by Paul Doherty
On the King’s left sat George of Clarence, who looked like his royal brother except his good looks were marred by a fat, red-tinged drinker’s face, his full lips twisted into a perpetual pout or sneer, his blue eyes ever restless, which accounted for Clarence’s constant finger-tapping on the table. On the King’s right, next to Hastings, Edward’s henchman and constant companion in lechery, sat Richard of Gloucester, the youngest of his family. Richard bore little resemblance to his two brothers with his lank, reddish hair, which framed a white-peaked face and wary eyes, although when he relaxed and smiled, Richard could be as charming as anyone. Both royal brothers were garbed like the King though, as with all who entered the royal chamber, they had to surrender their weapons and warbelts to the chamberlain on guard outside.
Urswicke stirred in his chair and glanced at the others. Gloucester’s henchman, the effete-looking Francis Lovel, sat next to Clarence’s constant shadow Mauclerc. This henchman from Hell was garbed as usual in black which, in Urswicke’s judgement, matched his soul. Mauclerc had a wolfish face, his slanted eyes ever shifting, his pock-marked cheeks and chin as cleanly shaven as his head. Mauclerc looked what he was, a true bully-boy who more than fulfilled the verse from scripture of a soul who feared neither God nor man. Mauclerc was now deep in conversation with Urswicke’s father, though now and again those cruel eyes would shift to study either Christopher or the countess. Mauclerc would then give that cold smile and return to discussing troop movements with the Recorder, who seemed more interested in furtively watching the King.
‘Mistress?’ Christopher leaned closer to the countess. ‘The weather is still good and messages from your manor at Woking keep us well advised.’ Christopher spoke clearly as if in ordinary conversation. In truth, he was conveying a message garbed in a parable, that matters outside were under control whilst the so-called messages were both himself and Bray who would inform her later about what they had discovered. Margaret nodded in agreement and gently patted Urswicke’s arm.
Christopher leaned back in his chair as the door opened and a cleric, garbed in grey-furred robes, was ushered into the chamber. From his days as an apprentice clerk in the Inns of Court, Urswicke immediately recognised Adam Blackthorne, Archdeacon of London, a priest with a reputation of being most hot-tempered. He was indeed a hatchet-faced cleric who zealously guarded and enhanced all the power, pomp and privileges of Holy Mother Church. Blackthorne knelt and kissed the King’s fingers then took the chair offered to him. Once the servant had left, Edward asserted himself, clapping his hands and inviting Blackthorne to intone the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’. The Archdeacon did so in a harsh, ringing voice, glaring at everyone as if he expected to be challenged.
Christopher kept his face suitably schooled and glanced around. The council chamber was opulent with gorgeous tapestries, gleaming oak furniture, silver and gold spigots, pots and vessels. Dozens of pure beeswax candles flared, providing light as well as a delicious fragrance. Urswicke, however, knew that sudden, bloody violence was only a breath away. Death lurked nearby, one shadow deeper than the rest and all the more frightening because of it. Christopher would never forget the blood-letting after Tewkesbury and the Yorkist treatment of the Lancastrian Prince Edward. That young man had been taken into a chamber like this, and drawn into an argument. The subsequent confrontation had ended with the Yorkist lords gathering around the Lancastrian heir and plunging their daggers time and again into their rival’s body. The same could happen here. Clarence was volatile and Gloucester would be quick to defend himself: their respective henchmen, unswerving in their loyalty, would be quickly drawn in. The Yorkist court was magnificent, centred around the King; courtiers basked in his smile as people would the warm light of summer. Nevertheless, a darkness could descend and close in swiftly to trap the unwary and unprepared. Even his mistress the Countess Margaret wasn’t safe. Edward the King might have a softness for ‘the ladies’, but he would accept opposition from no one. Archdeacon Blackthorne might gabble his prayers, but Urswicke doubted if the Holy Spirit could even find a foothold in this chamber.
Once the archdeacon was finished, a deep stillness descended. Edward drummed his fingers on the table top, staring around, as if memorising every face. He then visibly relaxed. He clapped his hands and welcomed them all, especially the countess and the archdeacon. Edward sketched the briefest bow to both of them then clapped his hands again.
‘So,’ the King smiled, ‘to business. We all know about the traitorous and blood-seeking battle group calling itself the Red Dragon. God has annihilated that treacherous tribe of traitors. I understand only about seven survive …’
‘Even fewer now.’ Thomas Urswicke, full of smug pride, leaned against the table and stared adoringly down at the King who had elevated him to knighthood.
‘Excellent!’ The King chose to ignore the interruption. ‘I understand, Sir Thomas, that we executed two of this brood at Walton, though another pair escaped, Guido Vavasour and Gareth Morgan, who styles himself Pembroke. Guido Vavasour, I understand, has now been captured hiding in the cellar of a tavern called The Hangman’s Noose. Well named because that’s where he will end up.’ He laughed at his own joke, beating the table, nodding at the others to join in and they all happily obliged. Christopher just smiled, trying neither to catch his breath or turn to stare at the countess. This was dire news. Urswicke knew something about this pair of loyal brothers. Guido Vavasour and his brother Robert were two of Margaret’s most trusted couriers; men deeply skilled in both disguise and deception, they could mislead any pursuer with consummate skill. Loyal agents who could slip in and out of the kingdom and across the Narrow Seas in all sorts of disguises. Moreover, the two brothers never carried documents which might incriminate them, but memorised messages that they could faithfully recall. Guido had been one of the four who had landed at Walton; he too had escaped and, like Pembroke, slipped quietly into London to hide. So how had he been captured? And his brother Robert …? Christopher broke from his reverie as the King continued praising his ‘good and faithful servant, Sir Thomas Urswicke’. The King paused as Archdeacon Blackthorne raised a hand to speak.
‘Your Grace,’ he intoned, ‘the safety and the security of the Crown is the constant prayer of my master and the other bishops. We pray day and night for your prosperity and that of your family. We do not support treason of any kind. You are God’s appointed King. However, this meeting is not to discover what banner these rebels may have followed, the threats they may have issued or the dangers they pose. No, no your Grace. Let us face the facts. Survivors, remnants of this battle group, have slipped into this city and sought sanctuary in churches across London. One of these fugitives, Jacob Cromart, was foully murdered the night before last in St Michael’s. Someone not only committed murder, but did so in a church and shattered the protection Cromart had the right to expect. Whoever is responsible for Cromart’s death has indeed committed a heinous offence.’ The archdeacon’s words hung in the air like a sword.
‘I have assured your bishop, indeed anyone who has business with the church of St Michael’s.’ Edward’s voice was now a lazy drawl, a dangerous sign, a clear warning that he was not to be confronted or opposed. ‘I, the King, have told your good bishop that the House of York,’ he gestured round, ‘neither me nor mine, had anything to do with Cromart’s death. You must remember, and even the good Countess will attest to this, Cromart may have been a retainer of this person or that but he was still an adjudged traitor. He was put to the horn and declared an outlaw to be killed on sight. Believe me, Master Blackthorne, if Cromart had fallen into our hands, his death would not have been so swift.’
‘Very good, your Grace,’ Blackthorne muttered. ‘But your servants will pursue this matter? The Bishop of London demands certain answers. Sanctuary has been violated, a man cruelly slain close to the Blessed Sacrament. Sacrilege, blasphemy. The malefactor will be pursued?’
‘Day and night,’ the Recorder sang out. ‘I assure you, Master Blackthorne, this matter is never far
from our thoughts.’
‘And the other sanctuary men?’ The archdeacon purposefully ignored Sir Thomas’s sarcasm.
‘They are to be escorted to Thorpe Manor. A royal residence now partly derelict and desolate. However, the manor does provide some shelter and can be a place of residence. More importantly,’ Sir Thomas smiled falsely, ‘it’s only a short walk from Thorpe to the coast. The sanctuary men must make such a walk where they will meet a bum-boat despatched by a Breton cog, The Galicia, under its master Savereaux. Countess Margaret, I believe both that vessel and its captain are well known to you?’
‘Yes, yes. Savereaux is well regarded by Duke Francis and a man I trust, a most skilled seaman. I understand he has done service in many battles at sea. An experienced mariner, I am sure he will bring his ship in as close as possible. Once the sanctuary men are aboard, they will be safe.’
‘Will they now?’ Sir Thomas’s question was just above a whisper.
Urswicke kept his head down. Savereaux’s The Galicia was not only part of the Breton fleet but a cog which had already performed excellent service for Countess Margaret in giving safe and secure passage to those who had fled England after the disaster at Tewkesbury. Savereaux could be trusted implicitly, yet Christopher secretly wondered about the menace behind Sir Thomas’s question. What was his snake-like father plotting?
‘They will be safe, Sir Thomas?’ Margaret seized the opportunity to wring a pledge from the Recorder here before both Crown and Church.
‘They will be safe,’ the Recorder murmured, ‘as long as the sanctuary men keep to the established route, do not try to escape and observe all the rules and rituals laid down by canon law. If they do that, they have nothing to fear from us. However, if they choose to ignore what is clearly proclaimed, they will be summarily executed.’ Again, the false smile. ‘Let us hope,’ Sir Thomas’s good humour faded, ‘indeed, let us pray that the sanctuary men observe our edicts so we can banish them for good from this kingdom.’ He flailed his hands. ‘Let us wash them away like dirt down a sewer.’ The Recorder leaned across the table staring hard at the countess. ‘They will suffer permanent exile on pain of death.’ Sir Thomas Urswicke preened himself then stared down at the King, who nodded imperceptibly. The rest of the royal retinue, his two brothers included, murmured their approval.
‘And I will ensure that these men,’ the countess’s voice was hard and brittle, ‘observe all the rituals. Indeed, I shall accompany them.’ She delicately raised one gloved hand. ‘I do have some obligations to these men.’
‘Madam, be careful. They are retainers of your kinsman Jasper Tudor, an attainted traitor.’
‘My Lord of Clarence,’ Margaret retorted, ‘they are also kinsmen of my late and beloved husband Edmund. I do have certain obligations to them.’
‘They are still traitors.’
‘My Lord of Clarence,’ Margaret half smiled, ‘surely you know – we know – that treason is a moveable feast? What is treason on Monday can be something else by Friday. Times change, as do people. Do they not, my Lord?’ She stared meaningfully at this royal brother who had blithely betrayed his own family, kith and kin on more than one occasion. The King put his head down, one hand covering the side of his face. Richard of Gloucester smiled coldly whilst the other royal henchmen stirred restlessly.
‘Praise the Lord!’ Archdeacon Blackthorne swiftly intervened. ‘Madam, you have our permission to accompany your sanctuary men. But I will also send my own representative, Parson Austin Richards, parish priest of St Michael’s: his church has been polluted by Cromart’s murder and needs to be reconsecrated. The church now stands open and may continue to serve the parish, but Parson Austin was responsible for Cromart and he may wish to redeem himself by ensuring that the remaining sanctuary men stay safe. Moreover, Parson Austin has seen royal service: he is also most knowledgeable on the issue of sanctuary, its rights and privileges. You have no objection, Sir Thomas?’
‘No, none at all.’
Christopher caught a look between his father and the King and wondered what mischief Sir Thomas was stirring. Charming, pleasant faced, courteous and amiable, Christopher knew that such virtues were only a veneer. Sir Thomas was as treacherous as any snake: a man who, in the spirit of malicious fun, had betrayed his nearest and dearest one by one. No one was safe, be it Christopher’s mother, whom he tortured and abused with his constant dalliance around other women, or his relationship with his so-called allies at the Guildhall. If any of those posed a danger, Sir Thomas would strike and send former friends and allies to the scaffold without a second thought.
‘In which case …’ The Recorder rubbed his hands, staring down at the King as if searching for guidance. Edward just nodded. ‘In which case, one final matter,’ the Recorder cleared his throat, ‘or rather two. The traitor Guido Vavasour has been captured, taken up and interrogated, we have told you this. We are also searching for Vavasour’s brother Robert as well as for Gareth Morgan, who styles himself Pembroke. Both men may well, as our net closes in, choose to seek sanctuary, but we shall see. However, as I have already informed you, mistress, his Grace has also decided to clear the city churches of as many sanctuary seekers as possible. So when our cortege,’ he smiled at his oblique reference to a funeral procession, ‘gathers in God’s Acre at All Hallows by the Tower, they will be joined by five other felons destined to be transported across the Narrow Seas. Your Grace,’ the Recorder bowed towards the King, ‘that completes our business.’
‘I agree.’ Gloucester’s voice was hard and clipped as he pushed himself away from the table. ‘We do have other business, pressing business which, your Grace, demands your attention and, indeed, most of those gathered around this table.’
‘Yes, yes of course.’ Edward spoke quietly, as if to anticipate and prevent any trouble. Clarence was already bristling with arrogance, puffing himself up like the peacock he was.
‘Lady Anne Neville,’ Edward leaned forward, elbows resting on the table: the King’s mood, as was customary, had abruptly changed. He was no longer the charming prince but the warlord, a warrior King intent on preventing a bitter power struggle between his two brothers.
‘Lady Anne,’ Gloucester snapped, ‘has gone missing. Five days now. She was,’ he pointed an accusatory finger at Clarence, ‘in your riverside mansion.’
‘I agree, she was,’ Clarence retorted. ‘And then she disappeared. Lady Anne was seen cowled and cloaked near the buttery going out through the garden door. A brief description of something she did quite regularly. She certainly left and has not been seen since.’
‘An accident? Some mishap?’ Hastings, who seemed to be asleep, now stirred himself.
‘Or abducted?’ Lovel retorted.
‘And why do you look at me, sir?’ Clarence half rose, but then sat down again as the King beat upon the table.
‘The situation,’ Edward paused and took a deep breath, ‘is clear to all, though it could give rise to misinterpretation. You, George, are married to Isabel, daughter of Richard Warwick. He died leaving no male heir, but two daughters. If Anne Neville does not, cannot plead for her inheritance, then Isabel, and that means you, dear brother George, inherits everything. Whilst you,’ Edward pointed at Gloucester, ‘my loyal and faithful brother, have asked for the Lady Anne’s hand in marriage.’
‘And the common allegation being levelled,’ Clarence loudly declared, ‘is that somehow me or mine are involved in Lady Anne’s disappearance.’ He glanced at Mauclerc, and Urswicke caught the fury in Clarence’s face. ‘Tell them,’ he grated.
‘We have searched the city.’ Clarence’s henchman shook his head. ‘We have the lady’s description, quite distinctive, golden-haired of slim, slender build. Our retainers have scoured the taverns, the alehouses, any place where she could be imprisoned.’
‘As have mine,’ Gloucester interjected. ‘Nothing.’ The duke’s usual pallid face was now mottled in anger.
‘Whilst I,’ Archdeacon Blackthorne spoke up, ‘have written to
all nunneries, convents and any other cloister-communities demanding that they immediately report any attempt to intrude a young woman into their house.’ He shrugged. ‘Again, nothing.’
‘Your Grace,’ Countess Margaret demanded, ‘I deeply regret Lady Anne’s disappearance, as I do the hurt and division it has caused.’ Urswicke could only marvel at his mistress’s calm and reasonable response for, deep in her heart, the countess would like nothing better than these three brothers to be at war with each other. ‘Your Grace,’ she repeated, ‘given all that, why have I been summoned here?’
‘Invited,’ the King retorted. ‘Madam, you are our honoured guest, or whatever I suggest. There was the business of Pembroke and Vavasour and your presence was important because of that. As for this matter.’ The King pointed at Sir Thomas Urswicke.
‘The Lady Anne,’ the Recorder declared, ‘always spoke highly of you, Countess Margaret. In addition, we also know that you have many, how can I put it, faithful admirers across the city.’
‘Men and women devoted to my late husband Edmund.’
‘And his son Henry, now sheltering in Brittany?’
‘You may well be correct, Sir Thomas.’
‘In which case,’ the Recorder continued cheerily, ‘we ask you to use your good offices to make enquiries amongst them about Lady Anne. After all,’ the Recorder spread his hands, ‘His Grace the King has been most magnanimous in dealing with the matter of the sanctuary men, and his Grace will strive to sustain such favour.’
‘Especially if you aid us in this matter,’ Gloucester interjected. ‘I assure you, madam, as I have before, you also enjoy my protection and good favour. I am anxious about your present husband, Sir Henry Stafford. Indeed I will do all in my power to ensure that, if that unfortunate man dies, I will work unceasingly for your welfare. So, do we have your support in this matter? I ask you bluntly.’ Gloucester paused. ‘Will you come to the assistance of this hapless, innocent young woman?’