More water flowed under the bridges. Richard continued his task of bringing peace and justice to the North, and became quite unreasonably popular. We indulged in sundry quarrels with Scotland, and eventually won back possession of Berwick. Not that Berwick is worth having, of course. Like Calais it costs more to keep than it brings in, but it’s a symbol of our English pride. Or our English stupidity.
I had little part in all this. The life of a knight’s lady can be seriously dull. It isn’t all repelling sieges and being carried off by black-hearted villains, you know. Even when you’re deeply involved in intelligence work, you still spend a lot of time keeping the children quiet, mending shirts, receiving boring guests and trying to make sense of account rolls.
I suppose I could tell you more about our life in Gloucestershire, but a description of my herb garden at Horton Beauchamp would be unlikely to set your feet twitching. We had quarrels with our neighbours, of course, but who hasn’t? Nothing much came of them in the end. The dispute with the monks of Cirencester over grazing rights raised a few hairs at the time, but the plain fact is that the Abbot recovered perfectly well from his night roaming the high tops of the Cotswolds without his clothes. I hear that it was only a very bad cold that he caught, and definitely not pneumonia. In any case, Bill and Ben misunderstood their orders, and they did apologise rather nicely. So you see it was nothing to do with me at all.
No, if you want to read about quarrels with the neighbours I suggest you ask John Paston to lend you his family’s collection of letters. He’s put them all in a box, and plans to keep them for future generations. Though I cannot imagine why he thinks that posterity will be interested in his sister’s affair with Richard Calle, or his brother’s collection of seedy little friends, or the price of corn in Norfolk in the twentieth year of Mad Harry’s reign.
Paston’s a damned lawyer, of course, like the rest of his tribe. No trade for a gentleman, that. The obnoxious little Tudor Slimebag positively encourages Paston and his like, men who use the law as a means of lining their pockets instead of stealing by force of arms like honest folk. This proves that him, Tudor, or Tydder, or whatever the hell he calls himself, is no gentleman either.
I’m sorry to say that one of my nephews lowered himself sufficiently to marry Paston’s sister-in-law, and so I have to admit to having JP (as he signs himself) in the family. It must be a chilly day in hell when someone like me, directly descended from Alfred of Wessex, William the Bastard, King Edward III, El Cid, the Fair Maid of Kent and Sir James of Audley, the hero of Poitiers, has to acknowledge kinship with a man whose great-great-grandfather was a serf, and fondly imagines that the people of the distant future will want to read his laundry list. However, that’s the way things are these days. Country’s gone completely to the dogs since Bosworth, mark my words.
I have strayed from my point. Forgive me. Let’s go back to Middleham. (Though thankfully only in our minds.) The fact is that nothing much happened there.
I was just in the middle of composing a very delicate letter to the Earl of Angus, a small contribution to our continuing attempts to make life difficult for James III of Scotland, when the messenger from Hastings arrived. Richard and Anne were up in Coverdale, hunting, with most of the household around them. It would be an exaggeration to say that I was left in charge of the castle, but not much of one.
I’d been expecting a briefing letter from Hastings for some time, but noticed at once that this one was unusually thick. Moreover, there was another plump letter for Gloucester himself. Something was very wrong.
‘Why are you in black?’ I asked the messenger, Will Catesby.
‘The King is dead, my lady,’ he got out, still choking from the dust.
‘It’s sure?’ I asked, astonished. ‘He really is dead?’
Catesby nodded. ‘They were half way through embalming him when I left London, so he better had be.’
‘Did you come by way of York?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Are the tidings known there?’
‘I said nothing, my lady, but I dare say that the merchants will soon pick it up through their own channels. As you know, this sort of thing has an impact on commercial confidence, and will lead to significant movements in the market.’
I nodded. ‘Await the Duke, Catesby. Give him his letter. Apart from that, keep your mouth closed. I don’t want him getting the idea that anyone here was told before he was. Understand?’
He did. William Catesby always understood the need for silence. He’d not become one of Hastings’ top agents by accident. His only fault was that he was yet another damned lawyer.
I wept for Cousin Edward, being the sentimental fool that I am, and then hurried to the chapel to pray for his soul. This duty done, I summoned my husband’s esquire, Arthur, and gave him the entire Intelligence Fund, three rings from my fingers, Constance’s christening cup and thirteen pounds six shillings and four pence from Roger’s spare purse.
‘Go to York,’ I said. ‘Go directly to York. Do not pause at the alehouse. Do not seek out damosels in distress. Buy up every ell of black cloth in the place.’
The money I made from that deal paid for a whole lot of wainscoting back at Horton Beauchamp.
Edward’s elder son, also Edward, was now King Edward the Fifth. He was only twelve years old and so he needed a Protector to manage the business for him. Richard was the obvious choice for the job, but Queen Elizabeth Woodville did not see it that way. She tried to fiddle matters so that her boy was crowned before Gloucester even heard of his brother’s death. Hastings had put paid to that notion by sending Richard warning of her intentions.
Richard rode south, caught up with the young King at Stony Stratford, took him into care, and despatched sundry Woodvilles to prison. I can’t give you the full details, because Anne and I were not invited to this particular party, but according to Roger it wasn’t necessary to strike a single blow.
The Queen fled into sanctuary, taking the rest of her children with her. A trusting sort, Elizabeth Woodville.
I arrived in London on 5th June, a Thursday it was, with Anne and the rest of her ladies. Anne did not appreciate the change of scene one bit. It didn’t help that she’d been forced to leave her son behind at Middleham. He was a sickly boy, and she didn’t fancy exposing him to the unhealthy stinks of London in summer, which often breed plague and other diseases in the weak.
‘I’ve always hated the Court, Alianore,’ she confided. ‘I know Richard had no choice, but I do wish he could have turned this job down. He’s a soldier, not a politician, and one way or another the bastards down here will make mincemeat of him.’
It seemed to me that it would certainly be necessary to take one or two people out of the game before we could all sleep soundly in our beds again. However, I’ll not pretend that I was sorry to see the back of Middleham. In fact I was quite looking forward to dancing at Court, going to all the best tournaments and wearing fashionable clothes again. Moreover, it looked like a good opportunity to give up my intelligence work and settle down to the easy life of a lady-in-waiting, carrying Anne’s train from time to time or writing the odd letter on her behalf. At last I’d be able to fulfil my lifelong ambition to be an ordinary woman, instead of being up to my neck in boring old power politics.
We lodged at Baynards Castle, which belonged to Richard’s mother. It was Monday, and I was still busy helping Anne to unpack when William Catesby put his ferret face around the door. I thought that it was another briefing from Hastings, but it turned out to be a lot more serious than that.