Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  He told a great deal, then waited. Miles took notes.

  “You wrote these letters the Duke of Buckingham are using against Sir Peter Trevor, Lord Trobridge?”

  “Yes.” Pride edged his voice.

  “Did the duke and lady Stanley know these letters were forgeries?” Caxton’s bearded face darkened.

  “Yes.” Nesbit began to naw at his lower lip with his teeth.

  “You did it for gold?”

  “Save your righteous indignation, Lord Caxton. I’m beyond that. Yes, for gold, but as much to see if I could do it. I’m an artist.” His dark eyes glittered, the defiant pride remained.

  “Who first approached you on this project?” Caxton asked. Sunlight from the east facing window fell across his massive desk. Miles Northrop wrote down everything being said.

  “Reginald Brey, Lady Stanley’s steward, at Buckingham’s request.”

  Caxton stared at the ceiling, face pale. “Did you ever see the duke holding the letters in question?”

  “Yes. After they were done when he was marveling at my work.” He looked at Catharine. “That included your father’s letter. But it was Lady Stanley who paid me the money.”

  Caxton exploded in a roar of rage, swearing with such feeling that Nesbit flinched and Catharine stepped back, alarmed.

  “You will find no papers implicating Buckingham or Lady Stanley. They have thought this through and through, my lord.”

  “Were there any witnesses to the payment for your services?” Catharine asked, praying for the right answer.

  “No, Lady Trobridge. No one.” Nesbit’s lean features clouded, impassive.

  “Why? Why would they go to such lengths to attack Lord Trobridge?” Caxton walked around this desk to kneel in front of Nesbit, eyes hard.

  Nesbit swallowed. “Money, my lord. He is the richest lord in the realm. This was plotted many months ago. Lady Trobridge was a pawn to provide access to Trevor. Her Lancaster background and feelings were well known.” He stopped. “Excuse me, Lady Trobridge, but they said your volatile temper, your family tragedy, and acting from your heart made you the perfect candidate. You would be used to plant the letters unwittingly, to give the Lord Constable reason to arrest Lord Trobridge. Lord Trobridge would then be tried, and executed for treason. The duke could put away his Woodville wife, and marry Lady Trobridge with all the Trevor wealth intact.” He licked his dry lips. “You can see how far we are into this play.”

  Catharine sat back, sick at heart: The perfect candidate, planting letters unwittingly, acting from her heart. God-a-mercy. Selected like a common farm animal, but aimed like a bird of prey, lethal without knowing it.

  “Astonishing,” Caxton said. “But now the bigger question.”

  Nesbit frowned, obviously bewildered. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

  “Why is so much money needed now?” Caxton’s thick fist slammed down on the arm of the chair next to Nesbit.

  Nesbit flinched, and closed his eyes. “The duke has huge debts or so it is said.” He looked away.

  “To hatch a plot like this to pay debts? I think not. Lady Stanley’s husband is one of the greatest landowners in the realm. There is no reward there.” Caxton’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Stanley wouldn’t risk herself to pay Buckingham’s debts. We have some missing puzzle pieces.” He stood and turned to Miles Northrop. “The King will want to examine him.”

  Nesbit began to struggle, his voice shrill. “You promised, my lord. No torture. I kept my part of the bargain. Everything. I told everything.”

  “You will not be tortured. I will keep my part of the bargain. Cut his hands loose and give him pen and paper to write his confession.” Caxton said, lips hard lines, eyes stormy. “Afterwards you will be transported to a safe house outside the city for your own protection.”

  When he was done, Caxton, Catharine and Miles read the confession and signed as witnesses. Miles and two armed retainers removed Nesbit. Catharine paced, watching him go.

  Caxton stood very still. “I’ll share a secret. The duke is not in debt up to his ears. His estates are well managed, and he’s not careless with his money. It is true he is borrowing heavily, but not for throwing good money after bad.” He looked at Catharine. “I know what you’re thinking, but it isn’t enough to free Peter.”

  Catharine exploded. “I don’t believe this. The man confesses every ounce of the plot. Names, place, times. What - ” Agony ruled her voice. “You have every word written down. Even his written and signed confession. What do you mean?”

  “From a confessed forger, Lady Catharine? These are serious charges, with the only physical evidence in the duke’s hands. It is also evidence against the highest noble in the land.”

  Catharine tried to focus through her frustration. “What do you mean?” The words chocked out. All she could see were images of Peter’s bloody and haggard, tortured in his prison cell, a laughing Duke of Buckingham standing over him.

  Caxton’s low intent voice pulled her back to reality. “The story Nesbit told us, without third party corroboration, would be laughed out of any royal court in the land.”

  “But Nesbit’s other letters could be compared to the two letters Buckingham is using for evidence. Surely some of the handwriting would be the same?” she protested.

  “Some perhaps. Did Lady Stanley’s words sound rehearsed when she spoke to you after you secreted the two letters in your gown?”

  “No.”

  “You would be asked that. Would you lie, on peril of your soul, to save Peter?” Caxton asked.

  “Yes, I would,” she said, voice soft, her tone final. All her caring and yearning for Peter welling within her.

  “You’d be asked that, too.”

  “Dear God, what are we going to do?” Catharine wanted to shriek, the white pain of desperation ripping at her.

  “We keep Nesbit safe,” Caxton said. “He is the key. While we have him, the King will consider my information.”

  “But we are no further in securing Peter’s release. This is all the evidence there is. I gave it to you as you asked.” She fingered her iron wedding ring, turning it round and round.

  “The information is here,” Caxton said. “We must put it together in such a way that Buckingham will respond the way we want.”

  “But who has the power to arrest the Lord Constable?” Catharine stepped behind a tall heavy wood chair, and gripped the back, knuckles white in her frustration.

  “The King and whoever he designates,” Caxton said, voice careful. He took a dish of pastries, and offered one to Catharine. She waved it away with a grateful smile. He selected a small ginger cake coated with sugar, and bit, scattering white to the floor rushes.

  “The Lord Constable is corrupt,” Catharine said, attacking with the only logic she could think of at the moment. “It is your duty to see him arrested and removed from office. The King and the realm depend on you to protect them from this scourge.”

  Caxton’s bearded face wrinkled under his smile. “Thank you, Lady Catharine. I understand. You’ve given me the opening to accomplish that.” He held up Nesbit’s signed confession witnessed by himself, Northrop and Catharine. “The King feels he owes Buckingham a great deal for his support in crushing the Woodville attempt at usurping the throne. The urge to reward Buckingham is still there, and he knows it, playing the King for all he can get.” Caxton set down the half-eaten cake. “Trevor House is on the way to my manor north of the city. We will escort you home.”

  Catharine and Nesbit sat on their mounts between two columns of armed retainers. Chain mail, half armor, and steel helmets reflected in the sun. Horses stamped their feet, snorted, and swished their tails, impatient to be gone. Nesbit, his thin back filled out from a gamberson, with its thick protective layers of felt, overlaid with chain mail, sat lashed to the horse, his head fitted with a steel helmet. Catharine worried with all the security. Surely with only Caxton and her people involved no one would know and attack them. There had been too little time for
the word to get out about Nesbit. I’ll be glad to get home in Trevor House. Home. She realized this was the first time she’d thought of Trevor House as home. A good feeling.

  Caxton moved his horse up beside hers. Her hooded Persian chain mail cloak swished in a sudden breeze. “One of Peter’s inventions,” Caxton said, face curious.

  “Inventions?” She was grateful for the verbal distraction.

  “He had several made to his specifications. The royal family has a number. The King never rides without his. I have one.” He tugged on his blue cloak.

  “One saved my life,” Catharine said. She swallowed, an undefined fear crowding her mind. ruling her stomach.

  The gates of the manor house courtyard shrieked open. Saddles squeaked as men sat straighter. The tension could be cut with a knife. “Keep your eyes open,” Caxton warned. “Remember, you’re in a crowded city. Control your mounts.” His hard voice carried into the breaking noise from the thronged street.

  Catharine toyed with her iron wedding ring, trying to distract herself, and remembered the satisfying crunch as the ring broke Nesbit’s nose less than two hours ago. She smiled. Blood actually sprayed out of his nostrils. His pain must have been excruciating. The ring saved her life. Guess it has its uses.

  Those moving west on Cheapside came to a grumbling halt when the armed column turned left to join the flow of carts, horses, and people heading toward St. Paul’s Cathedral and the heart of London. Clopping horses’ hooves, the rattle and clang of steel weapons, and the rise and fall of voices hawking and arguing surrounding them. Sweating horses, the pleasing creak of harness leather, and acrid smell of animal offal assaulted the senses. Catharine glanced at the jewelry and cloth shops. The two story buildings closed around them, and she saw the men-at-arms nervously eye the roof tops and alley ways. Beside her, Caxton, his lips thin and hard, kept a constant watch, and Catharine felt her stomach churn.

  On the east side of St. Paul’s Cathedral the traffic slowed, and stopped. Caxton ordered three riders forward to remove a wagon with a broken axle. Without warning, a single arrow hissed, and one of the riders crumpled and fell from the saddle, landing a boneless heap on the cobbled street. “Archers,” Caxton shouted. Suddenly the air was filled with crossbow bolts and arrows. People scattered, screaming. Wounded and terrified horses plunged and shrieked. “Protect Lady Trobridge. And Nesbit,” Caxton ordered. Shields went up around them, but the priest slumped forward. A crossbow bolt protruding from his back, near his spine.

  Like magic, the arrows quit flying. The sky was blue and clear, and four men-at-arms lay dead.

  Catharine counted three of the assassins dead, too, killed by their archers. A grim Caxton ordered the dead and wounded men and horses back to the manor house.

  Catharine dismounted, and knelt at Nesbit’s side. Frothy blood blew from his lips, and a sucking sound came from the wound in his chest. His eyes squinting from the pain, focused on Catharine’s face. A rueful smile touched his lips, and his voice came strained and unnatural. “You lose, Lady Trobridge. Now there is nothing. Nothing at all.” His eyes wandered to the blue sky. “ I wonder ... ” And it was over, smile still on his lips.

  Catharine closed Nesbit’s eyes. Mother Mary, what now? A hundred emotions, and thoughts ran through her head, clambering for attention. She pushed them away. There has to be away. There has to be away to use this to our advantage.

  Caxton dismounted, kneeling beside her, and inspected Nesbit’s body.

  “He’s dead,” Catharine said, rising to her feet. Blood caked her hand.

  “And I have a traitor in my household.” Caxton’s face furious glanced around with dangerous eyes.. “I’m sorry Lady Catharine. We did capture one of the assassins trying to escape. He will be questioned. We will get the truth.”

  Catharine flinched, guessing how they would proceed. “Handle him with care. He is all we have.”

  “We know him already. A petty criminal for hire.” Caxton helped her mount. “We will escort you back to Trevor House.”

  “No. That is not the best move,” Catharine said.

  Caxton’s thick eyebrows moved together. “What do you mean?”

  Catharine gathered her reins. “We should go to the Tower of London and confront Buckingham. He will not expect this. We will tell him Nesbit’s confession. Then see his reactions.”

  Caxton’s horse trembled. He lay a hand on its neck and talked quietly. The horse calmed and ceased to shake.

  “Did Peter teach you that?”

  Caxton nodded. “The man is magic with horses.”

  “We owe Peter, Sir James. He has told me the best defense is to attack. To give the enemy no rest to think or act.” She drew a deep breath, trying to calm her shaking insides. “Buckingham is behind the ambush. He used Nesbit to discredit Peter. But he doesn’t know what Nesbit told us. You must show Nesbit signed confession implicating him.”

  “No. Not that far,” Caxton said. “He would laugh at the confession. But the written statements of witnesses, including yourself, as to what Nesbit told us. That is enough to do something else.” He gestured Miles closer, and held a short conversation in hushed tones. Miles looked startled, but rode off with four retainers toward Caxton’s country manor.

  When their column formed up again, Nesbit lay across his saddle, the crossbow bolt still sticking out of his back. Blood dripped to the cobble stones from his body. “To the Tower of London, Captain,” Caxton ordered.

  We might have a chance. Mother Mary, let it happen. If we can just keep a distance between Peter and Buckingham. Drive a wedge of people, so those we trust, serve and guard, Peter. Catharine’s heart raced considering the confrontation to come. The fear she felt for Peter. The anger and hate for Buckingham. And the intense desire to be finished with it all for herself.

  11

  A short time later, Catharine wandered restlessly about Caxton’s large office chamber in the White Tower. Three smaller chambers lay off this larger one. A desk, two settles, several chairs, and three trestle tables completed the furniture in the stone room. Light poured in one large window which looked down to the Tower Green facing the Beauchamp Tower. She could hear birds singing in the trees on the Tower Green. Two men-at arms guarded the office door. “His Grace of Buckingham won’t be long,” Caxton said.

  Catharine managed a grim smile, feeling the anticipation in the man. “The duke will be unkind,” she predicted. Butterflies worked her stomach.

  “So will I,” Caxton said. “But we both know this is no game. This is the first step in removing the man from power. The nagging question is why Buckingham feels this enormous need for money. The man doesn’t act without reason. I suspect that everything he’s done since he helped the King’s Grace stop the Woodville’s is aimed at one end. But what that is, I don’t know.”

  Catharine toyed with her wedding ring. She caught Caxton staring at the iron band, but he volunteered nothing. He knows something he isn’t willing to say about my ring. What could be so important about the ring?

  A commotion on the stairs made them turn. A guard announced, “Sir. The Duke of Buckingham.”

  “Let him pass,” Caxton said from his desk. Catharine moved to stand beside Caxton’s massive chair.

  An angry Buckingham strode into the room with Carnahan a step behind him. Both were armed with sword and dagger. Thigh length leather boots covered their hose. Buckingham halted in front of the desk, and then saw Catharine. He bowed elaborately. “Lady Trobridge. Sir James.” He paused. Carnahan glanced around, eyes suspicious.

  “Why are so many of your men entering the Tower?” Buckingham asked. “There are fifty men, and more streaming in all the time.”

  “For the peace of the realm,” Caxton said.

  “What does that mean, Caxton?” Buckingham walked to the window. Catharine followed his gaze to the Tower Green below. A knot of twenty armed men stood listening to their captain give instructions. Other groups of Caxton’s men marched in under the arched entrance of the
Green Tower.

  “You’ve been implicated in a plot to falsely accuse Sir Peter Trevor of treason,” Caxton said.

  The duke turned from the window. “You’re mad.” Contempt and anger stained his voice. “Where did you get such an insane idea?”

  “Did you recognize the body by the entrance to the White Tower?” Catharine interrupted.

  “Nesbit?”

  “You knew him?” Caxton’s eyes widened, meeting the duke’s angry gaze.

  “Vaguely. Bishop Morton’s nephew. A private chaplain.” He turned away impatient. “I met him a couple of times. What happened to him?”

  “He was killed in an ambush not two hours ago,” Caxton said. “By St. Paul’s Cathedral. Nesbit told us all about you and Lady Stanley’s role in framing Sir Peter Trevor with the forged letters. Clever.”

  Buckingham went white. “This is madness. I won’t be questioned by you.”

  “You will be questioned by the King,” Caxton said, voice flat.

  “You have not the power.”

  “I see by your face you don’t believe that,” Caxton said. “I never bluff, Your Grace. You know that.”

  “Do you have a signed confession, my lord?”

  “Yes, and three living witnesses to the interview.”

  Buckingham sneered. “Three prejudiced people and a dead body will hardly remove me from office. Nesbit was lying to save his hide. This is contemptible.” He sank into a chair before Caxton’s desk, face grim. “I never thought you capable of stooping so low, my lord. You’ve always been an honorable man. What made you decide to aide and abed a traitor? Is Peter paying you? Perhaps this woman seduced you to her cause? Be plain, man.”

  Caxton smiled a little, face schooled, but cold. “I will be plain, my lord,” he said, voice even, eyes locked with the duke’s. Catharine held her breath. “I have seen enough evidence to convince me of Sir Peter’s innocence,” Caxton said. “And I know he has been arrested on contrived charges and falsified evidence. For the purpose of stealing his wealth. One of the people involved is the dead man downstairs. Lady Stanley and her steward, Reginald Bray, are others. Harry Barristar is another. And you, my lord, are another.”