An execution on All Soul's Day

I am a day late; sorry. On November 2nd in 1483, the Duke of Buckingham was executed in Salisbury after his rebellion failed. I wrote a scene in Sunne in which Richard received word of his death. I could have set it anywhere in the city, but because I thought Salisbury Cathedral was so beautiful, I chose to set it in the cloisters there, a deceptively peaceful place given the turmoil in Richard’s life.
The Sunne in Splendour, pages 1037-1039
* * * * *
Shaded by cedar trees, bathed in blinding sunlight, the cloisters of St Mary’s offered a refuge of awesome beauty, an almost unearthly quiet. Richard was seated on a bench in the south walkway; he looked up as they approached, rose to his feet.
By comment consent, they all moved up the east walkway, sought the greater privacy of the chapter house. Richard waited until Francis had closed the door and then said only, “It is done?”
Francis nodded, waited for questions that didn’t come. (omission) “Will Hastings tried to warn me,” Richard said at last, not looking at either man as he spoke. “He told me I was a fool to trust Buckingham. ‘Ned made more than his share of mistakes,’ he said, ‘but Bucking-ham was not one of them.’ Buckingham, he said, was mine.”
It was the first time in more than four months that Francis could recall Richard mentioning Will Hastings’s name, a stark silence dating from that June day when he’d summarily ordered Hastings to his death. Francis drew a quick breath, said, “Christ, Dickon, Hastings was jealous of Buckingham, that’s all! He did not have second sight, did not suspect any more than the rest of us what Buckingham had in mind. He was right about Buckingham, but for the wrong reasons.”
“If truth be told,” Jack interrupted, “none of us had much liking for the man. But it is one thing to dislike a man for his arrogance, for the way power seemed to have gone to his head, and quite another to think him capable of treason, of child-murder. You cannot blame yourself because you trusted the man. He’d given you reason for trust, after all.”
“Yes,” Richard said tonelessly, “I trusted him. And because I did, my brother’s sons are dead.” He turned to face them both, saw that neither one knew how to answer him. “Tell me,” he said abruptly. “Tell me how he died, Francis.”
“Badly.” Francis made an involuntary grimace. “Very badly. Right up to the time he was taken out to the block, he kept begging for an audience with you, though what in God’s name he thought that would accomplish….”
(Omission.)
“I told him there was no way on God’s earth you’d ever consent to see him and he….well, he forgot all pride, all dignity.” A shadow of distaste crossed Francis’s face, bordering on revulsion. “I’ve never seen a man show his fear so nakedly,” he said slowly.
“Does that surprise you so much, Francis? After all, the man knew he was facing eternal damnation. Would you not be fearful to go before the Throne of God with so great a sin on your soul?”
Francis was shaking his head. “No, Jack,” he said thoughtfully, “I do not think it was that sort of fear. It seemed to be purely physical, a fear of the axe, of death itself. When he saw there was no hope, he began to plead for time, for a day’s grace. He reminded the priests that it was All Soul’s Day, entreated them to intercede with you, Dickon, to persuade you to postpone the execution until the morrow.”
“Did he, by God?” Richard was staring at Francis. “And that is all today did mean to him….that it is All Soul’s Day?”
Francis was at a loss. “Dickon?”
Richard turned away. He could feel it starting to slip, the rigid self-control he’d been clinging to these past three weeks, and he bit down now on his lower lip until he tasted blood.
“Today,” he said unevenly, “would have been Edward’s thirteenth birthday.”
* * *