by Paul Doherty
Guido sipped from the battered wineskin he had filched from an ale shop earlier in the day. So much suspicion, so many betrayals! The Yorkist lords seemed to have everything in their favour. For a while Guido dozed, recalling merry childhood days with his brother Robert on their father’s manor deep in the Pembrokeshire countryside. Guido half smiled and shook himself awake. He must remember he was deep in mortal peril. He recalled that bum-boat crunching on the sand in Walton cove. They thought they were safe hurrying towards the sand hills when the devil’s own horsemen appeared, Sir Thomas Urswicke and his comitatus, thundering out of the night to surround them. How had that trap been sprung so easily? Who had given the Recorder the time, the date and the location? Of course, there were spies and watchers in the Breton harbour of La Rochelle, and the same was true of Dordrecht in Hainault. The Glory of Lancaster had berthed in both ports. The cog was well-known and could be watched and followed, especially when it slipped through the straits of Dover to turn north, as close as it could, to the English coast. So many mysteries! Danger on land, danger at sea. Pembroke had assured him that De Vere’s cog could give the slip to any enemy ship. ‘Thank God for Pembroke,’ Vavasour whispered, and ‘thank God for his grotesque mask.’ Pembroke had assured him that this had undoubtedly frightened the horses of those who’d confronted them: it had created a gap in the enemy ranks through which they had fled.
Vavasour sipped at his wine. Pembroke had been a great comfort and strength, yet such camaraderie did not disguise the fact that a traitor lurked deep in Countess Margaret’s household. Perhaps it was Christopher Urswicke or even a brother-in-arms, a member of the Red Dragon Battle Group? Guido wondered what had happened to Pembroke after they had separated? Sooner or later, he vowed, he must make contact with both Robert and Pembroke their leader. He closed his eyes and prayed for the other two who had been captured when they came ashore. Did one of them carry what York was undoubtedly hunting? The Dragon Cipher, which contained such vital information about the support Tudor enjoyed in Wales? Yet where was that cipher? He and others believed it was secretly held by one of Countess Margaret’s retainers. But who? Guido returned to the nagging question of who the traitor might be. Fleeing through that sea of gorse on the sand hills overlooking Walton cove, Vavasour had realised, as if in some vision, that he was fleeing from a traitor desperately plotting his death.
‘But who is this?’ Vavasour pleaded with the darkness. ‘In God’s name, what do I do now?’
Vavasour took another gulp of wine and stiffened as he heard a sound from above. The Hanging Tree was derelict and desolate, perhaps a beggar had broken in? Vavasour drew his dagger and carefully made his way up the cellar steps. He pushed the trapdoor open, he was halfway through it when shapes emerged from the murk. Vavasour smelt sweat, leather and the gust of ale fumes. He glanced to his right then screamed at the blow to his head which sent him falling into a warm, welcoming darkness.
Vavasour woke shrieking with pain. He struggled hard but the cords which bound his ankles and wrists to the four corners of the rack held firm. Vavasour stared up into the darkness. Nothing but cracked, mildewed stones dripping with water. He glanced to his right and left, braziers glowed and sloping figures passed like ghosts through the fitful pools and puddles of torchlight. Vavasour breathed in and caught the iron tang of flames, steel and blood. He peered down at his own sweat-soaked body, stripped of all clothing except for his loincloth. He abruptly jerked, screaming at the pain which shot like tongues of flames from his arms and legs.
‘Pity please!’ Vavasour gasped. The figures, however, standing at the far end of the rack, continued to turn the levers which tightened the iron-hard cords in jerky movements.
‘Enough, enough for the moment.’ A shadowy figure walked up to the top of the rack and smiled down at the prisoner. ‘I am Sir Thomas Urswicke,’ he tapped Vavasour gently on the face. ‘I am the Recorder of London and you, sir,’ he jabbed a finger hard against the prisoner’s belly, ‘and you, sir, are Guido Vavasour, an attainted traitor who has entered this kingdom without leave or licence. You are a former adherent of the Red Dragon Battle Group. You attempted to perpetrate the most horrible treasons at Tewkesbury. Now you have returned to curdle more mischief. So, what is your specific purpose here?’ Sir Thomas leaned down. ‘You, sir, are now lodged in the dungeons beneath the great keep in the Tower of London. Rest assured, you will certainly die here or in a place close by. You are on the rack commonly called the “Scavenger’s Daughter”. Those two gentlemen at the far end of the rack are the scavengers. They will pull and draw you until your arms and legs pop out of their sockets like peas from a pod. You are going to die, Master Vavasour. All you have to decide is how. Before that, you are going to be questioned. If you cooperate, all to the good. If you do not, then my good friends here are going to be very busy. So, why did you return to this kingdom?’ Vavasour shook his head. ‘You will tell me all,’ the Recorder whispered, ‘because you have all been betrayed.’ Vavasour, racked by pain and anger, glared up at his tormentor. ‘You have been betrayed,’ the Recorder repeated.
‘By whom? Your son who nestles so close to the countess?’ Vavasour spat back. ‘Like father, like son! It’s true, the apple never falls far from the tree. We know him to be a traitor.’
The Recorder lifted a hand, the scavengers standing at the foot of the rack turned the wheels until Vavasour screamed for mercy.
‘Very good, very good.’ The Recorder, who had walked away, came back as the torture cords were loosened. ‘So Guido, we will begin again. Why did you come to England?’
‘Two of us were to help the sanctuary men escape. The other two were needed as messengers by the countess.’
‘Ah yes, you mean to her allies in Wales? And the Dragon Cipher. Oh yes, we know all about that. Do you have it?’
‘No.’
Again the Recorder lifted a hand and watched as Vavasour was stretched until his bones cracked and he could hardly breathe. The Recorder leaned down.
‘The Dragon Cipher?’
‘In God’s name I do not have it. It exists but we do not know who carries it.’
‘But it exists?’
‘It exists. The countess has made reference to it.’
‘And the court of Duke Francis in Brittany? Oh yes, we do need some help here.’ The Recorder called over to a clerk sitting on a wall bench deep in the shadows. The clerk, his white face peaked, constantly dabbing at his ever-dripping nose, scurried over to stand beside Sir Thomas. ‘This is Osbert.’ The Recorder patted the clerk’s bony shoulder. ‘A truly skilled scrivener. I want you, amongst other things, to describe for him where young Henry Tudor lodges at the Breton court. Which buildings? Which churches? The number of armed retainers? Of course Guido, you may lie, but what we know should match with what you tell us. Oh, by the way, before you speak to Osbert, where is your brother Robert?’
‘I don’t know. I have just returned to the city myself. I was searching for him when you took me up. Who told you where I was?’
‘Never mind that. Where is Pembroke the traitor who came ashore with you at Walton?’
‘I don’t know, we separated. I was about to search for both of them when you came. Who betrayed me?’
‘Oh my son can guess as well as anyone.’
‘And our landing at Walton?’
‘Again, the same source. So, where is your brother? Where is Pembroke? I want to see both hang.’
‘I don’t know. I truly don’t.’ Vavasour gasped. ‘Ask your son!’ he jibed.
Sir Thomas stared down at the prisoner then walked away, summoning the torture-chamber clerk and the two scavengers to follow him. Once away from the prisoner, he beckoned them close. ‘You have my list of questions, Master Osbert?’
‘Yes Sir Thomas.’
‘And how long will this take?’ He turned to the scavengers. ‘We can expect the usual lies but how long do you think it will take?’
‘My Lord,’ one of them replied, ‘I have never met a
nyone who lasted longer than an hour. The prisoner is soft, a mailed clerk. You will have the truth, whatever that is, within the hour.’
‘Good, good,’ the Recorder whispered. ‘I have posed some of these questions already. Find out about the cipher and the whereabouts of Pembroke, that must be asked as a matter of logic. We would also love to meet his brother Robert and, indeed, any of his coven not yet in sanctuary, still hiding from the law. Well, you have my instructions, follow them.’
Osbert said they would and led the scavengers away. Sir Thomas crossed to an enclave where a servant had laid out viands, bread, some thick, creamy cheese and a jug of the best Bordeaux drawn from a cask in the royal cellars. Sir Thomas sat down and sipped gratefully at the wine, quietly revelling at his own success. Across that murky, miserable chamber the scavengers had now become busy as they pushed at levers and turned the small wheels which created a chilling, eerie sound as the ropes tightened and creaked. The Recorder listened to this dire hymn of torture, a pattern which kept repeating itself. The rack would shudder, almost as if it was protesting at what it was doing. Vavasour would scream then this would die away, lapsing into a sombre silence broken only by Osbert’s constant questions and Vavasour’s gasping replies. Sir Thomas continued to sit with his back to the rack, tasting his wine and savouring the rich cheese. At last the racking and the questioning ended. Osbert came scurrying over and took the stool Sir Thomas kicked towards him with the toe of his boot.
‘You have finished?’
‘Yes, my Lord. The scavengers maintain Vavasour is broken. He has told us what he knows but,’ the scrivener, cradling his chancery satchel, wiped his dripping nose on the back of his hand, ‘he has, indeed, told us very little. Undoubtedly there is a Dragon Cipher but he does not know where it is. He has confessed to entering the realm to assist the sanctuary men in leaving this kingdom. Apparently, once he had spoken to Pembroke and his brother Robert, he would join them in seeking sanctuary in some London church.’
‘And so join his comrades’ departure from these shores? All to the good.’ The Recorder whispered almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘And whom has he met since his return?’
‘Nobody! But on one matter,’ Osbert replied, ‘he is very sure, that your son Sir Thomas is the traitor in the countess’s household. Yet I find this difficult to believe. Surely you would know that anyway?’ Osbert stared at the Recorder who just gazed bleakly back. ‘Sir Thomas, why does he confess that?’
‘To prove, perhaps, that we do not completely have the upper hand. Secondly, if my dearest Christopher is suspected as a traitor amongst the Tudors, his life is truly in danger. A threat which, despite our differences, I would take very seriously.’ Sir Thomas tried to control his temper. ‘Vavasour is baiting me. How dare he threaten …’
‘My Lord, I thought as much myself. So I asked about your son’s standing amongst those who serve the countess. He replied that many respect your son as a very able, skilled clerk. Of course …’ Osbert coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Of course he would be, with a father such as yourself, Sir Thomas.’
‘Flattery is like perfume, Osbert. You smell it but you don’t drink it. Continue.’
‘Well, others are more cautious about your son because of his parentage and, of course Sir Thomas, you do sit very high in the councils of the King and the House of York. They do …’ Osbert paused.
‘Continue.’
‘Well, people do wonder why the countess cherishes your son so fervently even though he bears your name and you are so furious against her.’
‘Fervently?’ Sir Thomas retorted. ‘You say that’s how they describe it? She cherishes him so fervently?’
‘Yes, my Lord. Master Christopher, like his noble father,’ Osbert was now almost gabbling, ‘is intelligent, courtly and highly skilled. The countess is a lonely woman married to Sir Henry Stafford who lies mortally ill at their manor in Woking. The Countess Margaret visits him rarely, though she does send him letters, presents and medicine.’
The Recorder put a hand up for silence even as his nimble brain pondered the possibilities. He knew only too well the true reason for Christopher’s closeness to the countess. She had supported him unstintingly through his mother’s grievous sickness. He hated to concede this, even to himself, but he believed that Countess Margaret Beaufort viewed Christopher Urswicke as her own beloved son and Christopher responded in kind. The Recorder closed his eyes and quietly reflected on all of this.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘there are possibilities here, dramatic possibilities.’ The Recorder listed them, not ready as yet, to create a chronicle, a story which would account for everything. What were the main items of this? The countess fervently cherishing Christopher Urswicke? Christopher Urswicke falling under suspicion by some of the same countess’s supporters? The possibility that, in their eyes, Christopher Urswicke was a turncoat. Sir Henry Stafford lying mortally sick at Woking, all alone, bereft of his wife even though she despatched gifts and medicine to comfort him? ‘Oh yes,’ the Recorder breathed, ‘this rich crop could yield a generous harvest!’
‘My Lord?’
Sir Thomas opened his eyes and beamed down at the scrivener. ‘You also work with Master William under the sign of The Red Keg near St Paul’s, yes?’ The scrivener agreed. ‘And Master William produces broadsheets?’
‘Under licence, my Lord.’
‘My licence.’ The Recorder gleefully rubbed his hands. ‘And I also issue licences for him to post his broadsheets at the Cross and on the Standard in Cheapside. Very well, Master Osbert.’ Sir Thomas pointed at the table. ‘Let us be busy. I will dictate certain conclusions to you under the title of “The last and true confession of Guido Vavasour, self-confessed rebel and traitor, before he was taken out for lawful execution, as the aforesaid Guido confessed in the presence of witnesses in the King’s own Tower of London.” Now …’
Osbert hastened to obey. Once he had stretched out a sheet of parchment and readied both quill pens and inkpot, Sir Thomas began to whisper what he wanted copied down. The Recorder spoke softly but clearly. Occasionally Osbert would glance up fearfully but the Recorder simply patted him on the shoulder and told him to continue. Once he had finished, the Recorder carefully read the confession. ‘Such rich possibilities,’ he repeated. ‘Of course, this needs a little more attention. We need to create a story which flows and convinces but, at the moment, there’s no haste.’
‘My Lord?’
‘Yes Osbert.’
‘My Lord, these so-called witnesses?’
‘Why Osbert, you and the two scavengers. Who can gainsay that?’
‘The prisoner. I mean, if he is to be arraigned before King’s Bench or the justices at the Guildhall?’
‘He is a rebel, Osbert, a traitor, caught red-handed perpetrating his hideous treasons, there’s no reason for a trial. He had indicted himself.’
‘He has a tongue.’
‘Very perceptive. So come, come.’
He led the scribe across the torture chamber, calling the scavengers to join him. They all gathered around the prisoner stretched out on the rack. Vavasour glared up at the Recorder.
‘God curse you, Thomas Urswicke,’ he grated. ‘God curse you and yours. You attack the countess without and your son from within. Two Judas men, father and son more fit for a hanging then Hell than any city felon …’
The Recorder abruptly lunged, fast as a striking viper. He punched the prisoner in the face, two savage blows which drew blood.
‘Very well, very well.’ Sir Thomas fought to control his breathing. ‘Master Osbert, continue the punishment.’
‘My Lord?’
The Recorder snapped his fingers at the scavengers and pointed at the prisoner. ‘Remove his tongue!’ Sir Thomas spun on his heel and walked back to the table where he refilled the pewter goblet. He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth and drank the wine, listening to Vavasour’s screams turn into a horrid rasping. The Recorder then walked back and glared down at the p
risoner.
‘Sir, you think you are so knowledgeable, so judgemental, so clear on everything.’ Vavasour could only open his mouth, all bloodied and torn to make the most heart-rending sounds. ‘You are a traitor caught in your crimes,’ Sir Thomas declared. ‘There is no need for a trial. You will be despatched to the gallows. But, Master Vavasour, I will ensure that you die a wiser man than you are now. So listen carefully.’ The Recorder turned to Osbert and the two scavengers. ‘A moment, sirs, a moment to myself and the prisoner.’ The three men walked out of earshot. The Recorder watched them go, then leaned down and whispered heatedly into Vavasour’s ear. He repeated what he had said then straightened up, smiling at Vavasour who could only glare back. The Recorder waggled his fingers in farewell. ‘Master Guido we are finished. I have no further use for you except to arrange your hanging. Till then …’