‘There’s the old tale that your brother was a bastard, the son of the archer, Blaeburn,’ Buckingham replied.
‘Have you met my mother?’ Richard asked, icily. ‘Half an hour with her and you’d know better than to come up with such rubbish.’
‘It’s amazing what you can get people to believe,’ Buckingham said. ‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s true or not, as long as people believe it.’
He laughed, and it was not a moment for laughing. I saw a new light in Richard’s eye; for the first time he doubted him.
‘Surely,’ said Anne, ‘there is something in those files of yours that would soothe my lord’s conscience.’
I was helping her to undress. She had sent the rest of her women away, a most unusual occurrence, and so I had guessed what was coming.
‘The Duchess of York has one of the thinnest security records in Westminster,’ I answered. ‘She has never put a foot wrong in her life. For the last twenty-odd years she’s lived like a nun, saying more prayers in a day than you or I do in a year. The tale of Blaeburn was very thoroughly investigated by Hastings, on King Edward’s own orders, and found to be utterly groundless, a vile Lancastrian smear.’
‘And yet Richard is said to resemble the Duke of York, his father, as Edward and Clarence never did. I remember my father remarking on it.’
‘Children don’t always look like their fathers,’ I objected, bearing in mind two of my own, ‘and in any event, I can’t see Richard dishing the dirt on his own mother. It’s not his style.’
‘There may be another tack,’ she suggested. ‘My father and Clarence seemed to think that there was something iffy about Edward’s marriage to Elizabeth. Some impediment, I mean. I don’t know what, but it might be worth a look.’
‘They were certainly married in secret,’ I said, ‘and that’s always suspicious. But don’t build your hopes up. It’s short odds that anything really meaty in the way of proof will have been sent floating down the Thames years ago.’
‘We can always try a bit of fabrication, Alianore.’
It was easy to forget that Anne was Warwick the Kingmaker’s daughter. She had just made a very good job of reminding me.
‘Have you thought this through?’ I asked. ‘If Richard does become King you’ll be stuck at Court for the rest of your days. No more Middleham. You’ll be lucky to get north of Luton.’
‘I know. But it’s Richard’s life, and my son’s life. I’ll do anything to save them. If I have to become Queen, and spend the rest of my life within twenty-five miles of London, then that’s just the way it’s got to be. We all have to make sacrifices for England.’
I was at my desk well before Prime next morning, and started ploughing through the archives. I sensed that it was going to be a long day, with nothing to show at the end of it. Some people believe that all the secrets of the world can be found in the government’s intelligence files, but I can assure you that much of the documentation is practically useless, except as a means of collecting dust, and the indexing system leaves a great deal to be desired. There was nothing at all under ‘Marriage, King Edward IV’, although surprisingly I did find a slim file listed under ‘Sorcery, Woodville, E.’
Roger dropped in just before noon to take me into London for dinner at his favourite cookshop. There was a blue plaque over the door reading: ‘Anne Neville, Duchess of Gloucester, worked here, 1471.’ Next to this hung a faded sign that said ‘By appointment to His Grace the Duke of Clarence, purveyors of lark pasties and mutton pies.’ A real class joint.
Roger sat me down in the corner, and ordered a gallon of draught claret and a swan pie. Apparently this was the Special.
‘Bloody northerners!’ grunted someone from the next embrasure. He had obviously taken exception to Roger’s Gloucestershire accent, and probably to his White Boar livery badge as well. My husband put his hand to the hilt of his knife, and would have drawn it if I’d not trod on his foot under the table.
‘Leave it out,’ I said, ‘Gloucester won’t thank you if it kicks off in here. There are any number of Richard’s retainers in London, and it’s known that there are thousands of Yorkshiremen on their way as back-up. You can’t expect the locals to like it. As far as they’re concerned, we’re only one step up from the Scots.’
Roger muttered angrily, but he let it lie. ‘Had any luck?’ he asked.
‘Not really.’
‘Can’t say I like what’s going on,’ he added, ‘looking for excuses to deprive a boy of his inheritance. Not a great deal on that in the Knightly Code. Richard doesn’t much like it either. He’s in a grim mood. Grimmer than usual.’
‘It’s what’s called being on the horns of a dilemma, Husband.’
He sighed. ‘At least we can have a rest tomorrow. Nothing much ever happens on a Sunday. Then on Monday young York’s going to be fetched out of sanctuary. Richard wants both his nephews where he can see them.’
The Duke of York, another Richard, was Elizabeth Woodville’s younger son by King Edward. Unlike his brother, who had been brought up in his own household at Ludlow in the Marches, York had been kept close to her skirts.
‘How exactly is that going to be arranged?’ I asked. Sanctuary is, after all, sanctuary.
He shrugged. ‘By whatever means. The Cardinal Archbishop goes in first. If that doesn’t work, there’ll be eight boat loads of armed men to strengthen his arguments. Buckingham says that as York is only a boy, and hasn’t committed any crime, he can’t lay claim to sanctuary.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ I said. ‘It may be true, legally speaking, but it could produce a lot of bad publicity. Little boy being dragged away from his mummy by nasty northern soldiers. All that sort of thing. Not the image we want to build, is it?’
Roger shook his head. ‘The whole thing is going to throw up massive presentational problems. The business with Hastings hasn’t helped. He had quite a fan club down here. Not just knights and squires, but merchants and even ordinary Joes. I don’t think we’ve quite managed to persuade them all that he just suddenly decided to turn traitor.’
‘Richard was a shade hasty for his own good,’ I agreed. ‘To be honest, I think that Hastings was just playing politics. I don’t believe he had anything to do with the poison, or even that he really wanted Richard toppled as Protector. He just didn’t want things to tip too far one way. Unfortunately, he didn’t realise that you don’t mess with Richard like that without provoking an extremely negative response.’
‘There’s also a lot of sympathy for Mistress Shore,’ Roger added.
Richard had arranged for Elizabeth Shore to do penance as a whore, which involved her walking through the streets of London in her shift, carrying a candle, and wearing a striped hood. (This did her no lasting harm. She ended up married to Thomas Lynom, the King’s Solicitor, and lady of the manor of somewhere-or-other. You can’t keep a good woman down, although in her case quite a few fellows had a damn good try.)
The pie had arrived, and we stopped our conversation for a few minutes while we dug into it. There’s nothing like a nice hunk of swan when you’re hungry, and after paying the London price for it we sure as hell didn’t plan on leaving any for the dogs.
‘There’s a fellow I’ve not seen for a year or two,’ Roger said, pausing to spit a gobbet of gristle over the partition that divided us from the next table. (You can get away with that sort of thing if you’re a knight and big with it.) He pointed uncertainly with his spoon. ‘Bishop of Bath and Wells. Shillingford or something. Used to hang around with George Clarence. Probably in town looking for a job. Edward kicked him out of the government years ago. Dare say he was a spot too close to George for comfort.’