"Why satisfaction?"
"That Your Majesty does not trust him."
Richard smiled grimly. "Trust him or his brother William? Rather look
for faith and honesty in the Fiend himself. Nathless, I may not slight
them--yet awhile. It is watch and wait--now. And a trying task truly,
for they are the shrewdest brained in the land."
"Save the King of England," Aymer added.
"Save none, as you some day may see."
"God forbid!" De Lacy exclaimed earnestly.
But Richard only shrugged his shoulders. "Nay, what boots it? As great
Coeur-de-Lion said: 'From the Devil we Plantagenets all come, and to the
Devil shall we all go.'"
"Then Your Majesty will never be quit of the Stanleys."
"It would seem so," with a short laugh; "yet it is the live Stanley that
worries me now."
"The Lord Stanley awaits Your Majesty's pleasure," said the page,
stepping within the arras.
"Admit him," the King ordered, choosing a place where his own face would
be in the shadow and the other's in the glare. . . "And would it were my
pleasure, rather than my expediency, that awaited him," he added in an
undertone.
Stanley came forward in his precise and cautious way and bent knee to the
King.
"Be seated, my lord," said Richard cordially. "I wish your advice upon a
most important matter, if you can spare me a little of your time."
The Lord Steward bowed. "My time belongs to you, Sire," he said suavely;
"though I fear my poor advice can aid but little your own keen judgment;
yet it is flattering to be asked it."
Richard made a gesture of dissent. "I did not summon you for flattery,"
he said; "if I did not value your discretion you would not be here."
"Then I trust your gracious confidence may not be misplaced."
"I am about to test it. . . Tell me, my lord, what is the gravest state
problem that confronts me now?"
The Lord Steward's crafty blue eyes shot a sharp glance at the King, but
Richard's black ones met it half way and drove it back in quick retreat.
Now, Stanley had one weakness. He was vain of his astuteness and ever
ready to display it; and he thought he had discerned instantly what was
in the King's mind.
"Your Majesty means the two Princes--Edward's sons," he said.
Richard's face showed blank surprise.
"Nay, my lord, I mean nothing in particular," he said. "I sought only
what, in your opinion, was my chief embarrassment and peril. . . And you
answer: the young Princes. . . By St. Paul! you may be right--give me
your reasons."
Stanley saw his blunder and grew hot with rage. He had been outwitted;
and now, as between him and the King, he must ever bear the burden of
having first suggested Edward's sons as a menace to the State. The trap
was so easy; and yet he had never seen it until it had caught him tight.
And between his anger and the strange influence which Richard exercised
over all men when in his presence, he blundered again--and worse than
before.
"When, since time began," he asked, "has a new King had peace or comfort
while his supplanted predecessor lived to breed revolt?"
Richard seized the opening instantly.
"Great St. George! You do not urge the Princes' death?" he exclaimed.
And Stanley floundered deeper.
"Holy Mother, Sire, do not misunderstand me," he answered. "I urge
nothing. But the problem, as I see it, is, not why to act, but how to
refrain."
"Yet Parliament has declared them bastards and so never eligible to the
crown," Richard objected.
But Stanley had gone too far now to retreat and he pressed on, knowing
that he, himself, was incurring little or no danger by the advice.
Richard alone would be responsible if he acted upon it, and all the open
shame would fall upon him.
"The Beauforts were bastards," he answered, "and Parliament specifically
refused them the royal dignity; yet who, to-day, is Lancaster's chief and
claimant for your Crown but the heir of those same Beauforts? Pardieu!
Sire, you need not me to tell you that Parliament belongs to him whose
writ summons it."
"I would never countenance it," the King answered; "and it would surely
destroy me if I did."
Stanley smiled shrewdly. "Did the Fourth Henry sit less easy on the
throne when the deposed Richard died suddenly at Pontefract? . . . Did
John tyrannize the less because of Arthur's cruel taking off?"
The King arose and paced the floor, looking straight before him. Stanley
watched him furtively, trying vainly to read behind the mask of that
passionless face.
"Tell me, my lord," said Richard presently, halting beside him and
putting a hand on his shoulder, "if you were King of England, what would
you do with the Princes?"
Stanley evaded the direct question. "Your Majesty is King of England,
and I can never be aught but a subject--how can I know what a King would
do?"
Richard nodded. "That is but fair, my lord," he said. "To decide as
King one must be King. Yet I would gather from our talk that you deem
the . . . removal . . . most essential--is it not so?"
Pushed into the corner, the shifty Baron hesitated and sought to evade
again. But he managed badly, for now the King's eyes were hard upon his
face.
"Of a truth, Sire," he replied, "our talk this night has convinced me it
would be most expedient for Your Majesty."
Richard's lips softened into the very faintest smile.
"Our talk------!" he began.
Then suddenly Stanley started up and pointed to the window.
"Who is yonder listener?" he exclaimed.
Richard turned quickly, following the gesture.
"Are your eyes failing?" he asked. "It is De Lacy--he is on duty
to-night."
"Did you know he was there?"
"Most assuredly, my lord."
Stanley stared at the King in amazed silence, and despite his careful
dissimulation the indignation blazed in his eyes.
"If Your Majesty deem it wise to discuss such matters before a simple
attendant," he said, "it is not for me to criticise . . . yet, methinks,
if it be not risky, it is at least unusual."
"Never fear, Lord Steward; I will answer for my Body-Knight," Richard
responded.
During the colloquy, De Lacy had been leaning on the window edge,
watching idly the courtyard below, but paying strict attention to all
that was said behind him. Now he came forward and bent knee to Richard.
"My King's confidence," he said, "makes contemptible the insinuations of
the fickle Stanley."
"How now, Sir------" Stanley began angrily; but Richard silenced him with
an imperious gesture.
"Hold, my Lord Steward," he said sternly, "no words betwixt you two. And
hark you both, no renewal of this hereafter. You are each acquittanced
of the other now."
De Lacy drew himself up stiffly and saluted.
"The King commands," he said.
"And you, my lord?" asked Richard, eyeing Stanley.
"Pardieu! Sire, I have no quarrel with Sir Aymer," he answered, and
affably extended his hand.
Just then there came loud voices from the outer room, followed
immediately by the entrance of the page.
"May it please Your Majesty," the boy said, as the King's curt nod gave
him leave to speak, "Sir Robert Brackenbury craves instant audience on
business of state."
"Admit him!"
The next moment the old Knight strode into the room, spurs jangling and
boots and doublet soiled by travel.
"Welcome, Robert," said Richard, giving him his hand. "What brings you
in such haste?"
"Matters which are for your ears alone, Sire," said the Constable of the
Tower, with the abruptness of a favored counsellor.
The King walked to a distant window.
"Might the two-faced Lord Steward hear us?" Brackenbury asked.
"No danger, speak--what is amiss in London?"
"Enough and to spare. Edward's sons are dead."
Even Richard's wonderful self-control was unequal to such news, and he
started back.
"Holy Paul!" he exclaimed, under his breath; then stood with bent
head. . . "How happened it?"
"No one knows, certainly. As you expressly ordered, either the
lieutenant or myself regularly locked their apartments at sundown and
opened them at dawn. Two nights since I, myself, turned key upon them.
In the morning I found them dead--in each breast a grievous
wound--Edward's bloody dagger on the floor."
"And your view of it?"
"That Edward killed Richard and himself. He had lately been oppressed
with heavy melancholy."
The King shook his head. "Yes, that is doubtless the solution, yet scant
credence will be given it. To the Kingdom it will be murder foul. . .
Yet, pardieu! who else know it?"
"None but my lieutenant."
"And his discretion?"
"Beyond suspicion. He has forgotten it long since."
Richard called De Lacy to him. "Let Suffolk, Lovel, Ratcliffe, D'Evereux
and Catesby be summoned instantly," he ordered.
"My friends," said he, when the last of them had come, "I have sore need
of your wisdom and counsel. Hark to the mournful tidings Sir Robert
Brackenbury brings."
Bluntly and simply the old Knight told the story. When he ended there
was deep concern on every face and all eyes turned toward the King.
"You perceive, my lords, the gravity of the situation," said Richard.
"What shall be done?"
None answered.
"Come, sirs; it is here and we must face it. What say you, Stanley?"
The Lord Steward swept the circle with a keen glance.
"Your Majesty has put a direful question and given us scant time for
thought," he replied. "Yet but two courses seem possible: either to
proclaim the Princes dead by natural causes and give them public burial;
or to conceal the death, and by letting the world fancy them life
prisoners so forget them. Each has its advantage; but on the whole, the
latter may be better. Nathless, this much is self-evident--the true tale
dare not be told. Daggers, blood, and death are inexplicable when Kings'
sons are the victims, save on one hypothesis."
One after another endorsed these words, until finally it came back to the
King for decision.
For a long while he sat silent, staring into vacancy. Through the open
windows floated the noises of the courtyard--the neigh of a horse, the
call of a soldier, the rattle of steel on stone; from the anteroom came
the hum of voices, the tramp of a foot, the echo of a laugh. But within,
no one spoke nor even stirred. Not a man there but understood the
fatefulness of the moment and the tremendous consequences of the
decision, which, once made, might never be amended. At length he spoke.
"It is an ill-fated event and leaves a dismal prospect," he said very
quietly. "Sooner or later my nephews' death will be laid on me. To
proclaim them dead would be to declare me guilty now. To conceal their
death will be simply to postpone that guilt a time--a very little time,
it may be. Curiosity will arise over their prolonged disappearance . . .
then will come suspicion . . . and at length suspicion will become
accepted fact. . . So, my lords, their blood will be put on me--either
now or in the future. That is my only choice--now or the future--. . .
and I choose the future. We will not announce the death; and the bodies
shall be buried privately and in an unknown spot. To you, Sir Robert
Brackenbury, I commit the task, trusting you fully. . . And, my lords,
from this moment henceforth, let this council and its sad subject be
forgotten utterly. . . Only I ask that when, in after days, you hear
Richard Plantagenet accused of this deed, you will defend him or his
memory. . . And now, good night."
One by one they came forward, bent knee and kissed his hand; then quietly
withdrew, leaving him and De Lacy alone together.
"And yet, forsooth," he exclaimed, "Stanley advised that the Princes be
removed! By St. Paul! if he sought to persuade me to my injury, the
Fates have subserved his wishes well. Him I can baffle, but under their
frown the strongest monarch fails."