“I remember. Fifteen years back King Richard sent the boy north in state to Sheriff Hutton castle with the other young Plantagenet heirs. But less than a day after claiming victory at Bosworth, Tudor sent for Warwick and put him under guard. The priorities of a usurper.” Ludovic shrugged. “It stands to reason for a man terrified of any challenge to a crown he knows he doesn’t wear by right.”
The Earl of Berkhamstead began pacing the marble slabs. “Well, Warwick’s a grown man now, poor miserable wretch. Caged all alone for many a long desolate year in the Lanthorn, but now at last has a new neighbour. They’re cousins of course, and they’ve found a way of conversing through the floor. Over the months Warwick’s scraped a crack between the stones, for he has the quarters directly above. Whispering, one with his ear to the ground, the other standing on a stool and muttering to the ceiling. They use the windows too, one above the other, and pass messages tied to cord. At least they have a semblance of company now.”
“Dangerous,” nodded Ludovic. “They’ll be accused of plotting.”
“I’ve been there,” said Berkhamstead abruptly. “Poor bastards have no hope of escape. It’s not plotting they yearn for, its friendship. Warwick has gone a little simple I’m afraid, but after twelve years in solitary confinement that’s hardly surprising. He was only a child when he was taken. Yet he’s a good natured boy, just desperately lonely. No Christian king would treat a pig that way let alone a young noble of the realm, guilty of no crime except his parentage.” The earl shrugged. “What can I say? I’d creep in and strangle this Tudor bastard myself if I could get away with it, but all I could manage was visiting the Tower under a pretext to take books and ink, helping alleviate some of that terrible boredom.”
“Good of you. But risky. Will get your name on the list of future suspects when something goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong. Nothing can be done to help either of them now. I got permission to visit by saying I’d sworn an oath to thank the Lord for my marriage, and this was my penance. The marriage is well worth an honest thank you, come to think of it. Sadly, she comes from a prominent Lancastrian family loyal to the Tudor cause. I don’t like that, but it helps with my own security. And tell the truth, Gwennie herself doesn’t know a York rose from a Lancastrian forget-me-not.”
Ludovic strolled towards the chapel doors. “Well, I wish you good luck, prosperity and ten sons,” he said. “But I’m getting Gerry out of the country next week, as soon as I can arrange a berth for him. No doubt I’ll see you again before I set off back home.”
“Give Gerald my regards,” William said, following and closing the chapel doors with a grind. “Tell him to kiss Maximilian’s hand for me.” He grinned as Ludovic frowned. “Yes, yes, I know. That’s not why or where you’re sending him away, but I promise that’s where he’ll end up. Gerald won’t give in yet, and Maximilian’s still Prince Richard’s strongest foreign supporter.”
They separated beyond the small courtyard, Lord William hurrying back to his wife and Ludovic heading out towards the Palace stables to collect his sword and horse. It was around the last corner that Ludovic saw a familiar figure once again. The same silks, gilt on shadowed vermillion and sleeves trailing in sable glory. The same red hair. A short man, but self-assured with a firm stride and a straight back. Brice was not in Flanders yet after all.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The wharves were humming, puddled and rank. The great wooden cranes squeaked and whined in the wind, hoisting the bundles from the ship’s streaming decks to the soggy land. Ludovic kept back, avoiding the scramble and heave. It had stopped raining over the two previous days but the wind still swept bitter up from the sea, and the Thames was turbulent with a threat of ice forming in the stagnant angles behind the berths and the bobbing piers.
Over the past eight days Ludovic had come five times to St. Katherine’s, waiting for The Fair Rouncie to sail upriver into London with its cargo of alum and rich dyed and woven wool. But she was late. Tempests at sea accounted for many ships delayed, but tempests at sea might also mean the ship never came to port ever again.
On the ninth day Ludovic sighed with relief. He first heard the news at The Nest, the sailor’s taverns always busy with information and as tight packed with gossip as with squabbles. Still with no sign of his ship, Ludovic ordered hot beer spiced and gingered, and was told, as usual, what ships had docked and which were due. “The Fair Rouncie’s been sighted, my lord. ’Twas her, as you was asking of yesterday, if I remember rightly my lord.”
Ludovic drank his beer and hurried outside. He recognised the single mast waiting out in the mid-river queue for docking. The old cog still had the custom’s tug alongside, and Kenelm was no doubt busy bribing its officer. There would be a long wait. Ludovic wandered back into The Nest, sat down and ordered mulled wine.
He found Clovis first. The boy had been sent ashore to work out a deal with the hoistmen, and had chosen the same tavern for a quick cup of ale before business, breaking into the coin given him for bribery and barter. Ludovic saw him scamper in and, taking his own cup with him, came out of the long shadows, catching hold of the boy. Clovis wriggled, expecting trouble.
“I ain’t done nuffing,” Clovis complained, attempting to peer back over his shoulder at who had grabbed him, while trying not to spill his ale. “And if I done it, it ain’t my fault.”
Ludovic grinned. “I doubt if you have ever done nuffing in your miserable life, brat. And inevitably, most of it is assuredly your fault. However, I’m not here either to arrest or beat you, though no doubt you deserve both.”
Clovis twisted around in delight. “Didn’ expect you, m’lor. Fort you was back in Somerset. Captin’s still onboard, he is, but we’ll be docking afore sun down and he’ll be as surprised to see your lordship as I is.”
“It’s two months I’ve been waiting for both of you. My original need is superseded and now there’s a new plan, but the details can wait until Kenelm comes ashore.” Ludovic shook his head, regarding the small urchin now beaming up at him, and smelling distinctly of brine and grime. “Are you capable of getting all the way back to Somerset on your own, child?”
Clovis frowned. “Reckon I could. Might take a week or more, though, ‘pending on transport. Wot’s it worth?”
“I need you back at the castle,” Ludovic said. “But I’ll explain everything once I see your uncle. Go finish your own business, then tell Kenelm I’m here waiting for him.”
It was a different tavern later that afternoon, sitting around a small table in the back room with two jugs of ale and the sun slipping low towards a winter’s early evening. “It turned out a longer trip than we meant, my lord,” apologised the captain, draining his cup. “Good business, mind you, with a fair profit already done the other end, though I had to wait for it, and another expected this end. Was worth the wait. You’ll be proper pleased, my lord, I can promise you that.”
“But you might not be,” said Ludovic, low voiced. “For I’ve a favour to ask, and one I expect you to grant. It’s of considerable importance to me, or I’d not ask.”
Kenelm beamed. Clovis, uninterested, remained nose deep in his cup. “I’d not be refusing any favour you asked of me my lord,” said the captain. “And that you know.”
“To go straight back out to sea,” said Ludovic abruptly. “It’s winter, the weather is treacherous, and you’ve just set foot on land after a long time away. Your family is waiting, your comfortable home and a soft warm bed. So I’ve an idea how wretched my request will seem, but as I say, it’s important. I apologise, and you can refuse if you must, but my brother’s life may depend on your answer. He must go to Flanders, no further, but within the week if possible.”
Kenelm groaned. “I’d refuse you nothing, my lord, but the poor old girl needs a good scrub, and is running mighty sluggish to the windward with her arse deep crusted in barnacles and worse. I’d planned on having her careened and left here till next spring. Can your brother not wait, my lord?�
�
“This is not a simple matter of smuggling, Kenelm, with only putting ourselves at risk of a fine or a few months locked up in the Marshalsea waiting on trial. This is a whole different matter, my friend. My brother must be got out of the country or risks his life, nothing less. I’d have liked him gone before now, but regular trade’s closed up for the winter and I can’t buy an honest berth before spring. My other ship’s already in Italy and Hussey’s expected to lie in the dry docks at Genoa till March, so he won’t be back. As for the rest of the ships plying for human cargo, my urgency looks immediately suspicious, and I’ve no other contacts, even for bribery. Besides, bribery has become such a normal part of business here, it no longer buys any privilege. So I need you, my friend, with no other to ask.” Ludovic refilled all three cups. “I’ll pay well, which you’d naturally expect, but I’ll also pay in full for the hull’s careening when you get back.” He sighed, sipping his wine. “Meanwhile, I want the boy for something quite different,” he continued. “He can’t sail with you.”
“Well now,” smiled the captain. “Don’t reckon I’ll miss him. So we’d best get down to business right away, my lord, being as it’s urgent. Now you tell us both exactly what it is you want.”
Ludovic brought Gerald to meet Captain Kenelm that evening. It was a third tavern, this one in the north of London, intentionally well away from both the docks and the lodgings at The Horn. Gerald bubbled, almost absurdly excited. He had never travelled abroad before, and was hatching a nest of ready plans. Ludovic was simply tired. He ordered a jug of Burgundy.
“Not as fine as what we brought in ourselves during the blockade, my lord,” Kenelem sniffed, tasting the wine. “Seems the legal stuff Burgundy sells us, is a right inferior sup.”
“They’ve a lot more customers to satisfy now,” Ludovic said, draining his own cup without complaint and immediately refilling it. “During the embargo we were able to pay for the best, since the Burgundian vintners had few other ways of doing business.”
Gerald listened with an avid interest and a wide grin. “So that’s how you make your mysterious wealth, Lu,” he said. “Is Brice in it with you?”
“No, he damn well isn’t,” said Ludovic. “He has his own game, which I often wonder about and intend finding out one day soon. But for the moment, with the sanctions lifted, our business is back to boringly legal and far less profit.”
“Except for the alum, that is,” added the captain obligingly. “Papacy has a monopoly. We don’t take no notice of that of course. His lordship’s idea it was, since I didn’t have not breath nor hide of what alum were. And a fine bugger of an idea too. Done us proud this past few months.”
“Thank you, Kenelm,” said Ludovic. “Please feel free to discuss all the details of our secret business with whomever you wish.”
The captain coloured. “’Tis your brother, my lord. Reckon I never thought -”
“Never thought indeed,” Ludovic sighed. “It’s my brother’s life and freedom I’m trying to preserve, but I prefer you not to ensure my own arrest while at it.” He turned to Gerald. “Brice is now supposedly arranging a place for you in Flanders. The inestimable Duchess Margaret already has a court full of English refugees, so you can join them and all plot cheerfully together for all I care. The good captain will take you there, Gerry, leaving in five days' time. Unfortunately, it cannot be arranged sooner since the ship has barely docked an hour back and half the cargo is still to be unloaded.” Ludovic grinned, looking to the captain and then back to his brother. “This poor man has barely had time to breathe the noxious fumes of dry land after returning from his last trip. He was dreaming of his good sister’s wholesome home cooking, until I demanded he risk his life and his cog back on the chilly ocean waves yet again. I hope you appreciate the magnanimity of the situation?”
Gerald chuckled. The captain remained faintly puzzled. “Just doing a favour, as it happens,” he said, hesitant. “Happy to oblige, and for a fee such as you’ve promised my lord, well there’s not a pirate on the high seas would turn you down.”
“Paying a handsome price to get rid of me, are you?” smiled Gerald. “I’d sooner you give it for the cause.”
“This is my cause,” said Ludovic. “I want you safe out of England and out of Tudor’s grasp until all suspicions are forgotten. And once I know Kenelm is about to slip his ropes, I’ll give you a fair purse to you set up your new life. Not before, so don’t bother asking. I daren’t even buy you a new doublet until the last moment, for fear you’ll sell it.”
“Your lordship is right welcome to my cabin of course,” said the captain, complacent. “But it’s tight for me, and I reckon you’re a mite taller.”
“Just pray for fair weather,” smiled Ludovic.
“In December?”
“Well, ask for a bucket then, and pray for strong winds to blow you fast through the fogs and ferments.”
“One thing,” nodded the captain, “surely ain’t likely to get becalmed.”
With a smart new hooded cape over his shoulders and a hundred promises made and repeated, Clovis set off the next morning for Sumerford. A ride in a carrier’s cart all the way to Exeter was already paid for, and a small purse tied to Clovis’s belt, sufficient for three days’ food, a possible overnight lodging if it rained or snowed, and to allow for a lift in any other cart that happened past Exeter in the direction of Sumerford. Silently repeating the list of specific orders both for the journey and for arrival, Clovis climbed on the back of the cart, shoved the wooden crates and parcels out of the way, and unwrapped his bread and cheese.
Gerald was finishing his breakfast, feet up on the table, ankles crossed. He lurched forwards as Ludovic strode back into the chamber. “Good God, Lu, can’t you announce yourself before you march in?” Gerald complained.
“You’ve got remarkably jumpy,” Ludovic pointed out. “Do you know something you’re not telling me, big brother?”
Gerald smiled. “Nothing. Well, not much. But there’s been rumours of course.” He finished the crumbs in his mouth with a cough. “I did think someone had seen me hammering a paper to St. Olave’s doors, and had to slip away quick. But that was the advantage of Southwark you know. Not much interest in supporting the king there, and not much interest in the law either. The place is more full of criminals and cutpurses than Newgate goal.”
“Berkhamstead seems to think you’re in no particular danger,” Ludovic nodded. “Brice thought otherwise.”
“Not like Brice to make a fuss about nothing,” Gerald conceded, breaking the manchet roll in two pieces. He cradled a wedge of salt pork between them, and stuffed the entirety in his mouth.
“So you know full well you’re under specific suspicion?”
“I’m accepting being hustled out of the country, aren’t I?”
Ludovic stretched his own legs up onto the table, and clasping his hands behind his head, leaned back with a sigh. “Four more days before you sail. Will either of us survive them? You are to promise me, Gerry, no more of these pamphlets, and no other risks until you’re safe away from here.”
Gerald paused, mouth full of bread and pork. “But I’ve half a ream of paper still, Lu, paid for and ready cut. I can’t waste that. And then there’s the Tower to visit.”
Ludovic sat forward with a stamp and clatter, feet back to the floor in an instant. The ale jug spilled, its remaining trickle worming across the polished wood. “Gerry, try that and I swear I’ll knock you out and carry you over my shoulder to the docks,” he said between his teeth. “And I’ll tie you up in Kenelm’s cabin myself, and sit on you until the damn ship sails. How can you consider such a thing? Every visitor that poor bastard receives is noted and listed. You need permission first, and you’d never get away with a false name.”
Gerald shook his head. “They check the names. I’d have to tell the truth. Besides, I got mightily tired of being called Goran Spittiswood, but it was the only name came into my head when I booked into that last place. Got it from a
groom of mine I had as a boy. You might remember him.”
“I don’t,” declared Ludovic. “And you’ll not even approach the Tower, Gerry. I forbid it. You’d endanger yourself, and me too.”
“William got into the Tower,” Gerald objected. “He even bribed his way to a few minutes in private. Several of the guards genuinely like the prince, and it seems they’re unusually sympathetic.”
Ludovic raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it remarkable to allot such sympathetic guards to a shackled prisoner? I also understand there were some unlikely oversights on the night of the fire, and then more that helped the escape from Sheen. Almost as if it was all encouraged. I’ve a suspicion Tudor needs these escapes in order to justify his own actions. And what if the next attempt justifies an execution?”
“That won’t happen. No one escapes from the Tower. Poor bloody Warwick’s been kept alone in there for more than ten years, and never managed to do more than lose his mind.” Gerald returned to the bread and meats, with a look of regret at the spilled ale. “Innocent of any crime except being the last king’s nephew, poor little sod. But it shows how that Tudor knows full well his precious false pretender, this supposed boatman’s ignorant boy from Tournai, is truly the late King Edward’s son. Why else house him in that apartment in the Lanthorn, just below poor Warwick? Why call a prince a fraud and a commoner, but still treat him like a prince?”
“Listen Gerry,” Ludovic leaned forwards again, gripping his brother’s doublet lacings. “I no longer care. Oh very well, I now fully believe this hero of yours is the true prince, and I know Tudor’s a bastard, but it’s your life I’m interested in, with a fair consideration for my own. Leave it, at least until you meet up with the rest of your band of conspirators in Flanders and Burgundy.”
Sumerford's Autumn Page 33