MEMOIRS OF A TRAITOR

By Lee R. Levin

'Tomorrow they are going to chop off my head.'  Thus begins one of the most remarkable stories in the history of England.  Meet Sir William Stanley, a mere knight, caught up against his will in the Wars of the Roses, that peculiar time when the House of Lancaster and the House of York battled for decadea with the sole issue bei

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marian Levin
• Release date: Sep 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780983102779

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

They will be chopping my head off tomorrow. This knowledge makes sleep impossible. Rather than spending my last night writhing in unseemly terror, I choose to use my last hours recording the events that bring me to this sorry state. Besides, for me, after tomorrow, sleep will no longer be an issue. I only hope I have enough candles to last till dawn, for my story is a lengthy one.

On the one hand, who cares about my story? On the other, why not tell it? What else have I to do? And if not me, who else can possibly relate, with total truth, and nothing to gain, the ghastly events that have made and unmade kings, and now have brought me to my doom? I played a significant role in all this, and perhaps, though unlikely, these pages will help me be remembered when I am naught but dust.

This Tower dungeon into which they have so unseemly pitched me would make a hell-hole seem pleasant. And when I say ‘pitched’ I mean precisely that--I have bruises on my ribs that make even the slightest movement painful. It is only with the greatest effort that I conceal my agony from the warders-not giving them satisfaction is one of the few pleasures I can still wring from my pitiful condition.

I have fallen far from grace. My gaolers, being human, take pleasure in tormenting me. Everyone enjoys watching the patrician humbled.

King Henry says I am a traitor. He is right, of course. During my life I have turned my coat several times. The irony is that this time I have committed no treason, but will die for treason anyway. If there is treachery in my death, it is King Henry’s, not mine.

Forgive my ill manners. Allow me to introduce myself. I am William Stanley. Sir William Stanley. Sir! That is all. Just sir. Not a peer of the realm, unlike my brother Lord Thomas Stanley, who had the good fortune to precede me in birth. Am I jealous of Tom? Yes, of course I am. By mere accident of birth, he has everything, while I have naught but leftovers. We Stanleys have played the matrimonial game with great skill, hence, though Tom is only a baron, he has land enough to be an earl--vast estates throughout northwest England, and other lands besides. The nobility lusts for land far more than it lusts for women. Women are but a matter of barter. Land is forever.

Meanwhile I remain only a knight banneret--I, who both made and unmade a king! It is I, Sir William Stanley, who made Henry Tudor king of England at the battle of Bosworth Field, and, almost quite literally, struck the crown from the brow of Richard Crookback. Were it not for me, the man who now fancies himself Henry VII would be dead, Richard III living, and, doubtless, far more generous to me than Henry Tudor.

Henry could have endowed me with vast estates in return for my absolutely vital service to him. Oh, he gave me a little, but since the land he gave me was confiscated from his enemies, he could have been far more generous, considering he owes me his life.

King Henry has always been a pinchpenny. He only provided ten pounds sterling for Richard’s coffin. Ten pounds! Or so I am told. Perhaps the tale is false, though knowing Henry, it is believable. Now, admittedly, he might have given nothing, considering that Richard was his mortal enemy. But as long as he was making the gesture, if indeed he did, he ought to have been more generous.

If I am unkind to Henry, it is, I believe, reasonable, not only because of the way he treated me even before now, but because it is he who has ordered my head to be separated from my body on the morrow. Still, It could be worse. He could have ordered that I be hanged, drawn and quartered. That is the usual sentence imposed upon traitors. He has been kind to me on that score--perhaps in remembrance that it is only because of me that he now sits upon the throne. I do hate the thought of having my head struck from my body, impaled on a spike, and displayed for the edification of the mob that will doubtless find amusement by witnessing my execution. Still, that is certainly preferable to being hung almost to death, then cut down, and while alive, having my private parts struck from my body, my stomach cut open, my intestines yanked out, and my torso cut up into four pieces for exhibition, as a warning to others who might contemplate incurring the wrath of the king. Despite this courtesy to me, I shall not send him a note of thanks.

It is cold in this miserable Tower cell. It is even colder outside--it is, after all, February, and winter in England can be frigid. I take comfort in one small thing--when they come for me tomorrow, they will expect me to shiver, and will guffaw at my fear when I place my head on the block. I will disappoint them. I have grown used to the chill. Not only that, I have a fur jacket. Whatever flaws I have--and I have more than my share--cowardice is not one of them. I am, after all, a Stanley, and none of my ancestors--not a single one of them--has ever been attainted by the word coward. There is no way I will be the first.

It is impossible not to be pensive in my situation. Life is so peculiar. Take King Richard III for example, whose body now perhaps rests in the cheap coffin King Henry has provided for him. Or perhaps he has no coffin at all. He ruled as king for less than two years. Two years! And for that, oh, the things he did! It certainly gives one pause. He had a brilliant mind, I give him that. His deformed back might have caused lesser men to seek to hide in shame, to slink from the sunlight, even though his appearance was no fault of his own. Not Richard! He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was the crown. He got it, for all the good it did him. I am the man responsible for King Richard’s death. I should be a national hero. Instead, now I am here. Life has its ironies, that’s for sure.

But I am digressing, and I lack the time. In less than twenty-four hours, I will be gone. King Henry goes to bed late, and rises late. That is one small blessing. Because of that, my death will come in the afternoon, giving me a few more extraordinarily precious hours to complete this journal. I have plenty of paper. My wife Elizabeth brought it to me just this morning. Up until today I have been denied visitors--what a petty man King Henry is! I managed to bribe a guard to get a message to my wife about the paper, and also about candles, of which I fear she may have brought too few. We’ll see.

The paper is precious. It is the one thing about which the guardians of the Tower are most concerned. They search visitors carefully; they do not wish to have their imprisoned guests publishing reports that might cast them, or the king, in a bad light. Elizabeth took a certain risk in bringing it to me, but not all that much, given that bribery here in the Tower is usually extremely effective.

My parting with my wife, as you can imagine, was extremely painful. We tried to comfort each other, futilely. I am glad that my son and daughter were not allowed in. It was difficult enough with Elizabeth alone. How will they manage with me gone? I am a Stanley. Perhaps my brother will provide for them. Perhaps not. I am not certain on that score.

I understand why they are making things so difficult for me. Kings tend to take treason seriously. Once charged, it is almost impossible for a man to defend himself successfully. I, confined, am a perfect example.

To some extent my being here is of my doing. I had choices, I made decisions, with consequences I never anticipated. That is always the way of it, is it not?

Am I afraid of death? What man is not? At least it will be swift. That is something. I have fought on many battlefields, have seen many men die. I would not trade their manner of death for the one that awaits me. I have seen the horrors of butchery in more battles than probably any other man in England. It is hard to be objective about this sort of thing, but compared to some of the deaths I have witnessed. mine will be easy.

Enough of this. I have a tale to tell. Where to start? Not with my youth. I lack the time for all that. Perhaps I should best start with events surrounding the Battle of Blore Heath. That was back in 1459. I was in my early twenties. What did I know of life? I was callow. I believed all the verities I was taught, and had yet to learn the truth about human nature. I believed in honor, and loyalty, and chivalry, and justice. What did I know then?

Everything seems to unfold from the events I witnessed at Blore Heath. When you read the story--if these pages survive-you will, I feel certain, have less contempt for me.Was I a traitor? Yes, of course I was. More than once, depending on who does the judging. But what about all those ambitious, devious, crafty men amidst whom I found myself, who also only had an eye for their own advancement, even if it caused the death of other men far better than themselves?

As you shall see, perhaps only a very few of us should be judged harshly. Whether I am one of them I leave up to you. We had to make hard decisions, even if we would have preferred to stay clear of all the intrigues and machinations in which we were forced to play a part. We had to choose sides, in an endless conflict where right and wrong were irrelevant.

Given the selfishness of all those involved, what difference did it make to me whether I adhered to the red rose of Lancaster or the white rose of York? Lancaster and York, two different branches of the Plantagenet family, forced every noble in England to choose between them. Even though, being only a knight, I was not a nobleman myself, nonetheless as a Stanley I was drawn into the whole miserable cesspool. It was not long before I learned to make my decisions, my choices, based solely on what appeared to me most advantageous at the time. So did everyone else. As you read these pages, be honest. Given the circumstances in which I found myself, would you have acted otherwise?

CHAPTER TWO

Ilived in evil times. I have done evil things. This I freely concede. Others have done far worse. This of course matters not. As I have already said, I admit I would have done the same as they, if I had had the opportunity, and been of their higher, more exalted station. Given my current situation, it gives me solace to reflect that, despite my lowly estate I have left my mark upon the history of my native England. When the history of my times is written, my name will be there. How many men can say that? After all, since all men soon or late will meet the same destiny that I face on the morrow, I feel that is something.

So let us begin. I sit in the private audience room of brother Tom, in his palatial residence, Ravenswood, in Flint County. I received Tom’s urgent request to come here two days ago, and I complied immediately, even though that meant cancelling an assignation with one of the peasant girls on my property.

It took two full days on horseback to get here, so I had ample time to wonder what was so important. I could only speculate. Perhaps Tom has been able to secure some sinecure for me that will augment my pathetically small income. Perhaps, unlikely though it is, he is going to transfer a little more land to me. He certainly owns far more than he needs. So here I am.

I have always been puzzled by that name, Ravenswood. There certainly is no forest here any more, if ever there even was one, and I have never seen so much as a single raven. But no matter, I suppose. Ravenswood is enormously impressive, especially as the residence of a mere baron. Tom married well, matrimony being one thing we Stanleys do nicely.

Ravenswood is enormous--I suppose one hundred rooms, give or take one or two. It dominates the entire countryside, a hulking, mighty fortress proclaiming in cut sandstone the mighty power of the Stanleys. How many servants does it take to care for an estate like this? I have no idea. With his wife’s money, Tom can afford them.

He married at a price. His wife I do not care for. Neither does Tom. Eleanor is a Neville, one of the truly powerful families in England. She has nothing to commend her but her family connection. If she has friends, I know not whom they are. Her tongue is sharp as a snake’s, and every bit as poisonous. The only beautiful thing about her is the dowry she brought with her. She does not like me. But then, she does not like anyone.

Ravenswood is a gift bestowed on Tom upon his marriage. The Nevilles have more than one such, and I suppose this one was worth giving away if it meant getting rid of Eleanor. The walls are thick--how thick. I don’t know, precisely, but Tom has enough knights and men-at-arms at his disposal to easily defend this place against any who might cast a covetous eye upon it.

I cautioned Tom about making it so grand, to no avail. He keeps adding on, making it ever more imposing, more stout, more tempting to the avarice of neighboring earls and dukes who doubtless resent that a mere baron can have the nerve to own such a grand edifice. That’s Tom for you. He is ambitious, and forceful, but lacks subtlety of thought.

He sits across from me, in a gilt chair one could mistake for a throne. He takes airs, this brother of mine. Magnificently dressed, and bejeweled, he lords it over this place, whereas I, shabbily clad and totally unornamented, virtually disappear. We are almost the same age--he beat me to this world only by about a year, but that year makes all the difference. He is rich, and I am not. He is the first born son. Upon the death of our father, he inherited all; I nothing. That does not seem fair to me. I am certain that all second sons feel the same.

Tom, with his long, pointed nose, a family characteristic which I share with him, stares down that beak at me with that permanently superior look I have grown to resent intensely. Solidly built, with the dark, brooding countenance of a powerful no-nonsense sort of man, he has acquired arrogance along with the huge dowry he obtained from his wife. He now looks at me steadily, and frowns. In his left hand, holding a letter which he continues to look at with fierce concentration, he makes me very nervous, for whatever it is, I am sure I am part of it. Mustached and chin-bearded (which I do not find particularly attractive), he is more agitated than ever I have seen him before.

He waves the letter at me. Since as yet he has not given it to me, nor do I know whether or not he will, I cannot read it, but I do see the large red seal, and note the stiffness of the paper, which perhaps is parchment. Clearly, whatever it is, it is important.

The bill has come due, William, Tom intones, deeply disturbed. And now I must decide whether or not to pay it. It will be ruinously expensive.

He is distressed, that is obvious. Why? I’m certain I am about to learn. When I hear that word ‘expensive’ I know Tom will be dismayed, no matter what the document contains.

Stroking his chin, eyes troubled, he looks at me as though expecting me to say something, but I do not. I have absolutely no idea what is bothering him. But Tom being Tom, I know he will swiftly get to the point.

Do you know what is happening in this land? He points a finger straight at me, and I know I am about to be enlightened. Obviously, a rhetorical question. A great deal is always happening. Is he expecting an answer? I say nothing, and wait. And not for long.

Even you must have heard, he said, making no effort to hide the exasperation in his voice, Duke Richard is in rebellion against the king. He shook the letter in my face. King Henry commands my service. He requires of me nearly four hundred knights to put in the field to oppose Richard, plus a thousand archers and men at arms. At my expense, of course. We are nobility, Nobility of the Sword. We are obligated.

That was not true. Not true at all. Tom might be noble, but I, a mere knight, certainly am not. I have a strong feeling that in this instance that fact is going to make no difference.

He continued, clearly agitated, still stroking his beard, squinting, then pointing out the window. See, he said, with a sweeping gesture, talking more to himself than to me. "See there? Everywhere, as far as eye can see, the land belongs to me. Everyone thinks this residence, and all that land, belongs to me. But in truth they do not. I own it, but only conditionally. I am sworn to be the king’s servant, his vassal, to answer with arms and men when he calls me to duty, and to risk my life on the battlefield. If I fail, he can take all this from me. It is the price of nobility. This I would pay gladly, if the king’s quarrel makes any sense. But it does not. This king is not worth fighting for, let alone dying.

I cannot believe that the king is the son of Henry V. I cannot believe that the victor of Agincourt has a son like him. It makes me wonder if perhaps he is illegitimate, given what a weakling he is. He calls upon me to fight, to lead my men into combat. But who will follow this Henry into battle? Will he lead us? He huffed derisively. Not the Henry I know. He is no leader. All he is good for is reading books and raising taxes. Yet he puts me in an impossible position. I do not want to fight against Richard of York. I understand Richard’s frustration with the king. I sympathize. I feel the same way. Yet to fight the king is treason. And if I do nothing at all, if it comes to armed conflict, the victor will turn on me, no matter who wins. Three choices, all of them bad. Fight for the king. Fight for Richard. Do nothing. He waved the letter again. Yes, the bill has come due. But how shall I pay it?

He saw the rather indifferent look on my face. It clearly annoyed him. I rather enjoyed annoying Tom. I was something of a know-it-all then. No longer. Life has changed me, that’s for certain.

William, he nearly shouted, and his exasperation made me smile, you are ignorant. You know nothing. You spend your life drinking and gambling and carousing and pay no attention to anything except for your tiny little empty world. Well, the world has caught up with you.

That was not fair. I seldom gambled. But yes, I paid little attention to affairs of state. I was young then, my land was lightly taxed. What transpired with the ruling class had no interest for me. After all, what could I, a mere knight, do about anything?

He paused, now staring at me intently, like a schoolmaster. I summoned you here to a purpose, he continued gravely. Summoned! I scowled. He had sent for me to come here, true. But summoned? Who does he think he is? I am his brother. That is the way he thinks now that he is the master of Ravenswood.

This matter affects you, just as much as me. You are a Stanley too. Whatever action I take, you are part of it, whether you like it or not. Rebellion has come. No matter which side I choose, you will be leading a contingent of my forces. It won’t be just my life at risk, it will be yours also. So remove that annoying smile from your face and pay attention!

I began seeing where all of this was going. I was shocked. Of all my speculations, this had not been one of them. I indeed ceased smiling. This was serious.

Give me a little time for thought, I replied, rather sharply. I didn’t like what I was hearing. Listen to what you are telling me. You say I must hazard my life in a course of action that has no consequence for me personally. For you, yes. But not for me. Well, I’m not as totally uninformed as you think. For me there is much to lose in all this, and nothing to gain. To die fighting enemies of England is one thing. But this rebellion? It is simply a feud between the Percys and the Nevilles. You are married to a Neville. I am not. This quarrel is none of my affair. Laying down my life--or perhaps killing other men--to settle an issue between rival Plantagenet families is ridiculous. This is simply a wrangle between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians. If the Duke of York wants the crown, what do I care? I know he says King Henry is mentally infirm and unfit to rule. That may be true, but it is no concern of mine. You are noble. I am not. I want no part in any of this.

Tom favored me with a look like a dagger. I felt certain that, were he armed, he would strike me through and through with his sword and end the discussion instantly. I have never seen him so angry. Never. I suspect it was not just what I said, but the rather supercilious way I said it.

You know nothing at all! he screamed, half-rising from his chair, face empurpled, eyes bulging. I scarce recognized him.

You understand nothing at all! he hissed again. Or do you simply not want to understand? And wipe that ridiculous look from your face! Have you not heard a word I’ve said? Our lives and our fortunes are at stake no matter what we do. We are caught up in all this whether we like it or no. And note, I say we. You as much as me, though I have far more at stake.

He shook the king’s letter at me. You are such a fool, William. You’ve never taken anything seriously in your life. It is well that I am master of Ravenswood and you are not. I have given you lands, William. They may not be grand, but they are yours. I did not have to do this, but nonetheless, they now belong to you. Whether we like it or not, we must choose sides. We walk barefoot on a sword’s edge, and must jump off, one way or the other. We must be Yorkists or Lancastrians. If we choose the losing side, everything we own will be taken from us by attainder, and probably our lives as well. Think upon it carefully. Standing aside is out of the question. The winner will seize everything we possess and give it to those who fought on their side. As a Stanley, if we choose wrong, your life, and your land, will be as much at risk as mine.

Brother Tom was right about one thing. He had bestowed me with property, more than he had any obligation to do. Unlike here at Ravenswood, I could not look out a window of my property and see land I owned far as the eye could see. As a matter of fact, looking out my window I could see only a small amount of arable land, and little to boast about. The land Tom had given me was rocky, poor and of little value. It was not connected to his. My soil was scarce suitable for cultivation. It brought in little income. Still, it was mine.

He was wrong about our situations being identical, other than that if it came to battle, each of our lives would be in peril. Being Lord Stanley, with vast estates, he had a gigantic amount to lose. Or, if he chose sides correctly, perhaps to gain. The losers’ lands would be forfeit and given to the winners. I, on the other hand, would gain nothing no matter who won in this stupid affair, and could lose my life as well. The thought was sobering. For the first time in my life I had to start acting like a man. For me, being a Stanley was all peril and no gain.

I knew little about the details surrounding the issues for which Tom now says I must risk everything, whether or not I want to. The king has called Tom, and Tom has called me. I am caught up in a quarrel that does not concern me, but which I cannot evade. I may only be a knight, but my obligation is as binding as Tom’s. Knowing Tom, I’m sure he will clarify all for me, as far as our options are concerned, once he gets over his outrage which, now that I am better informed, I realize he has every right to feel. We are all pledged to higher lords by oaths of fealty. They are under no obligation to explain; they call us to our duty and we must go, and the penalty for failure to do so is drastic and certain.

I had always known all this. It is only that I had never really thought about it before. Now it is perfectly clear that my days of idleness and unconcern are over.

CHAPTER THREE

When Tom called me here I had no idea what was on his mind. Now I knew, and did not care for the knowledge. All the nobility of England were being drawn against their will into a struggle that meant nothing to any except those at the very top. This I resented, with nothing I could do about it. Thousands would be drawn in because their lords summoned them. The lords would make their decisions based on their own personal interests and ambitions. Fight for King Henry or fight for the Duke of York, both Plantagenets, one of the House of Lancaster, one of the House of York. What a peculiar way to govern a country.

I was so callow then. So young, so naive. What did I know? Nothing, really. But I thought I knew everything. I had never been to war before, nor had any desire to do so. But as a knight I have obligations, as does Tom. Now I was going to have to grow up, and fast. My days of snide flippancy are over, like it or not.

I had all the equipment required of a knight, including armor and stables holding strong, powerful horses. I must acknowledge that Tom has done well by me--my armor is superbly well made, purchased by Tom from the same craftsmen that manufactured his, and fully equal to his in protection of the body, though not, of course, as elaborately embossed and engraved. I like to think he bought my splendid armor out of love for me, although probably it was because as a Stanley he did not want me appearing in inferior kit. His vanity is touchy about this sort of thing.

I ride horse well--who cannot?--and my animals are reasonably well trained, but I have never involved myself in military exercises. I do not joust--I would not want to damage my expensive armor, and for the same reason, have not engaged in similar type practices on foot with maces and battle-axes.

Tom is obviously unhappy with me. He has every reason to be. Nearly all my life I have been cheeky, irreverent. Those who are second