by Paul Doherty
Cromart’s death is truly mysterious. The parish priest, Parson Austin, was roused in the middle of the night by someone tolling the tocsin. The good parson hurried down to his church. He unlocked its main door and went inside. The bell had stopped tolling but he could find no one responsible for that. Indeed, the church was deserted except for a felon, Ratstail, who’d also claimed sanctuary. Parson Austin found Ratstail cowering in an enclave. He searched his church and could detect no sign, no evidence of a weapon or of any struggle. Most mysterious, all the doors of the church were either locked or bolted from the inside. So how could an assassin enter, commit murder and then slip away like a shadow?’
‘There is no secret entrance or loose postern door?’
‘None. Both the priest and Ratstail were in agreement on that.’
‘And the corpse?’
‘Found lying in a puddle of his own blood in the sacristy. Cromart had evidently gone out to visit the jake’s hole and returned. But, there again, the priest found the outside door to the sacristy firmly locked and bolted from within.’
‘And this Ratstail?’
‘A hapless felon, a pickpocket. He was all jabbering and frightened.’
‘And how do you know all this, mistress?’
‘Oh, I invited Parson Austin here. He came earlier in the day. I made out that Cromart was a distant kin of my late husband. A glass of Alsace, a bowl of sweetmeats and a few coins had him chatting like a sparrow on a branch. A good man. As I have said, he saved Pembroke. A priest who has served as a royal chaplain, a close adherent of the House of York, though he was pleasant enough to me. He also informed me about your father, Christopher, not to mention other lords of the Guildhall,’ she paused, ‘you will undoubtedly hear more of this.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Well, Cromart’s death is mysterious. How could a sanctuary man be murdered in a church where the doors are all locked with no sign of an intruder or a weapon? He also mentioned that Cromart’s belt had been taken.’
‘His belt?’
‘Yes. And I do wonder if Cromart’s assassin was searching for the Dragon Cipher.’ Margaret looked away as if she didn’t want to hold Christopher’s gaze.
‘Mistress?’
‘The Dragon Cipher,’ she replied, staring down at the floor, ‘is a memorandum written in secret writing describing our power in Wales and elsewhere. Strips of parchment which list which churches have weapons stored, which families support us, which officials would show us favour, the most suitable port or harbour for incoming war cogs, the availability of food in what season and at what time. In other words, Christopher, a clear and distinct picture of who and what we could rely upon when my son returns.’
‘And does it exist?’
‘Cromart’s killer certainly believed it does but I do not want to comment on the cipher. What is also puzzling is that York too must answer the question: who wanted Cromart dead? And, of course, York and all his minions in this city are under deep suspicion of being involved.’
‘Oh Lord and all his angels,’ Urswicke chuckled quietly, ‘I see your logic, mistress. Who profits from Cromart’s death? York certainly does.’
‘According to Parson Austin, your father’s retainers ransacked St Michael’s but they discovered nothing amiss. No secret entrance whilst our good pastor assured them that all was as it should be on the night Cromart was murdered.’
‘What about Ratstail?’
‘A hapless felon incapable of using a crossbow?’
‘How so?’
‘Ratstail has been caught far too many times putting his hands where they shouldn’t be, so three fingers on both hands have been savagely nipped. He could hardly hold a dagger let alone an arbalest. Christopher,’ she continued, ‘I want you to visit Parson Austin and see for yourself. You will do that?’ She gazed earnestly at this young but highly talented clerk whom she regarded as dear as any son.
‘Of course, mistress.’
‘Thank you.’ Margaret paused. ‘And so we come to more recent news.’ The countess took a sip from her goblet. ‘Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, was killed earlier this year at Barnet fighting for the House of Lancaster. Warwick’s earldom is the greatest in the kingdom; fertile, prosperous estates stretching the length and breadth of this country. Now Warwick was once the most fervent supporter of York until the latter chose to ignore his advice. However, before this, Neville did enter a marriage alliance with York which cannot be annulled, his daughter Isabel being married to George of Clarence. Warwick died without a male heir. And so,’ she gestured at her two henchmen, ‘we all know that Clarence now lays claim through his wife Isabel to the entire Warwick inheritance.’
‘And that is being challenged by Richard of Gloucester,’ Christopher declared, ‘who wants to marry Warwick’s other daughter Anne and so claim half of the Neville estates as his new wife’s dowry.’
‘Both brothers,’ Bray declared, ‘are daggers drawn, though they know their elder brother the King will take no nonsense from either of them.’
‘Well,’ Margaret declared, ‘what I suspected might happen, indeed Christopher, you warned me about this, Anne Neville has disappeared. Poor girl!’
‘Yes, yes.’ Urswicke nodded. ‘Poor girl indeed! Anne Neville is powerless. Her father died a traitor, the one thing which saved her was Isabel’s marriage to Clarence. Nevertheless, Anne was left vulnerable, a mere court lady in her sister’s household.’
‘And now she’s gone,’ Bray intervened, ‘Gloucester cannot marry her nor, more importantly, lay claim to any portion of the Neville inheritance. But where can she be? Has she been murdered by Clarence and his evil shadow Mauclerc?’
‘He wouldn’t dare,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘Edward the King would have Clarence’s head on the proverbial platter. Never mind her father, Anne Neville is a high-born noble lady. She is not to be slaughtered like a pig in a flesher’s yard. Moreover, Edward of York has a soft heart for the ladies, even more so for Warwick’s brood. We mustn’t forget that Warwick and Edward were once the most loving of brothers. If Clarence murdered Anne Neville, he would go into the dark.’
‘I agree,’ Margaret declared sharply. ‘I know something of this which I cannot share with you at the moment, I think that’s best. Anyway,’ she sighed, ‘we must foster the story that Clarence has abducted the Lady Anne and that only God knows her true fate: forced incarceration either in a lonely convent here or across the seas, perhaps a desolate priory deep in the Irish countryside. Heaven bless the poor woman!’
Margaret pointed to a triptych on the wall venerating the three great archangels of heaven, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael. ‘Believe you me,’ she murmured, ‘whatever her situation …’ Margaret’s voice was now hardly above a whisper, as if she were talking to herself. Urswicke felt a slight chill of fear. Something had seriously disturbed the countess. She was wary, no longer expressing herself in her usual blunt, forthright manner. She seemed reluctant to talk to them; even their journey to Walton had been shrouded in mystery. Only now were they learning what was really happening. ‘Yes, yes,’ Margaret recollected. ‘Whatever her situation, Anne Neville will need all the help of heaven. She’s already a broken woman after the violent death of her father, his corpse and that of his brother being exposed naked in St Paul’s. Anne watched her father fall like a star from heaven. Now she has no real protector. I do not know if she wants Gloucester’s protection, Anne is nothing more than a timid mouse, a virtual mute after the ordeal she has been through. But,’ she added slowly, ‘I am sure she will be safe.’
‘And what is all this to us?’ Bray demanded.
‘York fishes in troubled waters,’ Urswicke replied. ‘And so can we. Mistress, we have our spies across the city, the street swallows, that legion of grimy urchins, the House of Beggars, the Guild of this and that.’ Urswicke grinned. ‘All the poor alley worms, who see everything though they are never seen themselves.’ Urswicke rubbed the side of his face. ‘Anne Neville was of slender build, sli
m, golden-haired with a rather peaked face and, if I remember any distinctive feature, it was that golden hair. Quite singular. We shall search …’
‘No Christopher, you have other business. Reginald will deal with this amongst other matters.’
‘If the Lady Anne has been abducted,’ Bray murmured, ‘it must be Clarence. He has everything to gain.’
‘From the little I have heard,’ Margaret replied, ‘Clarence is volubly protesting his innocence. But, there again, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Margaret grinned impishly. ‘Oh, rest assured, I am only too pleased to stir this pot of mischief.’
‘Could Richard of Gloucester have abducted her?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Margaret pointed at her devilishly shrewd steward, ‘but when Christopher leaves you must conduct a hunt, a true search for her so it appears that we do really care.’ Margaret broke off as a bell tingled, sharp and clear throughout the house, signifying that someone had been admitted into the hall below. Margaret held a hand up for silence. The chamber door opened and a retainer hurried in to kneel beside the countess and whisper a message.
‘Oh very well.’ The countess smiled. ‘Despite the stench, bring our guest up here. But fetch a sheet.’ She gestured at the empty chair next to Urswicke. ‘Yes, bring a sheet to cover that.’
The servant hurried out and returned with a strangely garbed visitor. Urswicke judged him to be fairly young, though older than himself. The man was dressed in shabby and deeply stained leather jerkin, leggings and stout-laced boots. He had night-black hair streaked with lines of white so it looked like the fur of a badger. However, what was most remarkable was the soft leather mask which covered his face with finely stitched apertures for eyes, nose and mouth. The mask was like a visor fashioned out of the costliest Moroccan leather, so carefully moulded it seemed to be part of the stranger’s face. Urswicke stared as the man knelt beside the countess, lifted her hand and kissed her finger rings before rising to greet Bray and Urswicke.
‘Good to see you.’ The stranger’s voice was soft, melodious with a slight lilt. ‘Pax et bonum, my friends.’ The eyes behind the mask seemed to twinkle. ‘I am so very sorry that both my comrade and I were unable to meet you at Walton-on-the-Naze but, as you know, we had to leave more swiftly than we would have liked.’
The man laughed, patting his jerkin, and Urswicke tried to ignore the fetid stench from their visitor’s dirt-caked leathers. Bray simply coughed and pinched his nostrils. Their visitor seemed not to be the least perturbed as he sat down on the chair now covered by a sheet.
‘You’d best introduce yourself,’ Margaret murmured.
‘My lady, I am delighted to. I was held over the baptismal font as Gareth Morgan but now I rejoice only in the title of my seigneur, Jasper Tudor. My name is Pembroke.’ He made himself more comfortable on the chair. ‘You have visited the principality?’
‘I have been.’ Bray gestured at Christopher. ‘Both of us have been to Pembroke on the countess’s business, a prosperous, fertile shire—’
‘Not now,’ the visitor interrupted, ‘not while its God-appointed lord shelters in exile in Brittany.’
‘Hush now.’ Margaret lifted the small hand-bell from the chancery table beside her and rang it. When the retainer reappeared, the countess ordered some fresh Alsace and a platter of small pastries. Once served, they all ate and drank, the conversation being rather desultory about the weather and the imminent approach of winter. Only when the platters had been removed did Margaret softly clap her hands.
‘So gentlemen, I sit with three of the very few souls I trust. So let us listen to you, Master Pembroke. My friends here know your story about leading the battle group, your exile abroad and especially the horrors inflicted upon you. How you are a hunted man, indeed York has marked you down for total annihilation. May God deliver you from that.’ Margaret raised her goblet in toast. ‘You tell them in your own words what happened. Reginald and Christopher were meant to receive you and escort you safely into London. But, of course, that did not happen.’
‘The countess,’ Reginald declared, ‘asked us to travel deep into Essex and be at Walton on the eve of St Edward the Confessor, with the further advice that if nothing happened we might well have to return on the following night, the actual feast day of that great King. We did not know the why or the wherefore except that a war cog would swing in close to the coast and four men would come ashore. We were to meet them and lead them safely into London for the countess’s use. God knows why,’ Reginald glanced swiftly at the countess, ‘we were not given the reason.’
‘Reginald, you know why I acted as I did. If you had been caught you would have been questioned, tortured. You know how it is.’
‘We sheltered for a while in some ruins,’ Urswicke declared, ‘a ghostly place with its hollow, empty passageways deep in the wilds of Essex’s lonely fields. We gave the lantern signal then moved into the sand hills to watch events unfold.’ Urswicke paused. ‘So what happened that night?’ He demanded. ‘You were hardly on the beach when those horsemen appeared as if summoned by a trumpet? Now I have learnt something myself since returning to the city. I have made careful enquiries. You know those horsemen were led by my father, the Recorder Sir Thomas?’ Urswicke didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Apparently my father led his comitatus out of London the day before you landed. I met some of the ruffians involved in The Katherine Wheel, a Cheapside tavern much frequented by those who work at the Guildhall. The comitatus, according to them, rode swiftly into Essex to a lonely tavern out on the heathland, close to an old beacon station which provides a clear view of the sea. They sheltered in The Owlpen, just after sunset on the night you landed. We too were waiting, hiding deep in the gorse on those sand hills. Good sailing weather,’ Urswicke continued, ‘and lantern light, be it from ships close by or from the coastline, can be clearly seen. Now we saw Oxford’s cog draw close, its bum-boat lowered,’ he gestured at Pembroke, ‘but you know this better than we do.’
‘We had a good journey from La Rochelle,’ Pembroke retorted, ‘sound, safe sailing to Dordrecht, where we sent messages to you, my Lady, providing precise details about the time of our landing and where.’
‘Safely received,’ Margaret murmured. ‘Do continue.’
‘We judged that we would reach the Essex coast either before or on the actual feast of Edward the Confessor. We honestly hoped it would be the former, and so it was. The Glory of Lancaster is a powerful war cog. Our passage through the northern seas was peaceful enough, though Oxford was wary of Flemish pirates in the pay of York. We slipped through the straits of Dover and closed in, hugging the coastline till we made landfall. We used lanternhorns to alert our friends.’ Pembroke pointed at Urswicke and Bray. ‘Your good servants, mistress.’ Pembroke touched the mask on his face. ‘The rest you know.’ He continued, ‘I could not believe what happened. We left the ship’s boat, staggered up the beach and the horsemen were upon us.’
‘Two of your comrades were captured,’ Urswicke declared, ‘you and one other, Guido Vavasour I believe, escaped. How was that done?’
‘My friend, remember the moon was full, the light very strong, the horsemen milling about us. We fought back as hard as we could.’ Pembroke tapped his leather mask. ‘I truly think it was this. Horses can be so easily frightened by the unexpected. They were excited after their furious gallop and the violence which ensued. To put it bluntly, my face frightened them. I am sure that’s what happened. The horses shied away, their riders tried to control them. In the confusion, a gap appeared. I fled through it followed by Vavasour. If you recall, he was a swifter runner than myself.’ Urswicke just shook his head.
‘Well, whatever,’ Pembroke continued. ‘We reached the sand hills. The loose shale along the banks made it easy for us to climb but not for any horseman. We clambered up and lost ourselves in that sea of gorse. Mounted men would find it nigh impossible to push their horses forward at the dead of night. Once scratched by those thorns, the horses would rear and throw the
ir riders. However, you must have seen all this, you were close by?’
‘We were.’ Urswicke turned to face Pembroke more directly. ‘And afterwards?’
‘My friend, I have hunted by moonlight through thickly steeped Welsh valleys. Vavasour is no different. We could find our way forward. Both of us carried good coin. We parted. We thought it would be best to join the constant stream of travellers going into the city. An easy enough task. Vavasour went into hiding; perhaps he’s with his brother Robert.’
‘Robert,’ Margaret intervened, ‘is also a member of the Red Dragon group, although his name never appeared on the proscription list. He continues to hide in the shadows, a good friend and supporter, a man with keen wits who has successfully avoided any ensnarement.’
‘So you hid?’ Urswicke demanded.
‘You are quite the interrogator, Master Urswicke?’
‘My name is Christopher.’
‘And my question still stands, sir?’
‘I am just curious, mystified by events. I mean,’ Urswicke leaned forward, glancing quickly at the countess, ‘I am deeply surprised at how my esteemed father seemed to know the exact date, the precise time and the actual location of your landing. Not only was Sir Thomas acutely aware of what was happening, but so were those two war cogs which came sailing over the horizon. And, in the end,’ Urswicke spread his hands, ‘on that particular night the countess’s plans were seriously disrupted in such a short space of time. Nor must we forget the six unfortunates who lost their lives: the rowers of that boat and your two companions.’