Sacrifice by David Pilling Read Free Book Online

an angry man, true enough, and believed himself the target of a conspiracy. However, this show of rage was just that: a show, with lines and movements rehearsed beforehand.
       Lord Hastings cleared his throat. “Truly, my lord,” he ventured, “they should be punished as traitors, whoever they are.”
       Gloucester’s stare could have melted stone. “You say as much,” he hissed, “you, who are so sunk in these same treasons? Who have conspired with the Queen to unseat me, and have me done to death? Do you deny it?”
       Hastings looked utterly astonished, as well he might. His eyes bulged, and his lips worked soundlessly, groping for a reply. “M…my lord,” he croaked, “I…but…”
       “Will you trade ifs and buts with me, you accursed villain? I know, my lord. I know of your secret meetings with Lord Stanley, and Morton, and Rotherham, and how you used that whore Mistress Shore to carry your treasonable messages. I know all of it. Do you understand? All!”
       The word ‘all’ was the signal. Geoffrey scraped back his chair, and a moment later the second door flew open.
    Armed men flooded into the room, led by Thomas Howard, son of the Duke of Norfolk, and two of Gloucester’s trusted northerners, Charles Pilkington and Robert Harrington. They had hidden away before the councillors arrived, waiting for their master’s summons.
       “Treason!” they shouted, “treason!”
       Rotherham tried to stand, to protest, but Howard placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him back down. Stanley head-butted the first soldier who tried to seize his arm, and threw himself at two more. During the brief scuffle that followed, he suffered a cut to the cheek and was hurled to the floor. Pilkington knelt on the bellowing nobleman’s back and pressed his face against the cold stone of the floor.
       Geoffrey drew his dagger and held it against Morton’s neck. There was little need. The bishop sat still as a statue, hands folded on his lap, apparently unperturbed. His hard little grey eyes betrayed no sign of fear.
       They glanced down to the blade at his throat. “Either use that thing on me, or take it away,” he murmured. Embarrassed, Geoffrey lowered his weapon.
       A strange calm fell over the chamber. Howard held Rotherham, Pilkington held Stanley, no-one had laid hands on Hastings, and all eyes turned to the diminutive figure in black at the head of the table.  
       Gloucester folded his arms. “Now,” he said, “will you confess your crimes, traitor, before you are shriven and taken out to die? By Saint Paul, I will not sit down to dinner until your head is off!”
       Harrington and three of his men had taken up position behind Hastings’ chair. They stood with their hands on their swords, ready to spring if he tried to escape.
       He didn’t move. Like Morton, he had remained perfectly still during the brief scuffle.
       His time has come, thought Geoffrey, and he knows it.
       “I will say this, my lord,” Hastings replied calmly, “upon my honour as a knight, I have committed no treason. It is true, I have sometimes visited the houses of these other men, or invited them to mine. We spoke of our concerns. Your name was often mentioned. But we never spoke treason. Discontent, perhaps, but never treason. As for Mistress Shore, I have never used her as a messenger. I beg you, let her be. She is entirely innocent.”
       His words had the uncomfortable ring of truth. Geoffrey was privy to some of Gloucester’s secrets, and knew the duke had employed spies in London to watch the movements of Hastings and the others who stood accused. They brought back vague reports of clandestine meetings at night, but nothing of what was actually said.
       There was no evidence against Jane Shore. She was the daughter of a prosperous merchant, and had risen to prominence by sharing the beds of certain high-born men, including the late Edward IV, the Marquess of Dorset