Free Sacrifice by David Pilling

wants me to drive a knife into his heart, then I am his man,” James spat. Tyrrell laughed again.
       “No, no. His Majesty intends to enjoy a long and prosperous reign. First, however, he needs to rid himself of a certain inconvenience.”
       “What inconvenience?” James asked, intrigued despite himself.
       Tyrrell told him.
       “I thought your master was a subtle man,” James replied after a long moment, “but this is poor stuff. Go back and tell him that the years of captivity have not yet dulled my wits.”
       “You think he wishes to implicate you?” said Tyrrell, “not a bit of it. If the king wished you dead, Master Bolton, we would not be talking now. Remember the fate of Lord Hastings.”
       James stared at him, not knowing what to think. Could it be true? There was a certain dark logic to it all. Richard had already usurped his nephew’s throne. The next stage was to dispose of the boy, and his brother.
       He tried to think. It was surprisingly difficult. So many years of tedious routine, of talking to the same tiny handful of people, had caused his once-supple brain to rust.
       Richard was ruthless enough to send men to the block, with or without trial. Recent events had proved as much. But his own nephews? The eldest, Edward, was just twelve years old.
       The horror of it would shock Christendom. It didn’t shock James. Once, maybe, but there was nothing left of his old self. Years of festering hatred, and the all-consuming desire for revenge, had burned away the virtuous side of his character. 
       “I will return this evening,” said Tyrrell, “have an answer for me then.”
       “Wait,” said James as the other man turned to go, “if I do this thing, what will Richard give me in return?”
       “Why, your freedom. Such a great service demands no less.”
       James had thought as much, and said nothing more. Tyrrell gave another polite little bow and left him in peace.
       He did not return until just before midnight. James had spent the day in prayer and contemplation, and was ready for him.
       “Well?” asked Tyrrell, standing in the doorway. He wore a black cloak over his jack, with the hood pushed back.
       James nodded sharply. Tyrrell stood to one side and spread his hand to indicate the door and the dark stairwell beyond.
       “After you,” he said.
       They swiftly descended the winding stairs, lit at intervals by torches in sconces fixed to the walls. James half-expected to find armed men waiting at the bottom, to arrest him on a charge of treason and conspiracy to murder. There was no-one.
       “That way,” said Tyrrell in a low voice, pointing to his left, and the rugged silhouette of the Lanthorn Tower. The turret at the top of the tower was used as a beacon for ships approaching the palace at night. As usual, a light blazed from the turret. No challenge sounded from the battlements as James and Tyrrell crept past. 
       The night was warm, but James gave an involuntary shudder. They were approaching the Wakefield Tower, the largest in the palace after the White Tower, and the place where his beloved lord, King Henry VI, had met his end.
       “Of pure melancholy and displeasure,” he muttered under his breath.
       A fresh surge of hate spurred him on. The Yorkists may have claimed Henry died of displeasure, but in his heart James knew the truth. The old king was murdered, brutally done to death in his cell by King Edward’s assassins.
       Tyrrell took him towards a small postern gate on the eastern side of the tower. A torch burned in a bracket on the wall to the left of the gate, and a hooded and cloaked figure stood waiting in front of it. There were no guards.
       The figure was a giant, a clear foot taller than James, and broad as a barn door. 
       “Who’s this?” he hissed, glaring at Tyrrell.
       “Your companion in this work,” the other man replied curtly, “enough talk. Let us be doing.”