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 Judas… 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
“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 Judas… 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
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