‘Can you get me in to see Gloucester?’ he asked.
‘He’s a tad busy at the moment. Waiting time is at least a week for anyone below the rank of earl or archbishop. Even the Duchess only gets to see him in bed. You should go through the channels. Lord Lovell’s your man, he keeps the appointment diary.’
‘This is an intelligence matter, Dame Beauchamp. Top secret.’
‘You can tell me. I’ve been positively vetted.’
‘So has Hastings,’ he muttered. ‘Look, I know you’re part of Yorkist Intelligence, but this matter is so sensitive, so extraordinarily dangerous, that I daren’t breathe a word to anyone but the Protector himself. Nothing personal, you understand. It’s just that I can’t take the risk.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Just step this way.’
We climbed stairs and walked along passages for a good five minutes until we reached the room that Gloucester was using for his Council chamber. Two enormous Yorkshire lads armed with billhooks were guarding the door, but they stood out of my way.
Richard was sitting at a big table, with Francis Lovell and some foppish fellow I didn’t recognise. The three of them were almost buried under a mound of papers. He glanced up as the door opened, and I saw at once that I was about as welcome as a wet dog in a bridal bed.
‘Your Grace, I have to give you an urgent security briefing,’ I announced.
‘That’s a new name for it!’ snorted the fop, laughing crudely. I saved time by taking an instant dislike to him and to his disgusting taste in clothes. Never trust any man who dresses in violet silk, that’s my counsel.
‘Is there no end to your witty jests, Cousin Buckingham?’ Richard asked. To my amazement he was more or less chuckling.
I had heard a lot about Buckingham since my arrival in London, mostly complaints about his growing influence, but this was my first sight of him. He’d been living under a stone during King Edward’s reign, and had just crawled out.
‘Is the matter really so urgent?’ Richard asked me.
‘Vitally so.’
‘Then speak out. There’s nothing that can’t be said in front of my Cousin Buckingham.’
I frowned. I’d have liked to have gone away and checked my files first, because I had a funny feeling that Buckingham wasn’t even entitled to know how many barrels of ale the Chancery clerks could shift in a year. He was closely related to Margaret Beaufort, and there was a distinct smell of Lancastrian about him. He was married to one of the Queen’s sisters, but despite that Cousin Edward had never given him so much as a day’s work, and Cousin Edward, for all his faults, was always a shrewd judge.
Before I could open my mouth again, Catesby opened his. I don’t know what I’d expected, but it was certainly not a patch on what came out. Hastings was organising a conspiracy against the Protector. Hastings! And to make it even more amazing he had gone into league with the Queen, the Woodvilles, the Archbishop of York, Mistress Shore and Bishop Morton of Ely.
I was seriously worried. It looked very much as if I’d enabled a madman to waste Richard’s valuable time with a load of crap. Hastings was a randy old goat who couldn't keep his hands to himself, but he’d been a loyal Yorkist all his life, and he hated the Queen and the Woodvilles. Moreover, as you’ll remember, it was Hastings who’d enabled Richard to thwart the Woodvilles in the first place. What reason was there for him to change sides at this stage?
‘Why would Hastings do this?’ Richard demanded, as if reading my thoughts.
‘Because he believes that Your Grace intends to usurp the throne,’ Catesby answered. ‘He has sworn to prevent it.’
‘Hastings has taken the Shore woman under his roof, I hear,’ sneered Buckingham. ‘She’s always been the Queen’s creature, and doubtless has her ways of winning a man around.’
Gloucester’s face twisted with disgust. He never did like to think of people enjoying themselves too much, especially where a bed was involved. It was one of his little quirks. ‘Foul whore!’ he spat out. ‘It was she, and those like her, who brought my brother low. And Hastings was Edward’s pimp for years.’
‘Time for reinforcements,’ suggested Lovell.
‘Yes, Francis. We’ll mobilise the North, and crush this conspiracy.’
‘Scant time for that,’ said Buckingham. ‘Send for the soldiers, yes. No problem with that. But Hastings needs to have an accident with an axe. Straightaway. Dead men give very little hassle.’
‘We’ll get him on Friday, at the Council meeting,’ said Richard briskly. ‘Dame Beauchamp, you’ll use the interim to gather further evidence. I want a result. I want these bastards nailed to the wall.’
‘Hang on,’ Buckingham put in. ‘This woman has been working for Hastings for years. Am I right? Eh? Or am I right? Are you sure you can trust her not to leak this?’
‘Now just listen here, you walking bag of puke,’ I said, mildly irritated by his tone, ‘I don’t know where you’ve been for the last fifteen years or so, but I’ve risked my life for the House of York more times than you’ve kissed your wife’s Woodville arse. Accuse me of treason again and you’ll need to go out shopping for a new face.’
‘Thank you for sharing that with us, Alianore,’ Richard said, soothingly. ‘We’re all friends here. Harry was just pointing out that you’ve got links with Hastings as well as with me. It’s true enough, but I trust you to get on with the job.’
Fortified by this vote of confidence I shot off to Westminster to have a flick through Buckingham’s security file. What I found in there set my knees trembling. To describe Cousin Harry as politically unreliable was a bit like saying that Clarence used to treat himself to the odd glass of malmsey on special occasions.
I took this evidence back to Baynards Castle, so that Richard could have something to read in bed. This was a complete waste of time. For some reason that I shall never be able to explain if I live to be sixty, Buckingham was confused in his mind with St. Francis of Assisi. He just would not believe anything bad of him. This was part of the problem with Hastings, whose nose had been put well out of joint by the growth of Buckingham’s influence.
I went on with my investigations. I had Guy follow Mistress Shore, a task that he enjoyed no end, and she led him by a devious route from Hastings’ house, to Morton’s place in Holborn and on to Westminster Sanctuary and then all the way back again. The journey was repeated the next day, and the next, but on the third occasion she met up with an unpleasant gang of foot pads with Yorkshire accents, and the letters she was carrying went off for a little walk of their own.
They were in code, but it was a simple variation of our standard Intelligence cipher, and by staying up overnight I had it cracked by early on Friday morning. I tidied myself up a little and went downstairs to the solar, where Anne was tucking into a large plate of strawberries.
‘Delicious!’ she cried, beaming. ‘Try one, Alianore. They’re a present from Bishop Morton.’
‘Morton!’ I repeated, dozily. ‘From Morton? For Christ’s sake, leave them alone! It’s shorter than even money that they’re poisoned!’
I hurried across, and snatched a strawberry literally out of her mouth. She turned white.
‘I’ve already had three,’ she admitted. ‘Richard, old greedy-guts, has had the best part of a dozen. Oh, God! Where is he?’
We found Gloucester in the garderobe, with it coming out of him at both ends. I hurried off to get the herbs out, mixed a Tegolin special, and then poured it down their throats. Anne got away more or less scot-free as a result, apart from being sick a couple of times, but Richard was in quite a bad way. Although not nearly in such a state as he’d have been if I’d not got the antidote into him in time. He spent much of the rest of the day running off to the privy, which caused certain complications during the Council meeting at the Tower, as you shall see.