Richard, Duke of Gloucester, meanwhile made his own plans. Conflicting messages had thrown Middleham Castle into turmoil. First a henchman, a secret messenger from allies at Portsoken, had brought the information the duke had been dreading. The mighty Lord Marrott was surely now in possession of the poison long kept from his grasp. The duke’s spy made two matters clear. Neither the complicity of Earl Rivers, nor that of the Marquess of Dorset could be proved. It was conceivable that Lord Marrott acted alone, but act he would. So, it was with terrible sadness but no surprise that his grace soon received the news that his brother the king had died.
The great Requiem Mass had already been held at York Minster when the duke’s own trusted liegeman galloped into the castle courtyard with different news, for the king lived. His highness had been dangerously ill, but was now recovering. Then, some days afterwards, the dreaded message arrived, coming at great speed and with the Lord Hastings’ seal. This time, without doubt, the king was dead.
There were two further messages, each written in haste, and finally two more. Amongst these was an official reckoning of the late king’s Will and Testament, and of the codicils added on his highness’s deathbed. This document made Richard, Duke of Gloucester, Protector and Defender of the Realm during the new king’s minority. Her highness the dowager queen was no longer named as an executor, and was excluded from all specific benefit.
Some letters were quickly dispatched onwards to the mayor at York, while others, those more personal, were read and reread as the duke sat first alone in his private chamber before the great fire, then later in discussion with his quiet companion Lord Feayton, and finally together with his official advisors. The duke replied to Lord Hastings, considering his options. He sent his official condolences to the dowager queen, although she had chosen to make no contact with him, and he included a warning to the king’s council. As the Protector, he trusted they would conduct business in accordance with law and tradition. One of Hastings’ letters had related how they were doing no such thing. ‘After endless argument, the king’s entourage has been restricted to two thousand,’ Hastings wrote. ‘Your grace will, I trust, ride with an equal number.’
Letters were also sent to the new king, reiterating the duke’s loyalty, his condolences and his intention of conducting the prince’s entrance into London.
‘We will assuredly meet upon the road,’ Earl Rivers wrote back.
The Duke of Buckingham, behind the Duke of Gloucester the highest peer in the land but inexperienced and previously eclipsed by Woodville alliances, now came forward to announce his own intention of primary involvement. There would be a new order, new loyalties and new preferences. It was his time. He wrote to Richard of Gloucester. Messengers, their frothing mounts clattering across the castle’s courtyards, arrived daily, and left again without delay.
Gloucester prepared to leave Yorkshire and ride south. But he would not, he said, lead any armed force, nor appear in aggression against either the people or his king. Only three hundred men, mounted but unarmed, were ordered to make ready. He had spent many days considering all possibilities and once decided, the duke’s decisions were immovable. His decision was also based on information, uncovered by those he used for such matters, that Earl Rivers hoped to arrive in London while his grace of Gloucester was still on the road. The duke therefore planned, with a small mounted retinue, to make greater haste than Rivers would expect. They rode out on the twenty-third day of April. The sky was dull and clouded.
Clambering one by one, edging through a gap barely large enough for a dog, swallowing back excitement and keeping careful silence, each dishevelled prisoner made their escape. The children were carried, hands tight over their mouths in case of squeals. Finally, clothes snagged on splinters, everyone crawled to freedom.
Beyond their prison, the little studio chamber at Cobham Hall was unlit and the small window showed no light. After uncountable time in darkness, they had longed for light and for clarity. There was none. Tyballis tiptoed to the window, peeping out. ‘We thought it was daytime, but look, it’s night. There are stars, but no moon.’
‘It’s better,’ Ralph whispered back. ‘These brutes will be asleep. The dark will hide us.’
‘They’ll have set guards.’
Elizabeth grunted. ‘Maybe not. Let’s find out.’
Ralph crept to the mouth of the tiny spiral stair, testing each step. There was neither hindrance nor sound. He turned back to the others crowding behind him, and nodded. The children, warned and threatened with consequences too terrible to consider, were frightened. Felicia nursed Gyles. Jon carried Walter. Ellen took Edmund’s small cold hand. Behind them the stench of their prison lingered.
Pushing Tyballis forwards as the only one who knew the way, they followed in single file. Terrified of alerting the guards, she crept down the narrow winding steps into Andrew’s grand bedchamber below. Only she and Elizabeth had ever been permitted here before but there was no time for curiosity. Before their capture, Tyballis had straightened the bedclothes, and saw they had not been disturbed since. No one had explored here. There was no sign of anyone. Everyone now hesitated, listening for the sounds of alarm or of footsteps. There was nothing.
The garderobe door leading to the rear corridor and the gardens was locked but Tyballis knew where the key was kept, and lifted it soundlessly from its mat beside the privy. She took a deep breath as the door squeaked. For a moment no one moved. Then they ran.
The shadows danced. Leaf and bough swept past them, a crunch of stone, the squelch of mulched leaf fall, a tiny yelp as thorns scratched Edmund’s arm, and then the gates were before them, standing wide. The alley beyond was deserted. Three men, three women and four children quickly disappeared into the night.
The Lord Hastings tirelessly fought his adversaries on the council, gradually winning the agreement of those who had backed the Woodvilles only through fear or pragmatism. Hastings was not pragmatic, nor fearful. He threatened physical attack; he threatened to leave and muster troops at Calais; and he threatened, with oblique disdain, to inform the people regarding the cause of the late king’s death. Those who knew nothing stared, suspicious or confused. But Dorset flushed, leaning angry-eyed across the table. ‘My Lord Hastings,’ he said under his breath, ‘if you have proof of some wrongdoing, then we shall – all – be pleased to know it. Proof, I repeat, would be of great interest to everyone. Speak now, or keep your peace.’
The dowager queen lifted one high arched eyebrow as Hastings watched her reactions closely. ‘My lord Hastings tries to make himself important,’ she said, waving her fingers in symbolic dismissal. ‘He threatens, and he hints at secrets. A wretched mummery indeed. My husband died three weeks gone, and nothing has been said in all that time, yet my lord now pretends special knowledge? Enough. There is important business to resolve here.’
Hastings licked his lips. Every eye was fixed on him, waiting. ‘Ah yes, the matter of proof,’ he sighed. ‘Proof there may be. But proof of what, I wonder? So, for now let us proceed with the business at hand.’
A buzz of uncertainty surrounded the table. The councillors appeared increasingly uncomfortable. The Duke of Gloucester had sent warning messages, had announced his intention of imminent arrival in the city, and had accepted the position of Lord Protector of the Realm in accordance with the late king’s urgent desire. ‘But my son’s desires are now the sole consideration,’ the dowager queen pointed out. ‘Edward will undoubtedly decide to remain under the protection and guidance of my brother Earl Rivers, his long-time guardian, also appointed by the late king. This new Protector is simply one amongst many, and may have his seat at the council if he wishes.’