camp. But Tudor, sensing danger, had sailed away. “He was probably awaiting a password,” offered the messenger.

  The old sea-dog, Howard, who had joined them after taking care of the rebels, slapped a hand against his ample thigh and growled, “By God I wish I’d been there! I’d have given him a password he’d ne’er have forgotten!”

  “I wish you’d been there, too, Howard,” Richard said dully. “Tudor’s the only threat left. We’ve survived the others… No doubt we’ll take care of him soon enough.”

  “My lord, may I speak?” requested a man in a loose russet robe down the table. It was Thomas Hutton, who had returned from the court of Brittany. His brown eyes burned in his lined, bearded face, and his tone held urgency. Richard inclined his head.

  “I observed Henry Tudor in Brittany and gained a sense of the man,” said Hutton, leaning close and speaking low. “As so few here at court have met him, I request permission to speak bluntly, my lord, for it would be wise for all concerned to know what they are up against.”

  Richard motioned him to his side and he slipped in between Francis and Scrope. “’Tis not surprising that Tudor didn’t fall into the trap,” Hutton went on, “and—if I may give a word of warning, Sire—he will not be easy to trap. He has the suspicious wariness of a hunted animal, for in a sense, ’tis what he is.”

  His voice was deep and carried a unique force. Silence fell like a mantle over the table. His gaze moved from Catesby to Howard, from Jack to Ratcliffe, and lingered on Francis. A strange look came over his face. Then Hutton met Richard’s gaze. In the flickering candlelight those penetrating dark eyes might have been the eyes of a seer, for they seemed to hold wisdom beyond understanding. So might Moses have looked, Richard thought, seeing all… knowing all.

  Hutton continued. “He is a man both c
lever and devious, an adventurer with nothing to lose. He will risk all for his dream, which is the Crown of England. His word is writ on water, and having run for his life, most of his life, he is an unnatural man, bound by none of the rules which bind others.” His thick brows drew together in a frown. “His head is filled with intrigue. He has few scruples and is consumed by ambition and greed. There is nothing he will not say, and nothing he will not do, to gain his end.” He looked at Richard with his solemn, capturing eyes. “It would be a mistake to underestimate him, Sire. Tudor is a dangerous man—” Hutton’s voice fell to a chilling whisper “a man to fear, as one would fear Lucifer’s own.”

  No one moved. A shiver ran down Richard’s spine. He made the sign of the Cross. His lords followed his example. Keeping all inflection from his voice with great effort, he said, “I thank you for your council, Hutton, and assure you, it’ll not be forgotten.” He rose to his feet, and with a confidence he did not feel, strode from the room.

  That night he dreamt of the frightful dragon of his childhood nightmares with its cruel yellow eyes and fiery red breath. Screaming the wise-woman’s prophecy of violent, premature death, its vicious fangs tore into his flesh. He awoke in a feverish sweat, the name Tudor on his lips.

  How strange… He had forgotten. Tudor’s emblem was the Red Dragon. Damn Tudor, he thought. Until Brittany handed him over, he’d have no peace.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter 8

  “A moral child without the craft to rule.”

  Thoughts of dragons and prophecies soon evaporated as Richard learned in Exeter that another leader of the rebellion had been captured. Thomas St. Leger was his brother-in-law, married to his eldest sister, Nan.