Sons Of York by Grant Ade

Author:Grant, Ade [Grant, Ade]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Ade Grant
Published: 2015-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

The courtyard, usually bustling with as much activity as the city beyond its walls, was strangely quiet. Word had preceded the funeral procession and by the time Hastings and his captors emerged from the White Tower all those who could make themselves scarce had done so. Witnessing an execution was usually popular sport, but William Hastings was well liked throughout the land, and Richard’s wrath feared as far.

In contrast to the abandoned courtyard, London went on undisturbed. The distant ringing of bells and braying of beasts drifted over the walls. Richard wondered how sound could penetrate the stench of the place, a thick cloying cloud of stink that inhabited every last breath in this cramped city, a miasma that no amount of oils and herbs could dismiss. It was not so in the north. There, chill air kept such pestilence in check.

The green was situated to the north, outside the church of St Peter Ad Vincula. Richard led the way, pointing to an exact spot. ‘Here,’ he said, gesturing towards the church. ‘Let God look upon us and see that this is justice.’

Fear not, Richard. God shall see.

‘Yes,’ he said, agreeing with the voice that no-one could hear. ‘God knows that I would have it any other way. This is your doing, William, not mine.’

Hastings nodded, eyes pleading. ‘Of course, Richard. Of course this is not how you’d have it. There is still time to find a better way.’

Back in York, Richard had been notorious for his sense of justice, the rule of law, the importance of a defence fairly heard. So strange that here he was, discarding that reputation like a Roman dictator of old, and not even to slay an enemy, but to condemn a friend.

‘We are out of time, William,’ he said in a voice little more than a whisper. ‘But put your faith in me and I can spare you. Think on what we spoke.’

Hastings pulled back, his features hardened. ‘You may have lost your way. I have not.’

‘Very well,’ Richard said. ‘Death it is.’

‘Might I be permitted a priest? I believe I have the right to confess my sins and cleanse my soul before I go.’

No good can come of this, Richard.

‘A confession?’ He hadn’t figured of that. He’d been so keen to keep the man from speaking at a trial that he hadn’t contemplated what might be uttered to a priest. If allowed to converse, however briefly, what secrets could he spill? ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think not.’

Hastings sagged. The man knew he was facing death, had been ever since the two men had sparred with words the previous night, but to die with a stain upon the soul? It was a betrayal even he had not foreseen.

Be brave my son, his mother had told him as Richard pulled at her arm and pleaded for them to hide. So desperate for her to agree, the young boy had listed off every secret hidey-hole he’d gathered, giving up all his prized secret passageways. His mother had remained resolute in the face of his tears.

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