Free Sacrifice by David Pilling Page A

James detected a slight unease in Tyrrell’s gentle voice. He was human, then. It would take a rare kind of man to remain totally unaffected.
       The giant stood aside as they approached the gate. James caught a glimpse of a smashed grey face under the hood, and a leather patch over one eye. The other shone in the torchlight like a doorway to Hell.
       Some condemned criminal, he reckoned, promised a pardon in return for performing one terrible deed. Or else an old Lancastrian soldier, willing, like James, to stoop to murder if it meant causing injury to the House of York.  
       Tyrrell pushed open the gate and beckoned the others inside. A darkened stair lay beyond.
       As they climbed the steps, James strained to recall what he knew of the layout of the Tower. The postern gate was one of two that allowed private access to the royal apartments on the upper floors of the Wakefield Tower. For one heart-stopping moment he thought they were going to see King Richard, but remembered Richard was not in residence.
       Not King Richard , he reminded himself, Richard of Gloucester. Richard Plantagenet. Second in the line of Yorkist usurpers. God grant he will be the last. 
       The door on the first floor of the tower was guarded by a single halberdier in royal livery. He stared straight ahead, silent and unblinking, as Tyrrell unlocked the door and led his companions into the round chamber beyond. A guardroom, judging from the weapons hanging in racks on the walls. Benches were stacked to one side, along with a trestle table. A set of dice, four neatly piled wooden bowls and an empty pewter jug sat on a shelf beside the arrow-slit window.
       All has been arranged , James thought grimly. The guard on the door was evidently one of Richard’s trusted retainers, guaranteed to see or hear nothing.
       The far door led to a narrow passage with a timber floor. A series of arrow-slits to the left overlooked Saint Thomas’ Tower and the gatehouse leading to the river. The three men filed in silence along the passage and through an archway to a small antechamber.
       James reckoned they were now on the first floor of the old water gate tower, known as The Garden Tower.
       “They are above us,” whispered Tyrrell, nodding at a doorway leading off from the antechamber, “the door to their bedchamber is unlocked. I saw to that.”
       “I have no weapon,” James hissed back. He glanced at the giant, and saw he was also unarmed.
       Tyrrell gave a dry little chuckle. “Of course not. There are to be no marks, you understand? It must be clean.”
       “Clean? There is nothing clean about this.”
       “You are wrong. My hands will remain spotless, and so will the king’s. Go to it.”
       James felt a flicker of hesitation. He had craved revenge on the Yorkists, begged and pleaded with God for a chance to strike his blow, but never imagined this.
       Too late. He was committed now, body and soul. The giant was already tramping up the steps with slow, heavy footfalls. His big hands twitched slightly as they hung listlessly by his sides, his only sign of nerves.
       With a final glance at Tyrrell, James followed.
       The stair ended at a black door. His companion halted and slowly reached out one long arm to push it open.
       Pitch darkness lay beyond, and silence, punctuated by the sound of two boys breathing peacefully in their sleep. 
       James stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
       Afterwards, he descended with the lifeless body of Richard of York slung over his shoulder. The giant carried the slightly heavier form of Prince Edward.
       They found Tyrrell waiting for them, along with four other men. All five held daggers. Steel breastplates glinted under the cloaks of Tyrrell’s companions.
       “Put the bodies down,” Tyrrell ordered, “we shall dispose of them.”
       James did as he was told, and carefully laid Prince Richard’s corpse on the bare stone floor. A