by Paul Doherty
Urswicke then rode back to his mistress. Bray had made their encampment more comfortable. The three carters sheltered behind the carriage whilst Edith was warm enough inside with blankets and a finger-warmer, a small chaffing dish crammed with scraps of glowing charcoal. Urswicke, Bray and the countess crouched before the fire as Urswicke, pleading with them to be silent, described the conclusions he’d reached during his journey from London which, he toasted Bray with his cup, had only been corroborated and supplemented by what he’d been told. Urswicke had prepared his bill of indictment, as he called it, and delivered it as skilfully as any lawyer would before King’s Bench at Westminster. Once he had finished, both the countess and Bray questioned him closely but then accepted that both the indictment and the conclusions Urswicke had listed were logical and based on reasonable evidence. The assassin, the traitor had lurked in full view, yet he was, in all logic and truth, the one common factor in all that had occurred.
‘I believe you, Christopher,’ the countess murmured. ‘As you know I nursed my own suspicions. I beg pardon if I seemed to lack trust in you but, of course, Christopher, that’s what your father worked so hard to achieve. The Tudor tree grows strong and supple and your father has tried to slash its roots. However, in all truth, what you say echoes with what I now suspect.’
‘But are you sure, certain, because sentence must follow swiftly?’ Bray declared.
Urswicke was repeating his arguments when one of the carters shouted for him. Urswicke rose, walked out of the shelter, and raised a hand in greeting at the Breton sailor who had first accosted him on the beach.
‘Monsieur Christopher,’ the man pushed his way carefully through the gorse, ‘monsieur, our master says we must go. It is time. The news about what happened here will spread. We need to lose ourselves out at sea.’ He grinned. ‘Monsieur Savereaux believes the sun will create a thick mist and we shall be most grateful for that. Monsieur Christopher, please inform the countess we have now finished all our business and fair stands the wind …’
Urswicke beckoned him closer and spoke pointedly about what the countess wanted. The Breton looked surprised but he pulled a face, shrugged and said they would do what was asked.
‘Nevertheless, monsieur,’ he added, ‘we must go. You must bring your lady down to the beach as soon as possible.’
Within the hour, Urswicke and Bray, both carrying an arbalest already primed, with a quiver of bolts attached to their warbelts, escorted the countess down to the water’s edge where the ship’s boats stood ready. Once she had left the sand hills, the countess paused and stared back along the beach. She glimpsed the gallows, turned and walked slowly towards it. She stood, whispering the Jesus prayer as she stared at the soaring three-branched scaffold standing gauntly on a hillock, a sinister shadow against the light-blue sky.
‘Is that the gibbet?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘Is that where the corpses of my two poor retainers were hanged?’
‘Yes, my Lady, but don’t distress yourself with such memories, or what you see now.’
‘So ghastly, so ghastly,’ the countess breathed.
‘Mistress, do not concern yourself,’ Urswicke repeated, standing behind the countess. He glanced around. The signs of the recent conflict had been cleared from the beach. Only blackened spars and splinters from the carracks floated on the incoming tide. The corpses of those pirates who’d reached the shore had been stripped and dragged across to the gibbet, now decorated with at least a dozen cadavers, ropes lashed about their necks, their dirty-white flesh exhibiting the death wounds inflicted. A macabre, chilling sight. The dead men just hung, swaying slightly. Nothing more than hunks of flesh, bereft of all dignity.
‘Truly a place of violent death,’ Margaret declared. ‘In this lonely place, ghosts must ride the winds, carried back and forth on the tide until reparation is made. Reginald, Christopher,’ she beckoned both henchmen closer, ‘when this is finished and we return to London, despatch a cohort of men to take these corpses down. Bury them honourably in the poor man’s plot of the nearest church. Give the priest a purse of coins to cover the cost of the death pit, as well as to sing requiem masses for the repose of the souls of all those killed here. Yes?’
‘It will be done,’ Bray replied.
‘My Lady!’ a voice shouted.
Margaret lifted her head, smiled and hastened to greet Savereaux, the captain of The Galicia, who went down on one knee, kissed her beringed fingers and rose, his bearded face wreathed in a smile. For a while they exchanged pleasantries, discussing what had happened. The Breton master clasped hands with both Bray and Urswicke, thanking them for all they had done. He turned back to the countess. ‘My Lady, we must be gone. I assure you,’ he declared, ‘as long as I have breath and a ship, I will be at your disposal and take you safely wherever you want. You have my word on that. But first I have a prisoner for you, you might find him interesting.’ Savereaux stumbled over the English. ‘Come, come, my Lady.’ He led them across to the bum-boat, now riding on the strengthening tide at the water’s edge. He rattled out orders to the two seamen on guard. These went round the bum-boat and dragged out a red-haired prisoner, thin and white as a willow wand, with blinking green eyes and a pock-marked face. He was brought to kneel before Savereaux, who promptly slapped him on the face and poked him in the chest.
‘Tell the countess,’ Savereaux leaned down, ‘tell the lady what you told my henchmen when the sea tossed you ashore and you begged for your life. We recognised you were English so we gave you a hearing. So come, come, I haven’t time to waste. Speak the truth or I will cut your throat.’
‘My name is Norreys,’ the prisoner gabbled, ‘a seaman who hails from Hunstanton in Norfolk. I know this coastline like the back of my hand. I drifted into London some weeks ago where Keysler, master of The Sea Hawk recruited me.’
Bray, now intrigued, crouched down to face the prisoner. ‘So you claim not to be a pirate?’ he taunted.
‘I am a navigator,’ Norreys retorted, ‘hired because of my knowledge of this kingdom’s eastern coast. I am being honest. I brought in The Sea Hawk against The Glory of Lancaster. It was easy to track. That cog escaped but not due to me. I did the same today when we closed on The Galicia. Sir, I do what I am paid to do, nothing more.’
Bray stared hard at Norreys as he wracked his memory and recalled Keysler and the others clustered at the foot of the great mast. ‘Yes, yes,’ Bray murmured. ‘I saw you with the rest gathered by Keysler to plan your journey. Your fiery-red hair caught my eye.’ Bray grinned. ‘Indeed, it may secure your life. What do you have to tell the countess?’
‘Sir Thomas Urswicke hired the Flemings.’
‘We know that.’
‘He is set,’ Norreys squinted up, ‘he is set on your total destruction.’
‘We also know that,’ Urswicke snapped, crouching beside Bray. Norreys peered at Christopher, smiled and pointed a finger.
‘You are young Urswicke, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said, Keysler did, that you were really your father’s minion, his spy on the countess and, in the end, you would strike at her as he would. Keysler claimed to have heard this direct from Sir Thomas’s mouth.’
‘I am sure he did,’ Christopher retorted, hiding his unease at Bray’s sharp intake of breath. Urswicke tapped the pommel of his dagger, wondering what his father really knew. Christopher played the game of being a professional spy who would sell anyone and anything for the right price. He fed his father juicy morsels but nothing significant. Did his father genuinely believe that his son would one day join him, or was he trying to force a deadly breach between himself and the countess?
‘That’s what he said,’ Norreys exclaimed.
‘Peace, peace,’ the countess murmured. ‘Norreys,’ she continued, ‘why should Keysler tell you this?’
‘We gathered for discussion. Keysler’s henchmen were very wary about entering English waters and attacking a Breton ship.’
‘Of course,
they would be,’ the countess replied. ‘If Keysler sank a Breton vessel, a host of troubles would descend. Duke Francis would not take it kindly, especially the loss of a cog like The Galicia along with its most experienced captain.’
‘There’s more,’ Norreys stammered. ‘Keysler informed us that once this business was finished, we would return to London to collect certain individuals, then go through the Narrow Seas and stand off the coast of Wales. This was to be a new task. We were to land assassins there, but that’s all I know. Keysler described it as a great enterprise supported by Sir Thomas Urswicke,’ Norreys looked meaningfully at Christopher, ‘and his son.’
‘And who were these assassins?’ Bray demanded.
‘Sir, I don’t know, but apparently they would do great damage to the Tudor cause in Wales. Keysler was very happy with this. He said the task would take months and we would all be well paid. And that is it. Mistress,’ Norreys looked pleadingly at the countess, ‘what will happen to me now?’
‘We cannot let him go,’ Urswicke declared, trying to hide his own disquiet. ‘He cannot be allowed …’
‘I could join the Bretons,’ Norreys retorted. ‘I am a veteran seaman, a plotter of courses.’ He fell silent as the countess raised her hand and turned to Savereaux.
‘I am always searching for good mariners, my Lady. We will take him. He is a navigator and he has been of use to you.’
‘He certainly has,’ Margaret replied, ‘and if you take him, he will not be able to tell anyone else what he has witnessed.’
‘And if he does,’ Savereaux bent down and glared into Norreys’s face, ‘if he breaks his word or the indenture he is about to seal, God help him because I won’t.’
Norreys was bundled away and the countess then moved to clasp hands with the sanctuary men, distributing coins and thanking them for their work. Urswicke watched her as he reflected on what Norreys had told them. He was sure that both the countess and Bray trusted him fully but, there again, there was always that deep unease when it came to his father. He and the Recorder were locked in a deadly shadow fight and Christopher put his hopes in his father’s one profound miscalculation: Sir Thomas could never really believe or accept that his son was a fervent adherent of the House of Lancaster and Tudor in particular. As long as his father continued in that delusion, Christopher felt he was safe. Nevertheless, he quietly promised himself that he would do all in his power to continue this deception of the honourable Recorder. Meanwhile, he turned to Bray standing beside him.
‘Soon,’ Urswicke whispered, ‘we will strike soon.’
PART SIX
‘Lo! the Book Exactly Worded, Wherein All Hath Been Recorded’
Both Urswicke and Bray watched as the countess approached Pembroke, now standing slightly apart from the others. When she reached him, the countess simply stared sadly and beckoned Urswicke and Bray forward. They hastened to obey and, with the help from the Bretons whom Urswicke had advised about this, seized Pembroke in a short, savage scuffle. The masked man screamed his protests and fought back, but at last he was bound fast around the arms and chest. Urswicke and Bray pulled him away whilst the countess spoke to the others saying there were matters which had to be dealt with. She thanked them all for their loyalty and declared that Lord Jasper would reward them further as well as provide comfortable refuge. She nodded at Savereaux, who immediately ordered all the sanctuary men into the waiting boats.
The countess raised a hand in farewell and followed Urswicke and Bray, now helped by the three carters, to drag a still protesting Pembroke up into the sand hills. The countess returned to her carriage; her two henchmen forced their prisoner to mount Urswicke’s horse and the small procession made its way along the narrow trackway to a now deserted Thorpe Manor. Thankfully, Sir Thomas had been in such a hurry to leave, the gate to the cobbled yard hung open; they entered then forced a door into the house itself. Urswicke and Bray pulled Pembroke from the saddle and hustled him through the stone-paved kitchen into the small hall, which still reeked of the food cooked the night before. The prisoner was lashed securely to a chair. Urswicke whispered to Bray to kindle a fire in the hearth as well as one in the cleanest bedchamber he could find for the countess and her mysterious maid. Urswicke heatedly insisted that Edith stay in her room until this business was finished. He then informed the countess that he would leave for a short while to ensure The Galicia had safely set sail into the Northern Seas.
Urswicke, once satisfied that Pembroke was held fast and that Bray would take care of all matters within, returned cloaked and hooded to the courtyard. The carters were busy unharnessing the horses as well as moving coffers and chests into the manor. Urswicke had a few words with them and mounted his own horse. The day was drawing on, though the weather remained crystal clear, the sky was cloud free whilst the autumn sun provided some meagre warmth. Urswicke rode to the headland and stared out to sea. He heaved a deep sigh of relief. The bum-boats had reached the cog, which was now turning to catch the stiff northern breeze, its mainsail billowing and bulging, whilst from the top of the masthead the colours of Duke Francis fluttered bravely. Urswicke glanced to his right and left but he could detect no other vessel. The sea was empty except for the fast-disappearing cog which would soon lose itself in the vastness of the fast-running northern waters.
Urswicke continued to stare as he reflected on what was about to happen and how he had reached the conclusions of his indictment. He fully recognised that the House of York and its minions, his father in particular, had plotted to root up the Tudor tree, both at home and abroad. They’d cast their net wide across sea and land, totally intent on destroying any support for the countess. He suspected that his father would never accept that his son was the countess’s man, body and soul, in peace and war. Such a miscalculation was a matter of pride to the Recorder, both as a father and as a minion of York. Nevertheless, Christopher also acknowledged that something had to be done to check his father’s constant attacks on the countess. Norreys had confessed how Keysler was to be used to land assassins in Wales and, of course, if Sir Thomas’s plot had been successful, these men would have been armed with all the information contained in the Dragon Cipher. They would know which officials were loyal, which parish churches concealed weapons for war, what taverns, religious houses and manors espoused the Tudor cause. Such men could have inflicted considerable damage, be it the assassination of some official or the destruction of armaments and other impedimenta.
Christopher started as a fox yipped shrilly from the gorse beside him. The eerie stillness of the beach was broken, seabirds cawed back, whilst the clamour of the waves grew as the tide swept in. The Galicia eventually disappeared, leaving nothing but a lonely beach littered with debris from the carracks, and the occasional corpse swept in on the fast-running waves. Urswicke glanced to his left at the great scaffold with its truly macabre burden. He recalled those two unfortunates, stabbed to death and slung like carrion from those pitch-black beams. Some compassionate soul must have cut the cadavers down and given them a semblance of Christian burial. The souls of those men and others now demanded justice, and Urswicke was determined they would get it. He would not be deterred by his father’s malicious mischief. He suspected Bray felt discomfort indeed, he always had, that his closest ally was the son of his greatest enemy. Nevertheless, whatever happened, Christopher knew the countess would stand by him as he would her for all time. He murmured a prayer, crossed himself, turned his horse and rode back to the manor.
Bray had been busy, the fire in the hall’s mantled hearth now flamed fiercely. The countess, wary of the carters, had sustained the pretence about Edith the maid. The young woman had dined and returned to her chamber, while the carters were happily closeted in the small buttery broaching a casket of ale. Before they had adjourned there, the men had helped Bray tie Pembroke fast to the chair, but had left the prisoner’s hands and arms free so he could eat and drink whatever Bray had given him. Urswicke swiftly broke his own fast then he, Bray and the countess
sat on chairs facing the prisoner.
‘I would like to remove your mask,’ the countess began, ‘so I can clearly see your face, whatever its wound. Yet, I suppose, that does not really concern me. What strikes me to the heart are the very deep wounds you have inflicted on me and mine. Gareth Morgan, popularly known as Pembroke,’ Margaret’s voice grew stronger and more vibrant, ‘you truly are a Judas man, a dyed-in-the-wool traitor and the most sinister assassin. You cannot be tried before the King’s justiciars, for indeed, they have played a part in the malignant conspiracies and foul treasons committed against me and mine. I cannot plead to the Crown or its ministers, men totally bent on my utter destruction. Instead, I invoke the ancient customs of the lords of Pembroke, the very name you adopted. I have, according to its laws, the God-given right of a seigneur to hold court and pass judgement. I do so know.’ Pembroke, fastened firmly to the chair, just slumped, head down. ‘If you are innocent,’ Margaret continued, ‘then you can plead with counter-argument. But the case weighs heavily against you. Christopher!’
‘I shall begin,’ Urswicke declared. ‘Gareth Morgan born in Pembroke, you are a Welshman to your very heart. A retainer of the House of Tudor whose livery you wore. You swore the most solemn oath to be loyal to that house even to death. You gave great trust and even greater trust was shown you. You were patronised and favoured by my countess and others of her family. You formed and led the Red Dragon Battle Group at Tewkesbury. After that disastrous defeat, you and others fled to Lord Jasper Tudor and our mistress’s son exiled in Brittany. You, like all of your coven, tasted the bitter dregs of defeat; refuge in foreign parts, penury and poverty, not to mention your total exclusion from your own homeland, your kith and kin. In your case, a mother and sister whom, I suspect, you were devoted to …’
‘Were?’ Pembroke abruptly lifted his head. ‘You said were?’