Dark Queen Waiting

by Paul Doherty

  ‘What did he do?’ the countess demanded.

  ‘Until his capture, Vavasour truly believed that you, Christopher Urswicke, were the spy, the traitor in the Tudor camp. I encouraged him in that belief. He told me that if I was ever taken up, he would confess the same, so your father would realise that you had been unmasked. Guido also vowed that if he safely returned to Brittany, he would advise Lord Jasper to warn the countess. I supported him in this, providing what scraps of evidence I could. I also informed your father of the same when I told him that Vavasour was hiding in the cellars of The Hanging Tree.’

  ‘But how can this be?’ the countess demanded. ‘When poor Guido was dragged from the dungeons of the White Tower to be hanged on that scaffold, he approached me. He splayed his fingers to cover his face. We later realised he was imitating a mask. Master Christopher, Reginald, you argued the same?’

  ‘Something happened during Guido’s interrogation,’ Pembroke replied, ‘but the only person that knows the truth about that will be Sir Thomas and those who tortured Vavasour, yet what does it matter now? You will discover soon enough. Your father is truly treacherous, Urswicke. I believe he tortured Vavasour. Guido persisted in his belief that you were the traitor then your father whispered in his ear that it was in fact me. He would enjoy that. He also ensured that Vavasour, even in the few hours left to him, would never be able to tell that truth to anyone else.’ Pembroke’s voice was now weary, a man who knew that he was condemned and death was imminent. ‘Countess, my Lady,’ he touched the mask on his face, ‘for what it is worth I am truly sorry. Promise me again that you will light candles and have requiem masses sung by a chantry priest for the good of my soul and those of my kin.’

  ‘I promise.’ The countess’s voice was harsh.

  ‘And one last favour.’ Pembroke strained against the ropes. ‘I have a powder secreted on me.’ Again he touched the mask on his face. ‘When the pain comes, the potion eases the hurt. Too little is useless, too much would send me into an eternal sleep. If I confess even more, will you allow me that?’ The countess glanced at Bray and Urswicke and both her henchmen nodded in agreement. ‘As God is my witness,’ Pembroke breathed. ‘Be on your guard, mistress, against the Recorder. He hates you for who you are and what you do. He passionately resents the control you seem to have over his son. I am sure,’ Pembroke continued hoarsely, ‘that in the very near future, before Yuletide comes and goes, Sir Thomas will proclaim “The last and true confession of Guido Vavasour, traitor”. He will have this published in some broadsheet by a London bookseller, probably the one who trades under the sign of The Red Keg close to St Paul’s. Copies of this proclamation will be posted on the Cross in the graveyard there, as well as in Cheapside.’

  ‘And?’ Christopher fought off a shiver of ice-cold fear; he almost sensed what Pembroke was about to say.

  ‘Everything,’ Pembroke retorted, ‘everything I have done will be ascribed to you, Master Christopher.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In your indictment, you claimed that I was the common factor in all these deaths. However, you were at Walton-on-the-Naze and so was your father. You were in London when Cromart was murdered, when Guido was taken up and his brother captured in that tavern cellar. This final confession will argue that you were at Thorpe Manor when Conwar died and so on and so on.’ Pembroke cleared his throat. ‘Copies of this alleged confession would be despatched to Duke Francis and Lord Jasper in Brittany. You, Master Urswicke, will be depicted as the traitor in the countess’s household and who can gainsay it? The Vavasours are dead and, if Sir Thomas had his way, everyone else who boarded The Galicia.’

  ‘My father,’ Christopher snarled, ‘may tarnish my name. He has done so before in the hope of driving a real wedge between myself and the countess.’

  ‘Ah, but have you been accused of being the countess’s lover?’ Pembroke paused, twisting in the chair. Urswicke just gaped in surprise. The countess whispered a prayer and turned to Bray who simply shrugged.

  ‘This true confession despatched to Brittany and Lord Jasper.’ Pembroke continued remorselessly and Urswicke suspected the prisoner took some pleasure in this revelation. ‘The true confession,’ Pembroke repeated, ‘would describe a countess who is obsessed, who dotes on her young clerk so much so that she will never believe that you, Master Urswicke, caress her with one hand and betray her with the other. A woman who is truly witless when it comes to you. A countess who wouldn’t even accept the warnings of her other henchman, Reginald Bray.’

  ‘God forgive the blasphemy,’ Bray interjected. He clutched the arbalest even tighter. ‘In my early days I did warn the countess. I did advise her to be prudent but Christopher has proved his loyalty more than enough. I trust him as I do myself.’

  ‘But of course,’ the countess declared, ‘who can refute such an outrageous claim? If Sir Thomas had his way, Bray would now be dead, his mouth silenced and his murder placed at Christopher’s door!’

  ‘Sir Thomas is capable of anything. He is known for his cunning and, as for his son,’ Urswicke caught the hatred in Pembroke’s voice, ‘well, people will argue that the apple always falls close to the tree.’

  ‘Enough!’ the countess, her pale face mottled with anger, sprang to her feet. ‘Enough!’ She clutched her stomach, heaved a great sigh and sat down again. She put her face in her hands, whispering a prayer, then glanced up. ‘Is there anything else?’ she murmured, pointing at Pembroke. ‘I adjure you. Is there anything else you could, you should in all justice confess to me?’

  ‘My Lady, I am sorry.’

  ‘On that,’ she replied, ‘we both agree. I have promised and I will keep my pledge. Masses will be offered for the repose of your soul and those of your family.’

  ‘My Lady, thank you. I beg you to make it swift.’

  Urswicke recalled Vavasour, mouth all bloodied, being dragged from the torture chambers to strangle on that high gibbet. He was about to remind the countess about that when Bray rose to his feet and walked over to confront the prisoner.

  ‘Swift?’ he demanded.

  ‘As swift as you can.’ Pembroke stared up at Bray.

  ‘Then God speed you.’

  Bray stepped back, raised the arbalest and, before Urswicke or the countess could intervene, released the catch so the barbed bolt sped out to take Pembroke deep in the left side of his chest, a killing blow to the heart. The prisoner rocked backwards and forwards in his chair then lurched forward, vomiting blood, which gushed like a fountain out of his nose and mouth. Pembroke gargled for a while before he slumped forward, head down.

  ‘We could have let him take the powder,’ Urswicke protested.

  ‘Aye, and we could also continue to listen to him spout his wickedness.’

  ‘Not truly his,’ the countess retorted, ‘but, God forgive him, your father’s.’

  ‘Justice has been done,’ Bray declared, putting the arbalest down. He crossed and examined Pembroke’s corpse. He pressed a hand against his victim’s throat. ‘I feel no life beat,’ he muttered. ‘Pembroke is dead and gone to judgement. Christopher, help me.’ They searched the corpse carefully but found nothing untoward, except a pouch of white powder which Bray threw into the fire. ‘I wonder,’ Bray whispered, staring down at the corpse which they had laid out on the floor, ‘I wonder if Pembroke ever realised we suspected him?’

  ‘He may have done,’ Urswicke replied. ‘Perhaps he hid this? Perhaps he trusted my father’s plan for him, until those Flemish carracks appeared, and what could he do then? If he tried to escape, I could have ridden him down, not to mention the two guards my father left. They would know nothing except a sanctuary man had escaped, trying to flee, so he could be killed out of hand.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Pembroke must have been as surprised as anyone at what truly unfolded.’

  ‘Remove him.’ The countess turned her back to the corpse and walked further down the hall. ‘Take him away.’ Urswicke caught the sob in her voice. ‘Take him,’ the countess r
epeated, ‘place him outside. Tomorrow morning bury him. Place a cross above the grave, he will certainly need all its power.’

  Bray and Urswicke removed the corpse, placing the blood-soaked cadaver on the floor of the shabby scullery. Bray pulled a roll of sacking over the corpse, tightening it carefully against the vermin which scurried across the cracked, mildewed paving stones. Urswicke fashioned a crude cross and placed it at the foot of the gruesome bundle. He then murmured a requiem which Bray echoed, and they returned to the solar where the countess had rearranged the chairs before the hearth and refilled the goblets.

  ‘I feel my hands are bloodied,’ she declared. ‘There are times when the dead seem to throng around me, following me, desperate to speak. Am I responsible for their deaths? Never mind, never mind.’ She shook her head. ‘Let us recite the ancient hymn for the departed.’

  All three stood and recited the ‘De Profundis’, followed by the verses from the ‘Dies Irae’, the sombre words echoing around that ghostly hall. Once they’d finished, the countess, sitting between her two henchmen, quietly cried. Urswicke found it all the more piteous by his mistress’s silence as she leaned forward, staring into the fire, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘We killed a man,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘No, we executed a criminal and a traitor,’ Bray replied, ‘a true Judas who would have cheerfully despatched Urswicke and myself to the gallows to suffer an excruciating death, being torn apart by the hangman whilst you, mistress, would be exiled to a convent deep in the bleakest wilds of this kingdom.’

  ‘And now what?’ Urswicke insisted. ‘What can we say? What can we do to counter what Pembroke has revealed?’

  ‘Let us be blunt and honest.’ The countess lifted her wine goblet and silently toasted Urswicke. ‘Everyone,’ she declared, ‘or at least those in our world, recognise that you, Christopher Urswicke, lurk in the shadowlands of politic and power. Only we three know the truth but others ask if you are really mine, body and soul, or do you work for your father, or do you work for us both? An ambitious young clerk who pursues nothing but his own advancement as he quietly slips from one group to another? A man dedicated to nothing except his own self-promotion?’

  ‘But, you know the truth about that, my Lady.’

  ‘Of course I do, Christopher, and I couldn’t really give a fig about what other people think. Indeed, the world can go hang, for such confusion greatly aids our cause and protects you as well as ourselves. However, your father’s present plotting is truly dangerous. These fresh allegations twist matters in a very sinister fashion. The minions of York will whisper to Jasper Tudor, Duke Francis, De Vere of Oxford and others that you, Christopher, truly are a traitor to the core. They will point to the present mayhem and destruction of the Tudor cause. These same minions will argue that I am blinded by love and lust for you. So obsessed, I cannot distinguish day from night. I cannot accept that you will betray me so I ignore all warnings and advice.’ The countess paused. ‘Even more dangerous,’ she continued, ‘will be the whispered malice about our treatment of my poor husband, Sir Henry. I shall be depicted as an unfaithful wife, a hussy,’ her voice broke, ‘an adulterous whore who plays the two-backed beast with her chancery clerk. How I do this, lecherous and as hot as a spring sparrow, even as my husband, grievously wounded in the service of the King, lies mortally ill at our manor of Woking. You can only imagine how the powerful Staffords will regard such treatment of their dear kinsman. Yet all this is a lie, a damnable, demon-inspired lie.’ Bray went to speak, Urswicke too. ‘No, no,’ she continued. ‘When all this was done, I would be left isolated. No son, no kin, no loyal henchmen, no cause. No support in Wales or elsewhere. God be my judge, but your father, Christopher, must pay for all of this.’

  Urswicke was about to reply when Bray abruptly rose to his feet and walked to the hall door.

  ‘Can’t you hear it?’ he declared. ‘There is a horseman in the yard outside, I am sure.’

  Urswicke and Bray hastily collected their warbelts, strapped them on and hurried down the ice-cold passageway leading into the square, cobbled yard. Bray took a sconce torch from its crevice in the wall, opened the door and went out. The man crouching down to hobble his horse, rose to his feet and turned.

  ‘Master Bray, Master Urswicke.’

  ‘Fleetfoot!’ Urswicke replied.

  ‘I bring urgent messages for the countess.’

  They led the courier back into the house and into the hall. The countess deliberately sat in the shadows to hide the grief on her face. Fleetfoot, however, squatted on a stool, stretching his hands out towards the fire before gratefully accepting the wine goblet thrust into his hands.

  ‘I rode as fast as I could, mistress,’ he began. ‘You are well, mistress?’

  ‘Your message?’ the countess replied. ‘Why now, in the dead of night?’

  ‘My Lady, both Richard of Gloucester’s men as well as Clarence’s bully-boys, led by Mauclerc, have visited your mansion. They demand to speak to you, they want to know the whereabouts of Master Bray. They are furious,’ Fleetfoot smiled, ‘that they cannot detect him in the city and they wonder what progress, if any, you and yours have made in searching for Lady Anne Neville.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure they do. Very well, very well.’ The countess rose to her feet. ‘It’s time we returned to London. Let us enter that nest of vipers.’

  PART SEVEN

  ‘Then Shall Judgement Be Awarded’

  Five days later, Margaret Countess of Beaufort rested in the luxurious solar of her riverside mansion in London. She sat enthroned in a sturdy, intricately carved chair, flanked by her two henchmen, Urswicke to her right, Bray to the left. A fire roared in the hearth, exuding warmth and light, whilst the table, which separated the countess from her two guests, gleamed in the light of the candelabra placed there. Margaret raised her goblet in toast to Richard Duke of Gloucester and his constant shadow, Francis Viscount Lovel.

  ‘Your Grace, my Lord, you are most welcome. What news of the King and court? Is the Queen enceinte, is she expecting a child? I pray that she does.’ The countess held Gloucester’s gaze, for she knew from rumour and gossip that this young prince hated the Queen and all her Woodville faction.

  Gloucester replied tactfully and Urswicke studied both visitors as they sipped at goblets of Rhenish and took the occasional sweetmeat from the silver platter before them. Both the duke and his henchman had removed their diamond-studded bonnets and thick military cloaks, unfastening the clasps of the costly leather jerkins beneath. Gloucester had explained how there had been shooting at the butts on Tower Green when they’d received an invitation, delivered by Fleetfoot, to visit the countess on a matter of the deepest importance. They knew full well what that was, yet both men hid their impatience behind courtly curtseys and tactful niceties. The countess had deliberately delayed this meeting until she had recovered from that ‘deep night of the soul’, as she described her feelings at what had happened at Thorpe Manor. Now composed, resolutely determined to push matters ahead, she sat as serenely as any high-born court lady, though she deliberately dressed like a nun in a dark-blue kirtle, a veil of the same colour on her head with a white, starched wimple framing her smooth, pale face. She had discussed in great detail this meeting with Bray and Urswicke and both had agreed that it was the best course of action. Urswicke stiffened as Gloucester abruptly leaned forward, slamming his goblet down on the table and tossing the remains of the sweetmeat he had been eating back on to the platter.

  ‘My Lady,’ Gloucester now dropped all pretence, ‘you invited us, well, I would say summoned us here.’ He flicked his fingers at Bray. ‘We have been searching for him and we could not find him so, let us move to the arrow point. Have you discovered the whereabouts of the Lady Anne Neville?’

  ‘Your Grace,’ the countess retorted heatedly, ‘earlier this year you gave me assurances about the safety of my beloved son exiled,’ she coughed, ‘I mean sheltering in Duke Francis’s court in Rennes.’


  ‘And I have not violated such promises?’

  ‘And the latest farrago of nonsense? Your Grace, you know full well how the sanctuary men were taken to Walton and what happened in that cove. You are the King’s brother, aren’t you? You do know, don’t you?’ The countess’s barbed questions surprised even Urswicke, who glanced at his mistress, sitting so rigidly in her chair, ave beads wrapped like a weapon chain around her right hand.

  ‘My Lady, I had no part in that.’

  ‘Your brothers?’

  ‘The Lord Edward is King and can do what he wants, whilst Clarence will always do what he wants.’

  ‘And there are others?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Sir Thomas Urswicke, Recorder of London, father of my dear and beloved clerk Master Christopher.’

  Gloucester leaned forward, his thin, pale face now tense, eyes ever shifting as he glared at the countess and her two henchmen. ‘My Lady, I will be as blunt as you. My brother the King is furious at that debacle off the Essex coast. A Breton ship attacked and two Flemish carracks destroyed, along with their crews. I will not,’ Gloucester gave a lopsided grin, ‘pretend otherwise, though,’ he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the hilt of his dagger, ‘I am not too sure about what really happened out there, whilst my brother is equally mystified. Oh, we know the ways of the court, don’t we Francis?’ Lovel just nodded. ‘Yes, yes we do,’ Gloucester continued, ‘we all know that the King of England hires Flemish carracks to do his will, but what’s the use of wondering about that now?’

  ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’

  ‘He certainly does, madame!’ Gloucester snapped. ‘And so now, the Lady Neville?’

  ‘Your Grace,’ the countess replied, ‘what about Sir Thomas Urswicke?’

  ‘Let his son,’ Lovel jibed, ‘take care of that.’

  ‘My good and loyal steward,’ the countess continued, tapping Bray on the shoulder and ignoring Lovel’s insult, ‘Master Reginald, has worked very hard on your behalf. We have found the Lady Anne.’