“I shall have only the captured leaders executed, all the rest, the commoners, are pardoned. Let them go back to their homes with my blessing,” Richard told his new constable, Sir Ralph Assheton. “It was always my brother’s custom to spare the commoners.”

Two days later, on All Hallow’s Eve, as news of the fate of the other rebel leaders filtered into Richard’s council chamber in the cathedral close and after ten executions had taken place, Francis barged into the room to announce: “Buckingham is taken, he is being led to gaol as I speak!”

Richard leaped out of his seat, elated. “Where was he found? Who can I reward?”

How glad was Richard to discover that Buckingham in his turn had been betrayed. “Now perhaps you know how it feels, Harry,” Richard muttered under his breath, “and how fitting it was done by a servant.” He turned to Assheton. “You will try him on the morrow and give me a report. I have no doubt his lordship will wet the axeman’s blade before this week is out.” This time, there would be no quibbling as to the king’s meaning.

Any mercy for his cousin Richard may have held in his heart was expunged when he heard that it had taken only the threat of torture to convince Harry to deliver up his fellow rebels. Richard felt relieved and disgusted. Harry begged his guards to take him to the king, and when Richard refused to see him, Harry then sent his cousin a pathetic, pleading letter.

I appeal to your goodness, your mercy and your renowned sense of justice to spare my life, Cousin. I pray you remember our friendship, my invaluable support, and our many shared ventures on your path to the crown. Have you forgotten our shared blood? I beg of you to reconsider having my death stain your conscience…

That was enough reading for Richard. Damn you, Harry, murderer of children, he thought, if you believe I will count your traitorous death among my many sins, you are even more foolish than I now know you are. And he flung the letter into the fire.

The garrulous, vain and once-powerful duke of Buckingham was led to the scaffold the very next day. Visibly terrified and surrounded by jeering townspeople, he stumbled up the hastily constructed stairs to face the hooded executioner. Shivering in his fine lawn shirt against the cold November air, he fell on his knees to be shriven by the priest before gingerly placing his neck upon the block. His treasured glossy curls, always so meticulously coiffed, fell over his face, hiding his shameful tears. Then his nerves took hold of his body, and a guard had to steady him as the axe was swung high and swiftly brought down to end Henry Stafford’s faithless life.

Watching from a window, Richard did not flinch.

With the rebellion quelled, Richard turned to governing in earnest. He first sent out a summons to all the lords and commons to convene at Westminster for a session of Parliament in late January.