Sacrifice by David Pilling Read Free Book Online Page A

and Hastings.
       Gloucester, who hated loose morals and the depravity of his late brother’s court, harboured a personal dislike of Shore. It was for her shamelessly lewd conduct, Geoffrey suspected, that Gloucester meant to charge her with treason.
       “Your honour is dung, my lord,” Gloucester sneered, “and shall be treated with the appropriate respect. Sir Geoffrey, take him outside. The rest shall be consigned to prison, to await further judgment.”
       Geoffrey nodded at Harrington, who stepped forward to lay his mailed hand on Hastings’ shoulder. The Chamberlain heaved a deep sigh, closed his eyes briefly, and then rose to his feet.
       “So be it,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Gloucester, “so it begins, my lord. How many more heads will roll before you feel secure?”
       Gloucester scowled and said nothing. He stepped aside to allow the little procession to pass, with Geoffrey in the lead. Fresh curses flowed from Stanley’s mouth as Pilkington dragged him off the floor. Morton and Rotherham, in respect of their age and clerical office, were treated rather more gently, and offered no resistance as the guards ushered them away to prison.
       Hastings was taken down a short flight of stairs, to the little green beside the chapel within the Tower.
    All was ready for him. A soldier in Gloucester’s livery stood with a battle-axe beside a log on the middle of the green.
       There was also a priest, a skinny, nervous little creature with pop eyes and an abnormally large Adam’s Apple. His yellow hands shook as he clutched a small leather-bound Bible to his chest.
       “My lord of Gloucester has thought of everything,” Hastings remarked drily. Geoffrey helped him to remove his chain of office and heavy fur-lined robe.
       “At least it is a warm day,” Hastings added, “no man will be able to say I trembled before the axe.”
       Geoffrey thought he displayed incredible fortitude for one about to be judicially murdered, and resented him for it. He resented all such displays of courage, knowing himself incapable of them.
       “Shrive him, and be quick about it,” he ordered the priest, who almost dropped his Bible in the haste to obey.
       Hastings confessed to being a sinful man, and an innocent one. “I never uttered treason or conspired against the Protector, still less against my dear lord and king, King Edward V, God save him. God, I suspect, will need to be active on His Majesty’s behalf in these coming days.”
       He looked meaningfully at Geoffrey, who ignored it. To entertain such suspicions, to even think of them, was to risk death.
       “My lord,” said Geoffrey, “you must kneel, and place your head on the block.”
       Hastings duly knelt. Once an athletic figure, his body had thickened with age and debauchery, and the flabby curve of his paunch was visible below his shirt. His grey hair was thin and greasy, and there was a spreading bald spot on the back of his head. A shabby and pitiful figure, saved by the calm dignity with which he confronted death.
       “Sir Geoffrey Malvern,” he said softly, as though seeing Geoffrey for the first time, “I mind the first time we met, after the fight at Northampton. You came into the Earl of Warwick’s pavilion, with the blood of many a Lancastrian knight on your sword. That was a great day. I have been fortunate to witness many great days.”
       Geoffrey had heard enough. He signalled at the headsman to stand back a little, and bent down to whisper into Hastings’ ear.
       “The truth is, my lord, I hid under a gun-carriage at Northampton until the battle was over. The blood on my sword was from a corpse. I am a coward, a liar and a murderer, and have always profited from the deeds of better men. Lay down your head, my lord Hastings, and go to your rest.”
       Twin spots of colour appeared in Hastings’ pale cheeks, and he glanced up at Geoffrey with genuine shock in his eyes.