Dark Queen Waiting

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Yes, yes quite.’ Urswicke glanced at Bray. They had all agreed that the slayings at the Minoresses’ should be kept secret from Pembroke for as long as possible. ‘You acted as an emissary,’ Urswicke continued, ‘as an envoy between Tudor in Brittany and the countess.’

  ‘Very skilled,’ Margaret interjected. ‘I thought you very reliable and highly trustworthy.’

  ‘Yet the rot had set in, hadn’t it? During those secret meetings in London, when you acted the role of the wandering dung collector, be it that or a member of some mummers’ troupe. Such disguises could hide and protect you. Anyway,’ Urswicke sipped from his goblet, ‘during these secret forays into London, you also discovered that Parson Austin Richards, the royal chaplain who so bravely rescued you from Zeigler’s cruelty, was now parish priest at the ancient church of St Michael’s. Naturally you visited him. At first Parson Austin may not have realised who you were or what you were doing, but eventually his suspicions were aroused. He would come to realise that although the war was over, you were still a fervent adherent of the House of Lancaster. He could make careful search of the lists of those who had sued for a pardon as well as those who had not and were proscribed for that.’

  ‘Your name and title, along with those of other rebels, were posted on the cross at St Paul’s,’ Bray declared, ‘Parson Austin must have seen that proclamation.’

  ‘There was no need,’ Pembroke seemed more composed, ‘why should I deny it? Parson Austin was my confessor, both within and without the Sacrament.’

  ‘So he knew who you truly were? What you did and where your loyalties lay?’

  ‘Yes, Master Urswicke, he did.’

  ‘And I wager you expressed your true self. You were no longer a warrior from that battle group. You were tired, exhausted, bitter about the exile and the penury, the humiliation, the constant danger! Of being cut off from your country, your kith and kin, still following a cause which, to all intents and purposes, had been utterly destroyed.’ Pembroke’s eyes, glaring through the slits of his mask, never wavered. ‘You confessed your despair. You made yourself vulnerable to other persuasions. Parson Austin may have encouraged you in this. I cannot give you chapter and verse, but eventually the good parson informed a leading Yorkist in this city, a man dedicated to the total destruction of Lancaster.’

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘God forgive him, yes. A man of bounding ambition with the talent to match. He immediately saw the possibilities yes?’

  ‘I confess to nothing. I am simply your prisoner, forced to listen to what you say.’

  ‘Sir Thomas sowed seed on very fertile ground. He realised you were ripe for the plucking. For the first time ever, he had someone close to the countess and he pounced. Through the good parson, Sir Thomas turned your mind, subverted your loyalty and opened a new path for you to follow. No more exile, no more poverty, no persecution, no danger of being caught and suffering the most gruesome death. A royal pardon, yes? And your family, your mother and sister, taken out of Wales where they might suffer grievous harm once your change in allegiance became known.’ Urswicke paused. ‘And there was something else.’

  ‘Why should I espouse York?’ Pembroke touched his mask. ‘I wear this as a constant reminder of its enmity.’

  ‘Ah yes, I will come to that. Zeigler! That violent, nasty soul, the villain who threw you into the bear pit. Zeigler the killer, who left the service of York to immerse himself in the turbulent world of London’s rifflers. A dreadful mistake because he exposed himself to my devious father. Now …’ Urswicke paused, he glanced across at his mistress, who’d turned slightly away, as if she could not bear to look directly at their prisoner. Bray sat nursing an arbalest, ready and primed in his lap. He too did not look at Pembroke but stared into the fire, eyes half closed as he listened intently to what was being said.

  ‘I concede,’ Urswicke continued, aware of how dreamlike the hall had become, the glowing candles and leaping fire flames keeping back the threatening, creeping darkness, ‘I concede,’ he repeated, ‘that I do not know all the details. However, my dear father offered you one further lure, the best of bribes. You know what I am talking about, the total destruction of Zeigler. He offered you revenge, to personally witness Zeigler’s execution, being hanged on the common gibbet above Tyburn stream. He watched Zeigler like a cat would a mouse. Zeigler the riffler took part in an alleged raid on a warehouse where two men were killed. Innocent or guilty, my father would not care. Zeigler was arrested and tried. He was found guilty and the prospect of watching him hang was conveyed to you. My father didn’t care for Zeigler, he intended to use him. The riffler’s trial and imprisonment were managed carefully so you would be in London when sentence was carried out.’ Urswicke picked up the goblet of Bordeaux and took a deep sip. He stared around to reassure himself. All the battered doors out of the manor were firmly locked; the three carters would act as guards whilst the maid Edith, as she still styled herself, was confined to her chamber.

  ‘You will not accuse Parson Austin?’ Pembroke exclaimed. ‘He did no wrong.’

  ‘Oh yes, Parson Austin,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘You know that we cannot move against him. He is a priest well favoured by the crown. In fact, I believe the good parson to be a man of integrity and I suspect he was no more than a messenger, an envoy, a conduit for the treachery which flowed between you and my father. Parson Austin may have been aware of the process but not the conclusions. Whatever, you made your decision. You confirmed your choices. Zeigler’s condemnation would only have reinforced your determination to plough your own treacherous furrow.

  ‘And our Recorder would have demanded a high price,’ Margaret declared. ‘The betrayal of your companions, indeed anyone supporting the Tudor cause. And he was successful,’ she added bitterly, ‘we soon realised there was a traitor in our midst. Both I and kinsman Jasper became deeply concerned. Cromart and others were murdered but some members of the Red Dragon Battle Group have simply disappeared, wiped off the face of the earth as if they never existed. Were they murdered?’ She shrugged. ‘Have they fled our cause and now shelter in hiding? Have they assumed new names, different trades, moved to different parts of the kingdom? We don’t know.’

  ‘You may have had a hand in all of this,’ Urswicke accused, ‘but then the final and deadliest part of your treachery began with your journey back to England, ostensibly to support the surviving members of the Red Dragon Battle Group. My father must have been delighted. Our countess, fearful of what was happening to her retainers, had advised them to seek sanctuary in London churches and she would arrange the rest. You determined on a totally different course of action, a deadly jab at the heart of our mistress’s cause. You left Brittany on board De Vere’s ship, it docked at Dordrecht giving you fresh opportunities to advise York about what was happening. The Glory of Lancaster then slipped through the straits of Dover, aiming like a well-loosed arrow up along the Essex coast, cutting through the Northern Seas keeping as close as possible to the shoreline. De Vere’s ship was in fact being kept under close and constant scrutiny both by land and sea. When it hoved to off Walton, my father and his comitatus would ensure they also reached the agreed location at the agreed time. Our high and mighty Recorder simply had to wait as those two Flemish carracks did.’ Urswicke picked up his goblet, gesturing at Bray to continue the indictment.

  ‘Oxford’s ship would have been keenly watched in its voyage north. Fishing smacks, herring boats and other such craft would soon take note of a great war cog, it truly was just a matter of waiting.’ Bray cleared his throat. ‘What was plotted that night was a mortal blow to the House of Tudor. The Glory of Lancaster would be attacked and destroyed, a leading supporter of Tudor, the Earl of Oxford, either captured or slain. As for the four members of the Red Dragon Battle Group on board, well, three of these would be killed whilst the fourth, you the traitor, would run free to wreak even more hideous damage to our cause.’

  Pembroke just sat shaking his head, whispering beneath his b
reath. Urswicke realised the traitor would understand he could not escape the guilt of the indictment laid against him. He could not walk away free and unpunished. In fact, Urswicke suspected that their prisoner was desperately searching for a compromise. Something to win protection for at least his kin who, as he would soon discover, were now beyond all such help.

  ‘At the same time,’ Urswicke continued, ‘my father wanted to weaken the countess even further. He would strike at her two loyal henchmen, myself and Master Bray. He hired assassins to murder my friend, though he gave them instructions not to harm me. I suppose even my father feels some faint moral responsibility. We killed both of them, but one of the assassins, as he lay dying, mumbled something about me not being the intended victim, or words to that effect. We were watched and we were followed. York then tried to delay my friend Bray in London to assist in the fruitless search for Lady Anne Neville.’

  ‘I was alone,’ Bray interjected, ‘more assassins were despatched to kill me. They also failed.’ Bray leaned forward. ‘You once told us how you went down amongst the Dead Men, those nightmare figures who prowl London’s underworld. You could move easily among such sinners, hiding behind your mask, pretending to be a dung collector, the lowest of the low. Did you, masked and cowled, hire those assassins on behalf of the Recorder? Did he furnish you with gold as he did to pay for your mother and sister’s sojourn at the Minoresses’? If he didn’t pay, who did? You are a fugitive, or supposed to be, constantly in hiding. You have little treasure. My mistress and Lord Jasper provided some sustenance. However, such lodgings amongst the good nuns are costly. Where did you get the means to hire a chamber there for days, even weeks?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Where did you get such monies?’ the countess demanded. ‘I doubt if your mother and sister could afford all the costs of a long journey from Wales and a prolonged stay in the city. I never gave you such monies and, strangely, you never asked for any. So, who paid?’

  ‘You do not understand,’ Pembroke retorted. ‘You could never feel what I did …’

  ‘An admission of guilt?’ the countess demanded. ‘That you, Gareth Morgan, popularly known as Pembroke, my supposedly loyal man is, in fact, a traitor and an assassin?’

  ‘I concede nothing.’ Pembroke’s voice turned more defiant. ‘If I am guilty, then execute me and let’s be done with it.’

  ‘No, no,’ the countess shook her head, ‘that is not my way. You must confess. You must openly admit to your crimes. You killed your comrades for what, profit? Self-advancement for yourself and your kin because you were tired? Oh no, I want to know the reason why and, more importantly, I need you to open a door into the minds and souls of those who persecute us. You must have information about them. Christopher?’

  ‘You murdered,’ Urswicke returned to his indictment, ‘you killed so as to weaken the Tudor cause, to strike at the very roots of support for our mistress. However, you were also searching for something truly valuable to both her and York, the so-called Dragon Cipher. A document which, behind secret symbols, provided a detailed description of all those who supported our mistress in Wales – be they officials, the gentry, the Church – and the whereabouts of stores and weapons. Once you had that, York would move to root out all those named. The same silent struggle would take place in South Wales as occurred elsewhere. Members of the Red Dragon Battle Group would either disappear or die in the most mysterious circumstances. Those Flemish carracks were to land assassins in Wales once the cipher had been seized and the House of York had the information they needed.’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Pembroke shook his head. ‘I admit there was chatter about the cipher.’

  ‘You killed because of it,’ the countess declared. ‘Now the Dragon Cipher does exist. Lord Jasper and I have mentioned it in messages back and forth. Sometimes we would make open reference to the cipher, I suppose,’ she sighed, ‘and it is logical that those who wanted to seize it believed that it was carried by a member of the Red Dragon Battle Group, that it was hidden where couriers often conceal such messages, in a secret pocket on their warbelt. We fostered such a belief as it suited our own secret purposes. We wanted to distract York, to mislead our opponents.’ She crossed herself. ‘God forgive us, it led to dreadful betrayal and hideous murder, but we did not intend that. At the time we did not realise the malevolence of the enemy within.’ The countess tapped the side of her head. ‘The cipher was common knowledge amongst the Red Dragon Battle Group but none of them had it. The only person who knows it in its entirety is me, Master Pembroke.’ She leaned forward and again touched the side of her head. ‘I have it here in my soul at the very core of my being. Times, places and people, those who espouse our cause, not only in Wales but here in London and throughout the kingdom.’ The countess spoke so forcefully there was absolute silence when she had finished. She then pointed at Pembroke. ‘So, despite all your crimes and sins, you were in truth hunting a will-of-the-wisp, a mere form without substance.’

  ‘You certainly hunted.’ Urswicke returned to his indictment. ‘You and the three others were on board The Glory of Lancaster as it made its way along the Essex coast. You were put ashore and immediately my father pounced.’ Urswicke shrugged. ‘But you know all this. Two of your comrades were seized and hanged, their belts taken. They were shown little mercy. My father knew they would tell little. More importantly, you realised that the ambuscade on the beach would eventually confirm our deep suspicions about a traitor in the countess’s household. If those men had been spared, it might have only been a matter of time before such suspicion fell upon you, who, with Vavasour, managed to escape. Did those two other men, as they were seized, realise that something was very wrong? Did they glimpse that deliberate gap in those milling horsemen for you to escape?’

  ‘As did Guido Vavasour,’ Pembroke retorted.

  ‘Precisely,’ Urswicke agreed. ‘And that explains what happened in London with poor Guido. Forget all that nonsense about you not knowing where Vavasour and his brother were hiding. You knew Guido was sheltering in the cellar of The Hanging Tree tavern. You also knew Guido would be demanding the same truth as we did. What did happen at Walton? Who did betray their landing? He would also hear, as the entire city did, about Cromart’s murder in St Michael’s. I can only speculate, but did Vavasour realise that all these disasters began with that landing at Walton? Did Vavasour also detect something amiss during that sea voyage from Brittany?’ Urswicke wetted his lips. ‘Only you, Pembroke, knew what would happen on that beach. We are talking about a matter of heartbeats. To cut to the quick, you were allowed to escape and Vavasour followed you. Did he later sense that something was very wrong? I admit it is speculation,’ Urswicke declared, ‘but Vavasour was a highly intelligent man, a skilled courier, a man with sharp mind and nimble wits. He would certainly ask questions. Only God knows what these were, but you had to silence him. Of course, Vavasour was captured and interrogated. Now, the question could be asked, why didn’t you murder him as you did the rest? Would that be too close to the bone? Provoke even greater speculation about you and your true allegiance? Or did my father want to interrogate that poor soul in the torture chamber beneath the White Tower? Yes, I am sure the Recorder had his own nefarious purposes; nevertheless Vavasour’s arrest and interrogation also protected you. Ostensibly you could not possibly have been involved in Vavasour’s seizure as you didn’t even know where he was hiding. It would strengthen the suspicion that the traitor must be somebody else.’

  Urswicke stared hard at the prisoner. ‘Why was Vavasour tortured?’ Urswicke continued. ‘To reveal secrets about the countess, the whereabouts of the Dragon Cipher? Whatever, Vavasour was brutalised, his tongue torn out lest he speak. You see Pembroke, I only have slender proof for this but I suspect that Vavasour, after he’d been seized, realised that you were the traitor. As I have said, perhaps he noticed something on board that ship, or was it that York closed in so fast? Or was it simply that the only person who knew he was hiding
in that cellar at The Hanging Tree was you?’

  ‘Vavasour,’ the countess spoke up, ‘tried to warn us as he was led out to execution. York wanted me to feast on that disaster, watch a loyal and devoted retainer be cruelly despatched. Was Vavasour taunted with that? That I would be forced to witness such an outrage whilst he could do nothing about it, battered and bruised, his mouth an open wound, his tongue removed? They did not want him to speak, to voice his suspicions,’ she crossed herself, ‘Jesu miserere, Guido was so sharp and keen, loyal to the last. God knows how long he languished in that dungeon but, quick-witted as ever, he realised he could do one thing, so he put his hand over his face, fingers splayed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was accusing you,’ Urswicke declared heatedly; ‘he was, with his fingers, imitating a mask, as well as desperately trying to form words which he could not utter. He was levelling an accusation at a man wearing a mask, that was you.’ Urswicke stared into the darkness around him. ‘So much I do not know, but poor Guido was accusing you, and the testimony of a dying man is sacred.’

  ‘As for Robert Vavasour.’ Bray edged forward in his chair, finger pointing.

  ‘I was with you when Robert revealed where he was hiding, that message was delivered by a street swallow.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Urswicke snapped, ‘you knew where Robert Vavasour was staying. Indeed, I wager you advised him to lodge at a tavern patronised by the Guild of Dung Collectors, the very disguise you used to move through this city. You lured Robert there and you killed him.’

  ‘Why should I kill Robert?’

  ‘First, he was a member of the battle group. Secondly, he was a confidant of the countess. Thirdly, he may have also had his suspicions and, most importantly, there was the real danger that Guido had sent messages to his brother, yes? Shared secrets with him? And, finally, there was always the possibility that Robert Vavasour was the one who held the Dragon Cipher. Now whatever you claim,’ Urswicke shook his head, ‘I am sure you can prime an arbalest as skilled as any man. You are a soldier, a man-at-arms. So, to return to my indictment, Robert went up to that chamber in The Devil’s Cellar. He would be frightened, wary, he would lock himself in. I am not too sure whether he knew his brother had been taken up and executed, yet Robert was no fool, Cromart’s murder was public knowledge and he would at least worry about where his brother might be. He would wait for you locked in his chamber. You, dressed as a dung collector, wandered in. As I have said, The Devil’s Cellar is a hostelry for the Guild of Dung Collectors. You’d know all about the tavern, especially that frame fastened to the taproom wall, close to the buttery, where a second key to Robert’s chamber hung along with others. In the confusion and chaos of that day, during which the tavern’s jake’s pots and cesspits were emptied, you took that key and went up to Robert’s room. He let you in. You lifted your arbalest and killed him. You then searched for any documents and took Robert’s warbelt in the hope that the Dragon Cipher might be concealed there.’