by Paul Doherty
There was no other way. True or false, what did it matter? If Richard had not become King, sooner or later the Woodvilles, because of their hold over the young princes, would have destroyed him. What man wants to live his life in the shadow of the axe or the nightmare of dreadful death in some secret dungeon? But murder? Infanticide? I knew Richard well. A man of sharp contrasts. On his orders the Bishop of London had forced Mistress Jane Shore, his brother’s paramour, to walk through the streets of London dressed only in her shift, carrying a candle, as public atonement for her fleshly desires. Yet Richard was no stranger to such lusts. He himself had a bastard son, the Lord John, and at least one other illegitimate offspring. He was a master actor, cautious and subtle, able to mask his true feelings behind conceits and stratagems. When Lord Hastings fell, Richard had staged a masque as cunning as anything devised on some town stage. A hot, sweaty summer day in the council chamber in the Tower; Richard, pulling back his jerkin sleeve showing his arm, thinner, more emaciated than the other, a defect from birth. Richard, however, accused Hastings of withering it by witchcraft, saying he would not dine until the traitor had lost his head. In a few violent bloody minutes Richard had Hastings executed and others of his coven, Morton and Rotherham of York, placed in custody.
There had been other guises, other conceits: Buckingham offering him the crown at Baynards Castle and Richard reluctantly accepting it. Oh, I had seen it all. Now, was this Richard play-acting again? The role of the anxious uncle, when he knew full well the true fate of his nephews? I rose and began shouting for servants to prepare for my departure. Secretly, in my heart, I swore an oath: if Richard had slain his nephews and dragged me into some deadly masque, I would leave him and flee beyond the seas.
Two
Two days it took, two days of frenetic packing of trunks, chests and coffers. After a secret council with the King, I made to leave Minster Lovell, accompanied by six retainers and my faithful steward, Thomas Belknap. Ah, Belknap, a great scurrier and spy. An able clerk, a former priest who had been dismissed by Bishop Morton from his prebend in Ely. A secretive man, Belknap; he burned with a lasting hatred, or so he said, against his former bishop and anything to do with the House of Lancaster. He and I left the courtyard of Minster Lovell on a cool, clear summer morning. Behind me stood Anne, in a sea-blue dress fringed with gold, her black hair unveiled, falling down around her sweet face like some cloying mist. Above her, staring out of the window of the solar, King Richard watched me impassively, his hand half raised. His sombre stare troubled me as we made our way along the rutted tracks, dried hard by the sun, before reaching the old Roman road south to London.
We entered the city by the north gate, skirting Smithfield and the stinking messes around Newgate. They say London is a wondrous city but I could see why Richard hated the place; it made me homesick for the green softness of Minster Lovell. The narrow streets were piled high with refuse which hordes of kites and ravens plundered alongside wandering dogs and naked, filthy children. All was dark, the light being blocked out by the leaning gables and gilt-edged storeys of the narrow houses huddled together as if conspiring to keep out God’s sun. Slowly we made our way through the noisy throng of Cheapside and its concourse of merchants, men whom Richard distrusted. They served their coffers and their purses, eager to obey a crowned ape if he guaranteed their profits. Such men failed us. They were only interested in their robes of velvet and brocade, their blue satin hats turned up at the brim, or their doublets of blue and green. More eager that their shoulders should be padded or the sleeves slashed with silk than for the politics of the realm. Ah, well! I shall not see them again! Time-servers all!
Eventually we reached Bishopsgate, entering the main courtyard of Crosby Hall, whose roofs towered higher than any other London dwelling. Richard had hired it as his London home.
Before I left Minster Lovell, he had given me warrants and letters allowing me the use of the chambers and stables, and purveyance. The courtyard was full of masons, carpenters and other workmen. Richard wanted the building extended even further, commissioning no less a person than John Howard, newly created Duke of Norfolk, as surveyor of the works. I was to meet Howard there and take secret council with him over what Richard had told me. However, the Duke was absent and I had to rest content with the jumbled messages of a pompous steward about how and when the Duke would return.
Leaving Belknap to look after the horses and see to our trunks and caskets, I made my way up to a chamber. I would have liked to have slept but the King had emphasised the urgency of the task entrusted to me, so I refreshed myself with watered ale and sweetmeats, washing the dust from my face with sweet petal-water as I considered what I should do next. I decided on secrecy and left Crosby Hall only with Belknap, instructing him not to display my emblem or livery. As Richard’s chamberlain, I was well-known in the city and people would whisper about my secret return. Moreover, the King had his enemies, agents of Henry Tudor and other silent malignants, only too pleased to strike at Richard’s trusted friend and counsellor, or so I thought myself.
I made my way down to the river, planning to travel to Westminster along the dark sweeping curve of the Thames. Belknap hired a boat and soon we were mid-stream. We rowed through the fast currents which roared past the white pillars of London Bridge, still blackened by the attack of the Bastard of Fauconberg, in those heady days when the House of York still struggled to survive. Around us other wherry boats scurried across the water like flies over a village pond. Belknap told the boatman to keep away from the gorgeous bannered barges of the merchants and other nobles, men who might well recognise me.
At last we came in sight of Westminster Palace, sheltering under the lee of the great abbey. A welcoming sight. The gables, towers, battlements, steep roofs and arched windows of its buildings swept down towards the waterside. The boatman pulled in towards the shore, close to the palace wall which was protected by dense thickets and bushes. We rowed past the King’s stairs near the main wharf, landing at the Abbot’s Steps and making our way stealthily up to the palace. We ignored the clerks, officials, receivers and sheriffs’ men, using the tumult and shouts of the pastrycooks who always throng there to slip quietly into the great hall. I left Belknap staring up at its beautiful wooden roof supported by sprung beams borne on the backs of angels, so exquisitely carved they seemed in flight. My head down, concealed by a hood, I pushed my way through courtiers, servants, red-capped judges and lawyers who, despite the heat, still wore their skullcaps and gold-fringed robes. I was the King’s Chamberlain; many who worked there, whether they be servants, stable-boys or singing children from the royal chapel of St. Stephen, were really under my jurisdiction. I approached a steward and, swearing him to secrecy, made him take me through winding passages and up flights of stairs to the office of the Star Chamber where John Russell, Richard’s Chancellor and Bishop of Lincoln, kept state.
I was ushered in through a side door and walked across, my boots rapping noisily on the lozenge-shaped black and white tiles, so smooth and polished you felt you were walking across a mirror. Around me the deep, blue-coated walls were covered with small gold stars which gave the room its name. Russell, a diminutive figure, sat enthroned in a high-backed chair, swathed in costly purple and gold robes. All around him, their table-tops littered with parchment, wax, pens and inkpots, sat perspiring clerks, each working on some letter or document the Chancellor wished despatched. The Bishop looked up as I entered but continued dictating quietly to a clerk until finished. He clapped his hands softly and murmured something; the clerks immediately smiled, rose and hurriedly left. Once the room was empty, Russell waved me to a chair beside him.
‘Lord Lovell,’ he murmured, not even bothering to stir himself. ‘You are most welcome. I did not know you were coming.’
‘In haste,’ I replied. ‘His Grace is still in Oxfordshire and despatched me immediately.’
‘His Grace is well?’ The small, pebble-black eyes scrutinised me.
‘His Grace is wel
l,’ I answered, noticing the slight flicker of Russell’s small, pursed lips. I did not like the Bishop, nor he me. He did not serve Richard well, but what does that matter now? We were not served well and we paid for our stupidity. Nevertheless, I respected Russell and observed the civilities. After all, on that hot summer afternoon we both knew why I was in London. I leaned across the table and handed him a small scroll.
‘His Grace has sent you this,’ I said. Russell looked at it before placing it unopened to one side.
‘I know what it says,’ he smiled. ‘And so do you!’
‘The Princes?’
Russell coughed, dry, like the lawyer he was, preparing to make a speech.
‘You mean the illegitimate issue of King Edward IV?’
‘I mean the Princes,’ I said. ‘Where are they?’
The Bishop spread thin, skeletal, vein-rimmed hands.
‘How do I know? They were in the royal apartments in the Tower and were then moved.’ He looked up at the wooden carved ceiling. ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘A few weeks after the King’s coronation, first to the Garden Tower and then to the upper storey of the White Tower. After that . . .’ His dry voice trailed off. He looked away as if studying the colour-glazed windows of the room.
‘You have been to the Tower?’ I asked accusingly.
‘No.’
‘So, how do you know?’
‘Sir Robert Brackenbury came to see me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Very little. The fellow was agitated. He said the Princes were gone,’ Russell replied.
‘When was this?’
Russell bit his lower lip.
‘Brackenbury came about five days ago. The morning of August 2nd.’
‘Did you question him about the details?’
‘A little. I asked him when he had last checked on his prisoners. He replied the week previously.’
‘A week previously?’ I shouted.
Russell grinned mirthlessly.
‘I said the same.’
‘Did you immediately order a search?’
Russell glared at me.
‘That is not my responsibility, Lord Lovell. I cannot act on this matter without His Grace’s express command.’ He leaned across the table, steepling his fingers. ‘The Princes are gone,’ he explained patiently. ‘The King is only a few weeks crowned. Around us men plot in covens, conspiracies and confederations, secret meetings at the dead of night. For God’s sake, Lovell, what am I to do? Say the Princes are gone and so fan the hopes of these malignants? Or worse, if people think they are dead.’ Russell let his hands drop. ‘Their father, King Edward IV, was much loved and so were the young princes. Many thought they were sweet and beautiful children.’ Russell stopped speaking and looked away. ‘The younger one,’ he continued softly, ‘the Duke of York, was joyous and witty, nimble and ever ready for dances and games.’
My heart went cold. Here was Richard’s own Chancellor, a leading bishop of the realm, and I could read his mind. He thought the Princes were dead, perhaps murdered on Richard’s orders, and that I was part of this horrible travesty.
‘My Lord Bishop!’
Russell stared at me under his eyebrows.
‘My Lord Bishop, I swear on the gospels, on my soul, I know nothing of this and neither does the King!’
‘But what about those around him?’ he asked. ‘The henchmen, Sir James Tyrrell, William Catesby, Richard Ratcliffe? It would not be the first time that the servants of a Prince have tried to anticipate his every wish!’
I glared back. What was Russell referring to? Thomas a Beckett? Or events nearer home? Men did claim Richard had a hand in the murder of Henry of Lancaster, even in the death of his brother, George of Clarence. Once again the suspicion flitted across my mind like a bat through the darkness. Was this all a sham? Did Richard know the truth? Were Russell’s suspicions the real truth? Just because we serve princes it does not mean we know their minds.
‘Is that all you know, my Lord?’
Russell toyed with the gold-fringed tassel of his robe.
‘Yes, Lovell, that is all I know,’ he replied.
‘And those plots, conspiracies?’ I asked, reasserting myself.
‘The King knows. I have sent letters north.’ Russell fished amongst the leaves of parchment strewn across his desk and pulled out a small ivory-white roll bound by a scarlet cord.
‘A copy of a letter,’ he muttered. ‘From one of our spies. You may read it. Take it with you.’
Tired of Russell’s guarded looks and secretive talk, I snatched the parchment, rose and walked back towards the door.
‘Lovell!’ the Bishop called out. I ignored him but he called again. ‘If the Princes are dead,’ the Bishop said, ‘then so are we. The King should watch himself. Be on guard, for the deaths or disappearance of those two boys could bring him and all about him crashing down.’ I stared coolly back but the Bishop was unflinching. ‘I mean all of us, Lovell. It is a wise man who looks to the future.’ The Bishop smiled. ‘Of course, my Lord, if you repeat what I have just said, I will stoutly deny it. I am a loyal servant of King Richard.’ I nodded and left, Russell’s dire warning and his guarded comments ringing in my ears.
Three
I went back to the main hall and collected a still gawking Belknap before returning to Crosby Place. The workmen had all gone, there was no sign of Howard, and my retainers had ensconced themselves in comfortable quarters. I interrupted their evening drinking and dicing to send a message to Sir Robert Brackenbury at the Tower commanding him to wait for me on the morrow. I roused the steward of the kitchen to prepare cold meats, wine and a dish of fruit and a disgruntled servant laid the meal out in the hall. Belknap sat opposite me, silent, absorbed, so I thought, in his own private world of bitter vengeance. I unrolled the report Russell had given me. I have it now, along with all my papers. They left those for me. Strange, I never thought I would re-read it in such circumstances.
‘Know you’ (it began, leaving out the usual courtesies) ‘that I have travelled from the eastern shires as far west as the Severn and have met many men who now conspire against His Grace. They call him a wretched, bloody and usurping boar. They gather in secret covens and sworn confederacies to plot the King’s downfall. They accuse him of usurping the throne and ill-using his nephews. Men say, know you, how the aforesaid Princes are dead, killed secretly by their usurper, their bodies flung into the Thames. Others say the boys are beyond the seas but if they are not, and have met a grievous death, these men say they will change their coats and accept Henry Tudor from Brittany. Know you, how men say that the Queen Elizabeth Woodville has sent many secret messages, pledges, and even plenteous gold to the Tudor. Worst still, she has pledged her own daughter in marriage to the Welshman to effect a union between the houses of York and Lancaster. They also say my Lord of Buckingham’s heart has turned against the King; indeed, he is sending secret messages to his tenants, retainers and servants in Kent. Cursors are constantly despatched between him and Lord Stanley’s wife, the Lady Margaret Beaufort. Men say the Tudor will come in late autumn and our Lord the King would best be prepared for his landing.
‘Know you that the King’s spies and agents in these shires, towns and villages are daily threatened if their allegiance to His Grace is discovered. My Lord of Buckingham has one agent, a person named Percivalle, who has greatly vexed them. A body squire of the royal household, Edmund Waters, whom I was supposed to meet in Colchester, has been found dead. The coroner ruled his death was murder by person or persons unknown. Men say he was attacked by outlaws but I believe he was executed by either Percivalle or others from my Lord Buckingham’s retinue.
‘The men in this conspiracy are . . .’
The spy listed, amongst others, Sir Thomas Browne of Surrey, Sir John Fogge of Kent (he whom Richard had taken personally by the hand to pledge his loyalty), the Courtneys from Devon, the Woodvilles and Sir William Haute of Kent. The list was lengthy and, despite the warmth, I shivered as I
read it. These conspirators were not hotheads, men who had nothing to lose. Many I knew personally and respected; they had been friends and confidants of King Edward IV. Middle-aged, wealthy men, able to command the allegiance of their servants and the respect of others, serving in both Parliament and the royal household. Their allegiance to the House of York had been unswerving and unquestioning. So why this conspiracy? Who or what had changed their hearts, as well as that of my Lord of Buckingham? Richard’s seizure of the throne? True, even I had wavered when I had heard about it, but better Richard any day than the Woodville pack or the kingdom ruled by some pretty boy who would not hold his own. After all, Edward IV had done no worse; he had displaced Henry VI of Lancaster and killed Henry’s young son in that bloody fight around Tewkesbury Abbey.