Timothy addressed himself to his acquaintance. ‘Simon, what is going on? Tell us, man, for God’s sake!’
The man screwed up his small russet apple of a face in an apologetic grin. ‘I don’t know for certain. I was at Baynard’s Castle collecting some of the duke’s gear he’d left behind when he moved to Crosby’s Place. I knew there was an important meeting at the Tower this morning — the duke, the Lord Chamberlain, the Archbishop of York and some others — but what it was about I knew no more than the next poor sod who ain’t privy to the councils of the high and mighty.’
‘For Christ’s sweet sake, get on with it!’ Timothy groaned.
Master Finglass looked hurt. ‘I am! I am! Well, I’m minding my own business down in the main courtyard, packing the duke’s stuff into a couple of saddlebags, when two of our fellows come bursting in from the Thames Street gate, looking like they’ve seen a bloody ghost. The Archbishop, the Bishop of Ely, and some lord or other have all been arrested on a charge of high treason. And also. .’ He paused momentarily for dramatic effect before continuing, ‘And also arrested is the Lord Chamberlain. Same charge! Treason!’
‘Ah! At last!’ Timothy let out a grunt of satisfaction and nodded at me. ‘We’ve seen that coming.’
Simon Finglass gripped the spymaster’s wrist. ‘Wait! That’s not all they’re saying. They’re saying that Lord Hastings is dead. That he was rushed to Tower Green and beheaded there and then by one of the executioners who’d been brought to the Tower, special-like, for that purpose. That the chamberlain was barely given time to be shrived and that they didn’t even use the proper block. They used a piece of timber that was lying around after some recent building repairs.’
There was dreadful silence. Timothy, Piers and I stood as though struck dumb. I was conscious of the drumming of my heart, of a deep sense of foreboding and of the high, shrill singing of a bird in a tree behind me. Finally, after what seemed an age, Timothy cleared his throat and at the second attempt said, ‘His Grace of Gloucester wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t condemn a man to death without trial. It’s illegal. It’s against the laws of Magna Carta. Even the king himself couldn’t do it, and my lord is only Protector.’ He suddenly gained in confidence and his voice became stronger. ‘There must be some mistake. You must have misheard, Simon.’
The other shook his head. ‘I didn’t mishear nothing. Nor did anybody else. ’Cause we were all saying the same as you. As how it was against the law. As how the duke, who’s a stickler for doing things right, wouldn’t go against his conscience by executing a man without trial.’
Timothy chewed his lower lip. ‘What do you think, Roger?’
It demonstrated the extent of his perturbation that he should ask for my opinion. In normal circumstances, his own was all that counted with him.
I hesitated before answering. The truth was that I didn’t really know what to think. On one hand, the man whose birthday I shared, whom I had known and deeply admired for the past twelve years, who was renowned everywhere for his sense of fair play, would surely never have permitted, let alone ordered, such a travesty of justice; but on the other hand, ever since the previous year’s expedition to Scotland, I had been conscious of a growing ruthlessness beneath the cultured and civilized front which the duke presented to the world.
He had cause, heaven knew, for being embittered. Richard of Gloucester had a strong, puritanical streak in his nature and he had been forced to stand by and watch his adored elder brother, the magnificent, golden warrior of his youth, transformed into a man devoted to hedonism, his health slowly but surely destroyed by the pleasures of the flesh. The chief companions of the king’s overeating, drinking and whoring had been his best friend, William Hastings, and his two stepsons and their uncles, members of the queen’s hated Woodville family, all of whom the duke held responsible for the death of his other brother, George of Clarence. Yet even so. .
‘There must be some mistake,’ I replied at last. ‘A rumour that’s been taken as fact.’
Timothy grunted, presumably in agreement, but said nothing, an omission that made me uneasy. I was about to press him for his own thoughts on the matter when there was a sudden shifting of the crowd as people began invading the churchyard, stampeding towards St Paul’s Cross in the north-east corner.
‘There’s a herald coming,’ Simon Finglass announced, and made off after the rest.
Timothy, Piers and I remounted, giving us a distinct advantage over our fellows, and simply turned our horses to face the right direction. Sure enough, a herald in the royal livery appeared, preceded by a trumpeter whose piercing blasts on his instrument commanded not just silence from the crowd, but threatened to waken the dead all around us and raise them from their graves. But they had the necessary effect. The people fell silent.
‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ The herald eyed us all severely to make certain that he had our attention before proceeding to unscroll and read from the parchment in his hand. It seemed that during a meeting of the Privy Council that morning, the Duke of Gloucester had suddenly turned on Lord Hastings, Lord Stanley — Henry Tudor’s stepfather — the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Ely and accused them of plotting his own and the Duke of Buckingham’s deaths with the intention of then taking control of the king. The plot also involved the queen dowager, at present in sanctuary, with Mistress Shore, the late king’s mistress, acting as go-between. All the accused — Queen Elizabeth, of course, excepted — were now in custody. There was no need for alarm. Everything was under control. People were to return to work and proceed with their daily tasks.
And that was all. The herald and trumpeter departed. Timothy heaved a sigh of relief and turned to me.
‘No mention of any out-of-hand executions,’ he said. ‘There will be some, no doubt of that. But all legal and above board.’
I nodded, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from my mind. If Hastings and the other conspirators got what was coming to them that was only a fitting punishment for their crime. But it would be by due process of law and that was what mattered.
‘What do we do now?’ I asked as the crowds, somewhat disappointed at this tame ending to all the excitement, began to disperse.
‘I must get to the Tower as fast as possible. I may be needed.’ Timothy’s little air of self-importance made me struggle to suppress a grin. ‘In any case,’ he went on, ‘I must report your safe arrival to the duke. You and Piers had better go straight to Baynard’s Castle and see if there’s any news concerning Master Fitzalan. If not, Roger, you’d best begin your enquiries right away.’
I said nothing. He could take my silence for acquiescence if he liked. But I intended to procure myself some refreshment first. Like the rest of my countrymen, I believed in a sufficient amount of rest and recreation.
The main courtyard of the castle was thronged with guests and servants alike, all avidly discussing the reports from the Tower. I guessed that Gideon Fitzalan’s disappearance and the murder of Gregory Machin had been superseded as the general topic of concern and conversation.
‘Follow me,’ Piers said briskly as he dismounted, at the same time signalling to one of the grooms to come and take our horses. ‘I’ll take you to Dame Copley. She’s bound to be in her room. Or — wait a minute! I can see Godfrey Fitzalan over there. You know, Gideon’s uncle.’
I shot out a hand to detain him, my mind still running on food, but I was a second too late. Piers was already plunging through the knots of people towards a tall man with a shock of curly brown hair and a pair of very light bluish-grey eyes that contrasted oddly with his very dark, almost black eyebrows.
‘Master Fitzalan,’ he cried, grabbing the man by his sleeve. ‘It’s me. Piers Daubenay, Master Gideon’s servant. You know! I was sent to Minster Lovell to apprise them of the news-’