“Not each endeavour can be successful,” whispered the voice from the darkness, hidden around the next corner. “This came close. The next attempt will succeed.”
Ludovic stopped. It was not the hint of conspiracy that alarmed him. It was the familiarity of the voice.
Another voice, now almost as familiar. “But not too soon. The duke will be even closer watched. This has set us back three months at least.”
The shadows moved, restless echoes of figures streaking through the gloom. What lay around the corner sent out its own foretelling. A man’s long legged shade paced, then paused, then marched again.
“This was a perfect plan. Are we such fools, to fail and fail again?”
A third voice, less familiar. “His grace remains safe. While the king fears to execute him, we have not failed. We are all free to try again.”
“But Tudor will guess this was no accident. Will he send the duke to the Tower?”
And again extreme familiarity. “In the midst of his own Christmas celebrations? I doubt it. Tudor would be humiliated. He’s desperate to prove how insignificant this pretender is, to belittle him, not to admit he’s still plotting and on the verge of success.”
Ludovic walked abruptly around the corner and faced the startled silence of three men. He looked long at his brother, turned to the Earl of Berkhamstead, and then back again to Gerald. “What if I had been someone else?” he said. “It would not be your precious Duke of York sent to the Tower, it would be you.”
The sighs of relief could have put out the fire. “Thank God, Lu,” Gerald said. “But everything we do is a risk. You know that.”
No one carried a candle or torch, but the darkness was split. The moonlight slanted pale through the rows of narrow windows, a pearlised spy peeping intermittent, windswept clouds announcing rain in the night. The rain would be welcome, dousing the fire’s last embers.
“How much did you hear?” demanded the Earl of Berkhamstead. The men’s faces in the pale glimmer became more ghostly and fearful.
“Enough,” said Ludovic, “but nothing I didn’t already know or guess. Is there nowhere more private to discuss this business?”
“Because you intend joining us?” asked Gerald at once.
Ludovic shook his head. “No. Simply because I don’t want to attend your execution. Nor my own. But I admit I’ve a growing sympathy for this Duke of York you all follow.”
“I’ve taken a room in a hostelry by the river,” Gerald said. “Come to the Swan and Cygnet in the morning if you can get away. Is Father with you?”
“Of course. Did you think I’d voluntarily join this miserable rabble of a court unless dragged? But I go my own way. He won’t be watching me.”
William smiled. “I’ll be riding to the hostelry myself early tomorrow while the court sets out to hunt. Perhaps you’ll accompany me?”
The wet night turned to a bright dawn and the rising sun burnished the land. Wet palace stone gleamed and now the nearby forests themselves became glittering palaces. The nobles were already in their saddles, trumpets strident as the hunt moved forward. The Earl of Sumerford was hardly surprised when his son refused to join him, knowing his youngest boy as a surly and unwilling huntsman. But Ludovic and William were also mounted, though turning their horses away from the woods they trotted quickly down towards the sluggish ribbon of the open banked river.
The Swan and Cygnet was a quiet tavern, sufficiently far from the king’s palaces to be little used except by travellers, and its upper chambers were small though comfortable. On the table stood a large jug of ale and another of mulled wine. Four men sat around the table, the rumpled bed left in the shadow of its curtains. They were drinking and talking softly. Although unlikely to be overheard, some conversations are best kept low. Gerald said, “Very well. You won’t agree to join us. But you accept who he is then?”
Ludovic smiled, stretching his legs, and drank his ale slowly. “Yes, I accept it. I’ve seen the likeness, and the manners, and the elegance. And I’ve judged the absurdity of our Tudor king’s present desperate ambiguity.”
Gerald leaned forwards across the table. “Exactly. Tudor consistently tries to humiliate the duke, yet instead only proves his own fears. This enemy has twice led armed forces against the king and instigated rebellion both from abroad and within England, claiming nothing less than the throne itself. Dammit, he’s been officially crowned King Richard IV in Ireland. Any other leader would execute such an enemy immediately on capture. And Tudor is not known for his mercy. He tortured, hung and quartered twenty miserable rebels outside Exeter less than two months back. Yet he fears to execute the very man who led the rebels. Tudor proclaims this – Perkin Warbeck – a folly and a fraud, a lowly, piteous joke – yet instead treats him as a noble prize. Clearly, he knows full well who he is.”
Ludovic drained his cup. “And if your plots succeed and you set him free, what then? We have insurrection and the country split again by civil war. For what?”
There were four men around the table, their faces scorched by the blazing logs stacked along the hearth. The fourth man was known to Ludovic as Gerald’s squire and principal servant Roland, who now interrupted. “My lord, few will follow the Tudor king once they know a genuine alternative has risen. The king may claim loyalty through fear, but he is much hated through all of England. The lords will turn against him.”
“They’ve already proved otherwise,” Ludovic said, terse. “England may not love her Tudor king but he’s grown in power since ’85. His retaliations are famously severe and few lords will risk their necks following a foolish young man without experience or any taste for battle. Besides, it’s nearly fifteen years since this Duke of York was pronounced illegitimate and barred from succession. Do we know his story between then and now?”
“Indeed.” William sat back, chin to his chest and finger tips tented. “I told you some of it after you’d seen the likeness to Tudor’s son Henry the other day. King Edward IV’s two sons were housed in the royal apartments at the Tower after his death, but when proof was brought of their father’s bigamous marriage, they were set aside and Edward’s brother Richard was elected king in their place. But there were rebellions and risings from the boys’ Woodville family and their supporters. So constituting a danger and a focus for disruption and treachery, these illegitimate princes were closeted away, and few knew what had happened to them. Some assumed them quietly disposed of, murdered perhaps, and Tudor announced as much though had no way of knowing. Probably he hoped it, since they stood more in the way of his own claim than as any hindrance to the reigning King Richard. Some gossip spread though the public cared little. But the truth was quietly confided to the boys’ mother, the queen dowager Elizabeth, now Tudor’s mother-in-law. Discovering that her boys were safe, she came suddenly out of sanctuary and supported King Richard until the battle that deposed him.”
“Every man knows what happened at Bosworth,” Ludovic said. “Enough of past history. I was a child, but my family fought for King Richard. Which is why they’ve been so carefully loyal to Tudor ever since, in order to protect their interests after threat of attainder.” He smiled at Gerald. “All except my stubborn brother, that is. But now to the present. What of these murdered princes?”
“Never murdered of course. I’ve spoken at some length with the Duke of York,” William said. “He remembers being smuggled out of the Tower and down to the river one night, wrapped tight, taken aboard a ship, hustled below and ordered to stay quiet. His elder brother, having originally expected to be King Edward V and now indignant at his treatment, was taken aboard a different vessel, a grand carvel which sailed off first. Both ships and both boys were taken to Burgundy and put into the secret care of their aunt. The Duchess Margaret supervised their education, their health and their few careful companions, but all in private. The Duke of York was bare ten years of age, and remembers little else but confusion. He’d lost both parents and all the life he knew, first closeted in the Tower and then ab
road. But his aunt informed him that his exile from England was to forestall plots either to return the boys to the throne, or instead to murder them. Hence the secrecy, which continued.”
Gerald nodded fiercely. “It was King Richard’s most trusted servants who travelled frequently to Burgundy, being paid to ensure the boys’ wellbeing and safety. Francis Lovell of course, Sir Edward Brampton and in particular, Sir James Tyrell. But when the king was killed in battle and Henry Tudor sadly gained the throne, the danger to the young princes was considered far greater. The announcement of their bastardy being destroyed by Tudor, so the elder, now being the actual heir to the crown, supported and financed by Burgundy and others, returned here, via Ireland, to fight and gain back his country.”
“The Battle of Stoke? Yet if that was truly Edward V, why come under an assumed name? In Ireland they say he was crowned not as Edward V, but as Clarence’s son, in spite of knowing Clarence’s son to be in Tudor’s custody for years. Indeed, the poor wretch is still imprisoned in the Tower where he’s been held for years.” Ludovic shook his head. “The battle of Stoke was nearly won I gather, but to what avail?”
“The prince’s true identity was known to most, and in the end, to all.” William smiled. “Perhaps an incognito not so well designed, but a little subterfuge seemed a necessary protection in the beginning. Even the dowager queen knew it was her son who marched on her son-in-law, and she backed him with all her heart and all her money. Which is why she was quickly closeted invisible and penniless in a convent and permitted neither regular visitors nor correspondence. Poor lady. Henry Tudor does not forgive easily, not even his own wife’s mother.”
“Yet cannot bring himself to execute this latest prisoner, who is the greatest enemy of all.”
“Tudor was successful not only at the Battle of Stoke, though it was his lords who fought, and as at Bosworth, never lifted a sword himself, but was also successful with his propaganda afterwards. When informed that Prince Edward was dead, having been slaughtered during battle, he set up a child impostor, this Lambert Simnel, and claimed it was him all along and never any noble lord at all. Most of the common people believed it.”
“My father believed it,” said Ludovic.
“Of course he didn’t,” Gerald said at once. “He knew, as all the lords did, but could say nothing. They wished to say nothing, for since the true prince was dead – what point rebellion? But no lord believed that the royal houses of Burgundy, the dowager queen herself, and half the most powerful nobles of England, would risk their lives to fight for a little foolish boy, a ragamuffin scullion child set up to impersonate a prince. Of course Lambert Simnel was never the focus of any claim at all. He was Henry Tudor’s dupe, to make the failed rebels seem foolish, and belittle their cause forever. Which is why Lambert Simnel went unpunished, simply sent to work in the royal kitchens as a pot boy. For that, quite simply, is what he always was. The king has since promoted him – did you know? Now Simnel’s one of the king’s chief falconers. You credit the king with the grace to promote an enemy so powerfully supported that he nearly took the throne, and was the death of half the nobility of England? Of course not. The boy was an innocent lad, set up in secret by Tudor’s council to hide the truth.”
“I’m less interested in a dead prince,” Ludovic said. “Tell me about the living one.”
“You have seen the living prince yourself,” said his brother. “He is a gentle man, courageous and gracious.”
“But unhappily, no war monger,” said William, shaking his head. “On the first campaign in company with King James of Scotland, this prince we call Duke of York refused to continue while the Scots ravaged the land, stealing crops and assaulting any townsfolk who refused to supply free bed and supper. ‘I will not be party to my own people robbed and harried,’ he told them. ‘This is my England and I am their true king. I will not have them suffer for the passing of their own lord’s troops.’ Is that the natural response of an ignorant foreigner, of some peasant boy from Flanders?”
“And he stuck to his word, and the Scots turned back,” said Squire Roland. “But it was a shame, for it meant there was no invasion, and few admired him for what they called his weakness.”
“He dislikes the shedding of blood,” said Gerald.
“Both of others, and of his own, I gather,” said Ludovic. “I hear he deserted his own troops after the failure at Exeter. His loyal followers were hung, drawn and quartered. He abandoned them.”
Gerald hung his head, as if taking the shame on himself. “He is young and inexperienced. He could not face the terror and misery of leading his poor followers to certain slaughter, and also had his wife and son to consider. But he shows courage now. He suffers every humiliation set upon him, but remains always polite. He is never rude and has not one word of recrimination for all those scoffing lords who come to insult him, calling him Perkin and accusing him of treachery, ingratitude and lies. He smiles like the prince he is, simply turning his head graciously away, remaining always amicable. He is unstintingly charming. That is true courage, while his heart weeps within.”
“As I see it,” Ludovic smiled, “he has no choice. After surrendering in exchange for his life, he’s been forced to sign a series of ridiculous, humiliating and contradictory confessions, all presumably prepared by Tudor’s council and each more unbelievable than the one before. He signs ‘Warbeck’ as instructed, though knowing the signatures mean nothing of course, not being his own name. Yet he sold his pride to keep his head, and at least is now enjoying some small measure of comfort into the bargain.”
Gerald scowled. “Comfort? Are you mad? His lawful wife is taken from him, and addressed now always by her maiden name. His beloved son has been smuggled away, no one knows where. Is that comfort? And to walk the entire breadth of the city while the crowds jeered, peering down from their windows to spit; while the duke, a walking spectacle but head held high, was forced to deliver his own friend into the royal prison for the king’s cruel revenge.”
“I pity them both.” Ludovic stretched, refilling his cup. “It must be a misery I can barely comprehend. But he risked worse, coming to challenge a king known for inclemency and vengeance. Yet your duke is still, unaccountably, alive.”
William nodded. “With his bastardy now officially denied, he is the true Plantagenet heir, whether or not he is ready for kingship. He would learn quickly, with help and experience. And instead of a cold, hard and hated man, as meagre with his love as he is with money as he taxes and slaughters our countrymen, we would have a sweet natured king, a kind and pleasant man, who would love his people.”
“Then he’d be called a weak king,” said Ludovic, “by the very people enjoying his kindness.”
“I’d sooner have a weak king than a loathsome one without a drop of royal blood,” Gerald spat, also reaching for the ale jug. “This Tudor usurper is a much loathed creature. Can you imagine what sort of kings his children will make after him? And they say young Arthur is sickly. What if we have another Henry, this second son, the spoiled golden brat Harry? A Henry VIII to fear, I promise.”
“Harry? The people love him, because he’s the image of his grandfather, Edward IV.”
“And so is Richard, the Duke of York. For Edward IV was his father.”
Ludovic stood, crossing briefly to the fire. The hostelry’s casement windows were rattling, a squall blowing up from the river. He turned, facing the three men at the table. “I believe your Duke of York is who he says he is, but I will not join your conspiracies,” he said. “I’ve no wish to hurl this country back into war, and in any case, Tudor is too strong and would certainly be victorious as he was at Stoke. I like your Duke of York, and pity him. He’s a gentle man, and sweet natured, and perhaps even courageous in his own way. But if you push him into further insurrections, he will die young. I wish you luck, and him most of all. But I will not risk my neck for a cause I feel no passion for, nor put my life on the block because I pity a good man.”
Gerald sigh
ed. “Then just remember, you haven’t seen me, Lu. Especially as far as Father is concerned. I beg you to say nothing. I have not been here.”
“Don’t be a fool,” said Ludovic.
With their prince remaining captive in spite of the successful distraction of a widespread fire, three of the men still had much to discuss in seclusion. Ludovic rode back to Sheen Palace alone.
The sleet, furious and persistent, sped down the river’s valley, whistling sibilant through the wind. But Ludovic remained oblivious of the weather. He was thinking of Gerald, and the wretched young Duke of York whom the king had labelled foreigner and peasant. And he thought of the probable future and the various disasters which would likely follow the situation as he understood it. He was now also thinking, with an awful urgency, of what his other brother’s secret missions might entail. Secret monies and secret missions were the currency of Henry Tudor and his fears and suspicions. Ludovic wondered whether Brice was also involved in plots and spying, but just perhaps - since he clearly did not ally himself with Gerald - not against, but for the Tudor side.
Chapter Twelve
Returning from the tavern to the palace, a haze of swirling dirty mist engulfed the rain. The river carried its own weathers, and a clear day over the country could fade quickly into foggy ghosts over the sluggish polluted water. The bite of ocean gales swept up from the estuary, the bleak wetlands and submerged marshes with their wailing water birds and the heave of the tides. So the Thames and its banks slunk into a vague and threatening murk, a clutching invisibility lined with a bitter damp cold.
Ludovic, although not well used to London or its surrounding hamlets and suburbs, had always lived close to the seashore and the vagaries of the coastal cliffs. Never intimidated by cold, he now rode slowly back to Sheen, thinking of his brothers, and his king, and the madness of all men. The rain became silver filigree and the haze closed in.
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