Sacrifice by David Pilling Read Free Book Online Page B

“There,” said Geoffrey, delighted by his reaction, “I wager you thought this day could bring no more surprises, eh?”
       He stepped back, grinning, and gestured at the soldiers to do their work. They seized Hastings’ neck and forced it down onto the block.
       His lips were about to mouth a final curse when the axe fell and ended his troubles forever.
     
    Chapter 6
     
    The Tower, 22 nd June 1483  
     
    Richard was alone in his chamber. He stood in front of a gilded mirror mounted on the wall and studied his reflection with disgust.
       The runt of the litter, Father called me.
       His father, the old Duke of York, had meant it in jest, but young Richard took it ill. He had been a serious child, painfully aware of his physical inadequacies compared to his big, healthy, vigorous brothers.
       Decades later, his father and brothers all lay quiet in their graves, but the mirror showed the same flaws. Richard’s lack of height, pale complexion, twisted spine, mismatched shoulders. His weak, almost feminine build, so unbecoming in a warrior.
       Richard staved off the inevitable onslaught of self-loathing and melancholy with bravado. “The runt is the head of the litter now, father,” he said aloud.
       His words met with silence. There was a dull, persistent ache in his skull. It had been there for weeks, ever since he received news of Edward’s death. On some days it was tolerable, others (especially if he had slept badly) it was like red-hot needles stabbing against the back of his eyeballs.
       If only I could sleep a whole night. All I get now is an hour or two. Sometimes, not even that.
       He suspected Jane Shore, that accursed whore and notorious witch, of placing a spell on him. It was thanks to her black arts that he couldn’t sleep. The pain in his head could only be caused by her making a wax image of him and driving a needle into it. An old piece of dark magic, but effective.
       His efforts to punish Shore, to shame her before the world, had proved a disappointment. Soon after the execution of Hastings, he had forced her to walk barefoot in her petticoat through Saint Paul’s, carrying a lighted taper and singing hymns.
       Richard had hoped the crowds would greet the whore with the disgust and loathing she deserved, and pelt her with missiles. Instead the vile woman turned the situation to her advantage. Though almost forty, she was still attractive, and struck onlookers dumb with her show of meekness and humility.
       Well, be damned to her. I placed her in Ludgate prison, where she may think long on her sins.
      Richard had more pressing concerns than the fate of Jane Shore. Even as he stared at his reflection, a man named Ralph Shaw was preaching a sermon from the rostrum at Saint Paul’s Cross, to a packed audience of Londoners.
       Shaw was an eminent doctor of theology, a Cambridge man, learned and erudite. He had been commissioned to set forth Richard’s claim to the throne of England.
       Buckingham’s voice echoed inside Richard’s mind: insinuating, mellifluous, persuasive.
       “The King will never forgive us for what happened to Rivers. Edward loved him.”
       “Edward is still a boy,” Richard had replied, “time will heal his hurts. It always does.”
        He spoke without much conviction. Inside, he knew Buckingham was right. Edward was too much his father’s son to ever forgive or forget an injury.
       Perhaps I should have kept Rivers alive. Not the others, just him. At least until I could persuade Edward of his guilt.
       He chided himself. It was no use wishing away the past. Rivers, Grey, Vaughan and Sir Thomas Haute, another of their adherents, were all dead. The order to kill them had gone north just days after the death of Hastings. Unlike Hastings, they got a form of trial, with the Earl of Northumberland presiding as judge.
       A mere formality. The verdict was never in doubt. Northumberland knew better than to countermand