Brian Wainwright - The Adventures of Alianore Audley

Buckingham then gathered the chief citizens together, and made a speech that was so lousy and inept that the Mayor – who was Ralph Shaa’s brother, by the way – had to get the City Recorder to repeat it to the punters in language that they could understand. The whole sales pitch went down like a goblet of chilled vomit, a total public relations disaster.

I’m convinced that this was all deliberate sabotage. However, if you prefer to believe that Buckingham was grossly incompetent, incapable of arranging for an excessive intake of alcohol at a church-ale, then I shall not gainsay you.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, the assembled evidence was passed around the available lords, bishops, and other opinion-formers, and a petition was drawn up asking Richard to accept the Crown. Richard said he would, if they insisted, and we all adjourned to make ready for the Coronation.

The next few days went by in something of a blur. The entire household was up to its collective neck in the preparations, and I seemed to spend most of my time helping Anne with the fitting sessions for her gowns. Intelligence work just had to go on hold, and I was not even able to follow up on an interesting report that an Italian cleric called Mancini was busily despatching distorted tales of our doings to our enemies in France. This fellow could not even speak English, so he must have really struggled to get hold of anything useful. French Intelligence are a clueless lot at the best of times, but I expect that even they were able to figure out that his stuff wasn’t worth the parchment it was written on.

Anne had lost weight. (The Queen, that is. I always did have to keep reminding myself.) I couldn’t decide whether it was down to the worry, or whether she was ill. She’d slimmed to such an extent that she could get into one of the new, low-waisted gowns without lacing herself up in a corset. (By the way, if I ever find the bastard who decided that the fashion needed changing, I promise that I shall find half the cost of having him buried cheaply. Things have gone steadily downhill since the first time that I had my breath squeezed out of me by tight lacing, and I suspect that the whole thing is nothing but a Tudor conspiracy against the women of England.)

Talking of the Tudor, I find it is now often forgotten that that nasty little man’s mother, Margaret Beaufort, carried Anne’s train on Coronation Day. This was undoubtedly a sop to her husband, Sneaky Stanley, and I cite it as further proof that he was not involved in the Hastings conspiracy. He himself could be found walking about with the Lord High Constable’s mace of office clutched in his sweaty paw, grinning like one who’d just found a gold coin in the middle of a pickled onion.

It was a great day of celebration, although a wearying one in the July heat. We had a banquet at which we stuffed ourselves for hours, and we concluded proceedings by setting off a large box of fireworks.

The only thing that worried me was the expression that crossed Buckingham’s face as Richard was crowned. He could scarcely bring himself to watch. It wasn’t as if Richard had not been generous to him. He’d been too damned generous by half in my opinion, giving him virtual control of Wales for a start. But the likes of Buckingham are never satisfied. If you offer them a guarantee of admission to Heaven, they ask for the office of sword bearer to God and the hand of a female saint in marriage. You have to keep an eye on men like that.

Those of you who enjoy analysing petty details will have noted that this Chronicle is written in several different styles of handwriting. This is because I have frequently used an amanuensis. Lest future generations be misled, I wish to record that I, Alianore Audley, alias Dame Alianore Beauchamp, am well able to form my letters for myself when so inclined. However, to avoid an aching wrist, I prefer to dictate to some other person when possible. Many of these pages, and almost all of those which contain foul language, have been inscribed by my faithful chaplain, Sir Walter Gloy, who has stuck to me through thick and thin.

Another gentleman who assisted me for a time, during a brief visit to Horton Beauchamp, was Bishop Russell, formerly Chancellor to King Richard. I was amazed at the speed of the good Bishop’s pen, and do believe that if we had both had sufficient leisure he could easily have got the whole thing down within ten days.

Other sections have been written by Francis, Viscount Lovell, as a method of passing time during his occasional sojourns with us. Francis also helped by correcting my understanding of certain events, but as I have not seen him now for some years I begin to fear that he has come to harm. Or perhaps he’s just living quietly in a secret room somewhere. Who knows? At least he has not fallen into the hands of that splendid fellow, Mr. Tudor. We should certainly have heard all about it if he had.

It was to Francis that I handed over my responsibilities for Yorkist Intelligence. I put my papers in immediately after the Coronation, carefully explaining that I was not resigning over any matter of policy, but because I wanted to spend more time with my family. Richard gave me a funny look, but when I added that I was only too happy to stay on in Anne’s service he relaxed a little.

‘Don’t fly off to Gloucestershire just yet,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve a little job in mind for you and Roger. May be a month or two before I’ve got things in place, and then I’ll tell you all about it.’

I didn’t like the sound of that, but I knew that there was no point in making waves. If your King gives you work you do not refuse it. It says so in the Knightly Code.

The next day I received a fresh Commission, with Richard’s signature still wet on the parchment, and I began to doubt whether I should ever be allowed to call it a day. It was my own fault for making myself so useful. I always knew I should have stuck to the embroidery.

After a little time at Greenwich, the Court set out on a Progress. A Progress is always a sign of weakness, as no king who feels truly secure on his throne ever bothers to show himself to his subjects north of St. Alban’s or west of Reading, but we needed the publicity. Unfortunately, the Queen travelled no further than Windsor before the heat got to her and she had to let Richard travel on without her. When I learned that his itinerary included several days at Oxford listening to boring old academics rattling on about obscure points of philosophy, I was more than content to keep Anne company.

It was not long before word came to us of a thwarted plot to bust the two Princes out of the Tower. The people involved included some minor members of Richard’s own household, which was not good for morale.

‘I hope this isn’t going to happen every week,’ said Anne. You would have thought, from her tone of voice, that it was all my fault.

‘You can expect every malcontent in England to make use of the boys,’ I replied, ‘just as they once made use of old Harry the Sixth. It’s in the way of nature. If you don’t like your king you cast around to see what else is available.’

‘That’s why deposed kings are usually murdered,’ Anne observed.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, remembering Mad Harry, who, it must be said, had been quite harmless in himself and yet still a potent threat to King Edward. ‘Yes, that’s quite true. But we’re dealing with young boys here, and taking them out would very bad for Richard’s image. Disastrous, in fact. Even then, you’d still be left with the five girls. Elizabeth, Cecily, Katherine, Anne and Bridget. How could he possibly slaughter all of them? Next, to be really safe, he’d have to do something with George’s son and daughter. And after that, he’d still have to pop over to Brittany to sort out Henry Tudor.’