by Paul Doherty
‘Where?’ Gloucester almost shouted at Bray.
‘On pilgrimage, your Grace, though she asked me to keep that secret.’
‘Pilgrimage?’
‘Yes, your Grace, but I am sworn to secrecy, and the Lady Anne, too, has taken a vow. She will tell no one, other than that she sheltered in an anchorite’s cell to pray.’
‘For what?’
‘For you and herself, your Grace, and more than that I cannot say.’
‘How did you find her?’ Gloucester demanded.
‘A matter of logic, your Grace. Where can a noble lady safely hide? My mistress, the countess, has just accompanied sanctuary men to the coast …?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Gloucester was now relaxed and smiling, ‘pilgrims are equally protected by Holy Mother Church. They look after each other, they journey peaceably and lodge in comfortable taverns. Very clever, Master Bray. Is that why you changed your appearance, so you could slip out of the city and search for her?’
‘Your Grace is as perceptive as ever. My lords, I have sworn to the Lady Anne that I will not reveal where she went or who helped her. Suffice to say, she is now safe and looking forward to meeting you before this day is out.’
Gloucester picked up his goblet and sat back, smiling at the countess.
‘We have further business.’ Bray’s voice was now harsh. ‘Sir Thomas Urswicke, our noble Recorder, holds certain information about my Lady which is due to be published in a broadsheet. This is a quiver of malicious lies about her personal life, highly detrimental to our countess. You know, your Grace, as does this entire city, indeed the kingdom, that Countess Margaret Beaufort is a woman of the utmost integrity. This broadsheet is to be drawn up at the sign of The Red Keg, near St Paul’s.’ Gloucester just nodded.
‘Your Grace,’ the countess declared, ‘what Master Bray said is true, but it’s only the flower not the root. I need, and I will say this in the presence of Sir Thomas’s son, I need a rest, a respite, protection from the Recorder’s constant malice.’
‘He certainly achieved little success in that venture off Walton,’ Lovel drawled. The viscount fell silent as Gloucester turned and glared at him before turning back to the countess.
‘My Lady,’ Duke Richard declared, ‘I will watch, wait and see. On that, you have my word. But the Lady Anne …’
‘I know you are a man of your word.’ The countess kissed the crucifix hanging on her ave beads. ‘Rest assured,’ she continued, ‘you will meet the Lady Anne shortly. Let darkness fall and, once the vesper bell has tolled, return here, my Lords, and the Lady Anne will be waiting. I must impress upon you what Lady Anne has told me. She will not be questioned about her disappearance, which she describes as a pilgrimage. She was safe there. We know such groups,’ the countess smiled, ‘as the great poet Chaucer attests, are orderly and devout. My Lords, I thought I should tell you that.’
Gloucester and Lovel both thanked her and the meeting ended in a flurry of hand kissing and assurances of goodwill. Gloucester seemed as delighted as a man on his wedding day, smiling to himself, constantly tapping the front of his brocaded jerkin, eager to be gone as he said, to prepare himself for meeting the delightful Lady Anne. The duke and Lovel made their farewells and, once the countess was sure they had left, she invited Urswicke and Bray to sit close.
‘So it is done,’ she declared. ‘Fleetfoot is now busy transforming my maid Edith back into the Lady Anne. She will be ready by this evening. Now,’ she turned to Bray, ‘what Gloucester described as the debacle of Walton is common knowledge throughout the city. No one knows the full truth except us three, and we will leave it at that. However, I have learnt from my own enquiries that the King is furious. Your father, Christopher, even more so. Has he asked to see you?’
‘Not yet, mistress, but I am sure he will. Can we trust Gloucester?’
‘As much as we can anyone. So, my friends,’ the countess rose to her feet, ‘once again we wait on our noble Recorder …’
On the Monday following Gloucester’s visit to the countess, Urswicke received an urgent invitation from his father to visit him in his chambers at the Guildhall. Urswicke prepared himself well. He dressed in his costliest cotehardie over a crisp, white shirt of cambric linen, pure wool leggings and high-heeled boots of Moroccan leather. He shaved himself close and dressed his hair in the clerkly fashion. Strapping on his warbelt, he picked up his cloak and left the countess’s mansion. He made his way through the maze of foul-smelling streets into the busy heart of Cheapside. Despite the intense cold, the markets were busy, with many of the citizens buying and selling in preparation for the celebration of Advent and the great feast of Christmas. Yuletide poles had been set up, festooned with garlands and wreaths and four great tallow candles to mark the weeks of Advent. On the top of the pole perched the largest candle of them all; this would be lit early on Christmas Eve. Beneath one of these poles, a dark-skinned chanteur proclaimed how he had lately come from Bethlehem. He described to the citizens what it was like to kneel and pray on the very spot Christ was born.
Urswicke walked on, pushing his way through the crowd, one hand on his sword hilt, the other on his money wallet. Despite the vivid, colourful scenes around him, Urswicke was distracted, though pleased with the way matters were proceeding. Gloucester had kept his word, or at least part of it. Bray’s street swallows had reported how the parchment maker, the producer of broadsheets drawn up in his shop under the sign of The Red Keg, had been visited by Gloucester’s bully-boys, all wearing the livery of the White Boar. They had pushed their way into the shop, cowed those inside, and left with sheaves of parchment which they tossed on to a nearby bonfire, lit by some kind soul for the benefit of the poor and homeless during this freezing season. Gloucester’s retainers had stood laughing and talking, sharing out a wineskin, not leaving until every scrap of parchment had turned to ash.
Gloucester, as arranged, had met the Lady Anne. According to the countess, he had ecstatically embraced the young lady and solemnly promised that he would not enquire where she had been but would only rejoice in her return. Urswicke smiled to himself as he made his way around the stalls selling all kinds of produce; be it jewel-encrusted leather from Cordova or the finest linen from the Baltic towns. Everyone seemed busy. The air was riven by a myriad of different smells, as well as the constant shouting of traders: this was echoed by their apprentices who scurried as nimble as squirrels through the crowds, trying to entice customers to their stalls. Beggars swarmed around, a phalanx of needy yet aggressive men, jostling the good citizens for alms until beadles broke them up and moved them on.
The place of punishment, near the Tun in Cheapside, was thronged with Guildhall officials; these were busy around the stocks, thews and lashing posts, where felons found guilty of petty crimes would receive punishment before the Angelus bell. The cries, screams and shouts of the victims were chilling and noisome, and Urswicke sighed with relief as he entered the majestic gatehouse leading into the Guildhall yard. Two bailiffs stopped him, demanding to see his warrants. As soon as they glimpsed Sir Thomas’s seal, both officials became fawning, ushering Christopher up to his father’s gloomy chamber on the second floor of the main Guildhall building, its windows overlooking the heart of Cheapside. Sir Thomas, swathed in gilt-edged robes, rose from behind his chancery desk to greet ‘his dear son’. They exchanged the kiss of peace, then Sir Thomas ushered Christopher to a comfortable chair on the other side of the table before returning to his own. The Recorder offered refreshment; Christopher refused, watching his father intently, for Sir Thomas did not seem a happy man.
‘You are well, my son?’
‘Thank God I am sir, and yourself?’
‘A little disturbed.’ Sir Thomas leaned across the desk. ‘In God’s name, Christopher, what happened off Walton?’
‘Esteemed father, you should have waited.’
‘I had to leave, what happened?’
‘Esteemed father, you left and we took the sanctuary men as clos
e to the shoreline as possible. We waited and we watched. The Galicia hove into sight followed by those two Flemish carracks. One of these caught fire and became entangled with the other.’ Christopher shrugged. ‘Father, you know how common it is for black powder to catch fire and explode. Ships can be obliterated. They also become entangled. Savereaux, the master of The Galicia, has a reputation of being the best in Brittany. Father, I watched him do it! He cunningly forced one Flemish vessel to collide with the other. Again, Father, such entanglement is common enough.’
‘But the fire which started it?’
‘An accident … Such incidents are common enough but,’ Christopher drew himself up in the chair; he was thoroughly enjoying himself, though increasingly curious about his father’s apparent unease.
‘And the malefactor known as Pembroke?’
‘Esteemed father, he went with the rest on board The Galicia. I am sure he will reach his final destination.’
‘Yes, yes quite.’ The Recorder played with an inkpot on his chancery tray, opening and shutting the lid. He abruptly glanced up, his face wreathed in the falsest of smiles. ‘And the Lady Countess?’
‘Safely returned to London, though she is busy enough with matters at her manor of Woking. However she will, or rather the Staffords on her behalf, petition the Crown regarding the growing lawlessness in the city.’ The smile on the Recorder’s face immediately disappeared. ‘Oh no, Father, this is no criticism of you,’ Christopher was now truly enjoying himself, ‘more the officials who work for you. I mean, one of her late husband’s most loyal retainers was murdered whilst in sanctuary in a London church. Now that man may have been a rebel but he also had his rights. Another sanctuary man, allegedly under this city’s protection, was foully slain at Thorpe Manor.’ Christopher spread his hands. ‘And, there again, there are the murderous attacks on her loyal steward Master Bray. We hear of a condemned felon, Zeigler, escaping from an execution cart, whilst rumours abound about two innocent women murdered in their chamber at the Minoresses’. She must also bring to the King’s attention how Flemish pirates were bold enough to attack an innocent Breton ship deep in English waters. Where was the protection such a ship should enjoy? Duke Francis will not be pleased …’
Urswicke’s voice petered out. All breathless, he finished his litany of complaints: his father, who seemed to be only half listening, glanced up.
‘Christopher, my son, whom do you really work for?’
‘Esteemed father, you have asked me that before and I have replied. Myself.’
‘But you could provide me with more intelligence than you have. I mean, how did the countess discover the whereabouts of the Lady Anne Neville?’
‘Esteemed father, I do not know. You really should ask Master Bray. Remember, he was the one ordered to stay in London to search for her.’
‘Yes, yes, quite. Ah well,’ the Recorder put his face in his hands and let them fall away, ‘Christopher my son. Yesterday I was invited to court. The King has decided that I will lead an embassy to treat on certain matters in Rome. I am to be his envoy to his Holiness the Pope. I shall be leaving shortly after the Epiphany and, God knows, I will be out of the city for many a month.’ He waved a hand. Christopher kept his face impassive, ‘I am to be joined by Parson Austin. He will be our chaplain. And his Grace the King, well …’
‘Well what, Father?’
‘I did ask if you could accompany us. I was surprised at his response. The King was resolutely opposed to this. He said you were to stay in England where he would keep close watch over you. What does he mean by that?’
‘Esteemed father, I don’t know. However, when you leave, you will never be far from my thoughts. I will look after your interests and, where possible, I will use the countess’s influence to resolve any problem.’ Christopher was now finding it difficult to hide his sheer enjoyment at this item of news, which would delight the countess. ‘Is there anything else, Father?’
‘No, no, no.’
Sir Thomas got to his feet and came round the desk, Christopher rose to greet him. They clasped hands and exchanged the kiss of peace. Sir Thomas hugged his son close before letting him go. ‘Of course, we will meet before I leave.’
‘Of course.’ Christopher bowed and walked to the door.
‘Dearest son?’
Christopher turned. ‘Esteemed father?’
‘You will always stay with me, won’t you?’
‘Esteemed father, rest assured, to the very end.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dark Queen Waiting is of course a work of fiction but it is firmly based on a range of historical facts. The disappearance of Lady Anne Neville did occur as described, although there’s no proper explanation for it. Some commentators allege she was kidnapped by Clarence and made to work as a scullion in some tavern or alehouse in the city. Others speculate that she may have simply fled to escape the growing tension between the two royal brothers over her rich inheritance. However, in the end, Lady Anne did return to court life, married Richard Duke of Gloucester and became his Queen when he usurped the throne in 1483.
In the Middle Ages, the power of the Church was most evident. Becket’s murder in his own cathedral had won the Church certain rights, especially over clerks who had received minor orders as well as the question of sanctuary. Both of these privileges were jealously guarded by the Church and God help anyone who tried to infringe them. For example, in 1305, the city zealously pursued Richard Puddlicot who had committed treason and robbery by plundering the royal jewels which, at the time, were kept in the crypt of Westminster Abbey. Puddlicot was an openly avowed traitor and thief who, hunted by the Crown, took sanctuary in a London church. Certain city bailiffs invaded that church, seized Puddlicot and hauled him off to the Tower. Nevertheless, despite his heinous crimes, Puddlicot was a sanctuary man and the bailiffs responsible for his abduction were solemnly excommunicated.
The printing press still had to make its impact, but the appearance of anonymous pamphlets in Medieval London was a fairly common occurrence. The use of propaganda is not an invention of the modern age. During the short reign of Richard III, a famous doggerel appeared in London attacking Richard of Gloucester and his principal ministers, Viscount Lovel, Catesby and Ratcliffe. It ran as follows: ‘The rat, the cat and Lovel the dog rule all England under the hog.’ The author of this, a gentleman called Collingbourne, suffered the full horrors of the law for treason, being hanged, drawn and quartered. Again, on the eve of Bosworth, John Howard, Duke of Norfolk and Richard III’s commander, allegedly had the following warning pinned to his tent: ‘Jockey of Norfolk ride not so bold for Dickon your master is both bought and sold.’ Psychological warfare and ‘the weaponising of words’ is, I suppose, as old as human conflict itself.
I chose Walton-on-the-Naze as one location for my story because that stretch of the Essex coastline was often used by invaders of England, be it marauding Danish armies or the successful landing of Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer in 1326. The battle at sea between The Galicia and the two Flemish carracks is a fair reflection of such clashes. The introduction of cannon and culverin on board ship was revolutionary yet fraught with a veritable multitude of dangers. If we study the original manuscripts, the miniature pictures, etched to reflect battles at sea, constantly depict ships tangled with those of their opponents. Sails and rigging became tightly meshed. Of course, if fire broke out, it would sweep both vessels with devastating effect. The Flemish pirates described in my novel were a real and present threat to shipping, especially in the Narrow Seas. Indeed, the merciless nature of warfare at sea is captured by the poet Chaucer’s depiction of the seaman in the Prologue to his Canterbury Tales. Chaucer describes the mariner as a sailor who truly believed, ‘Dead men tell no tales!’
Finally, the situation in England following the great battles of Tewkesbury and Barnet is as I have described it. The House of York was triumphant and King Edward swept into London to enforce his peace and to enjoy its fruits. However, the
seeds of destruction were already sown. The tensions between George Duke of Clarence and his brother Richard were never resolved, whilst the enmity between Gloucester and the Woodville faction resulted in the collapse of the House of York, the disappearance of the two princes in the Tower and the successful invasion by Henry Tudor. I have always believed that during the period 1471 to 1485 some dark nemesis stalked the House of York. I suspect this nemesis was the innocent-looking yet very shrewd Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond. Margaret was a truly brilliant strategist and a ‘master of politic’: a woman assisted by her two clerks, Reginald Bray and Christopher Urswicke, who themselves matched their mistress’s talents. Indeed, some historians hale Urswicke as the founder of the British Secret Service, an accolade I would certainly agree with.