The Plantagenet Mystery

by Victoria Prescott

  We were on a visit to Ashleigh - it was that very visit, I believe, during which my sister became engaged to Mr Francis Mildmay, as he then was.

  Rob thought discursiveness must be a Finch family trait; he was reminded of conversations with Emily. Chris was frowning in concentration.

  The book had new come from the printer just before we set out to travel to Ashleigh. My father said he must take one to give to Sir William, since Ashleigh and the Mildmays were the subject of one of the chapters, because of the earlier connection of our families through the marriage of Catherine Finch and Sir Thomas Mildmay.

  ‘We know all this, don’t we?’ said Chris.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rob. ‘But she’s getting to the point.’

  One day at Ashleigh I saw the book lying on a table in the library. I was feeling myself abandoned, for my sister was always with Mr Mildmay and my mother and Lady Mildmay had much to say to each other. (You must remember, my dear Maria, that I was at this time no more than fifteen years old.) I knew my father had not told all the story of Richard Plantagenet in the book. I thought it wrong that the Mildmay family should not know everything that so nearly concerned their ancestor (never thinking that they might know it by other means, and that my father might have good reason not to include all that was known in his book.)

  I wrote of that tale that was known in our families, and as I believed was known anciently in the Amory family also, which I supposed a fine romantic tale, being a young girl and not thinking that it was not a time to be speaking of kings and usurpations and battles. I began to write of what was hidden at Ashleigh, that was (as I believed) a thing that was greatly valued, and of the sign showing the place it might be found.

  ‘That would be the white rose painted on the brick,’ Rob said to Chris. He continued reading.

  Before I had finished, my father and Sir William came upon me. They were angry when they saw what I had done. My father said the book was not mine to write in, and that what I had writ was a secret in our families. He said that we were living in dangerous times and it was unwise to speak or write of such matters. Then Sir William said my father made too much of it, but he took the book away and I never saw it again.

  I do not know how many copies of the book my father had printed, or what became of them all. It was not among my mother’s books when she died, so if he kept one for himself it must have been lost or given away before.

  I suppose if this tale were known today it would create a stir in the world for a short time, but with the Monster Bonaparte at large and the price of provisions so high, I think it would be soon forgot.

  ‘And the rest of it is more family news,’ Rob concluded.

  ‘So this old lady – it’s an old lady writing this, right?’ Chris said.

  ‘Yes, she’s about seventy here, if she was fifteen when the book was published.’

  ‘When she was fifteen, she went to stay with her sister’s boyfriend’s family, and while she was there she scribbled in her Dad’s book, that he’d given to the boyfriend’s Dad? That right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s the same book your old lady’s got, that Homer and Jason were after?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she mean, it wasn’t a time to be talking about usurpations and battles?’ Chris said.

  ‘The book was published just about the time of the ’45 rebellion. I suppose Sir Edward got cold feet, and tried to suppress it. That’s probably why there are hardly any copies around today,’ said Rob.

  ‘’45 rebellion?’

  ‘I know that,’ said Claire. ‘1745. Bonnie Prince Charlie tried to knock the German Georges off the throne. But suppressing the book was a bit of an over-reaction, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not really, given the atmosphere at the time,’ Rob said. ‘People were really afraid the Jacobites would succeed.’

  ‘Would he have been in trouble, if people had read the book?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Probably not. The Richard Plantagenet story was a very small part of the book. But people were nervous. And he and Sir William Mildmay obviously didn’t want young Catherine writing down the family secrets where anyone might read them.’

  ‘So,’ said Claire. ‘Have I got this right? In 1745 Sir Edward Finch wrote a history of the Finch family. He mentioned Catherine Finch who married Thomas Mildmay of Ashleigh. He included the story of Richard Plantagenet, which had been passed down in both the Finch and Mildmay families. Sir Edward gave a copy to his friend Sir William Mildmay, at Ashleigh. Young Catherine Finch wrote in it. Sir William hid it away – ’

  ‘And it only resurfaced a few months ago, when Ashleigh was cleared out and the library was sold,’ Rob said.

  ‘And Auntie Emily bought it,’ Claire concluded.

  ‘Well, now we know why Pierson wanted to get his hands on it,’ Rob said. ‘He had this letter, which hints at something valuable hidden at Ashleigh, and says there are instructions on how to find it inside the book!’

  ‘Where’d he get the letter?’ Chris asked. ‘Nicked it from somewhere?’

  ‘Well, we already know that no papers from Ashleigh have been sold,’ Rob said.

  ‘Perhaps it’s been in his family all along,’ Claire suggested. ‘What happened to Maria? Did she marry? Pierson might be descended from her.’

  ‘She wasn’t married in 1801, the letter’s addressed to Miss Mildmay,’ Rob said. ‘She could have been in her forties by then, if her parents were married in 1745, or soon after. Even if she got married later, I don’t suppose she had children. But Pierson might be related to her, even if he isn’t a direct descendant. I can try to find out.’

  ‘So Pierson might’ve known about the book all along, but he couldn’t do anything, because it was hidden away,’ Chris said.

  ‘Yes,’ Rob agreed. ‘Then the Ashleigh library was put up for sale, but I suppose he didn’t find out until it was too late to buy the book himself. He could fairly easily find out that Emily had bought it, and he’d also find out that she would never sell it.’

  ‘So he arranged for it to be stolen,’ Claire finished.

  ‘Yes. And that’s where it all began to go wrong for him. The book wasn’t there, Emily came home and caught them in the act, and was able to identify Homer.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure this is all very fascinating to historians or bibliophiles or amateur detectives. But it still doesn’t explain why he was so desperate to find this paper – ’

  ‘Parchment,’ Chris said, with a grin at Rob.

  ‘Yes, all right, whatever. We still don’t know why he thought it was worth committing all these crimes over. It’s just a piece of writing.’

  ‘I don’t know about being worth committing crimes over. But I think it’s more than just a piece of writing,’ said Rob.

  ‘All right then, let’s see it.’ Claire sat back, folding her arms.

  Rob went to his worktable and fetched the folder with the papers relating to the document. He had typed up his transcript at the record office, and e-mailed it to himself. Now it was stored on his computer under a completely unrelated filename. One day he had taken his camera to the record office and taken some photographs of the document. He had e-mailed them to himself also. He had printed the images out at home; now he showed them to Chris and Claire. A picture of the whole document, too small for anyone to read, even if it was magnified on a computer screen, and a couple of close ups of different parts, to show the handwriting.

  ‘Should you have that here? What if they break in again?’ said Chris.

  ‘These close ups are only a small part of it. Anyway, even if they were stolen, they wouldn’t be any use to anyone who couldn’t read the handwriting.’

  ‘What about that?’ Claire pointed to the transcript.

  ‘I’ll hide it later. I’m not going to leave it lying around. But anyway, it’s no use on its own. Without the original, there’s no way of proving that it’s anything but fiction.’

  ‘You read it,’ said Chris. ‘I can’t u
nderstand all these weird spellings, and there’s no full stops or anything.’

  Rob cleared his throat and began to read, a little self consciously at first, then more fluently as he and his audience were drawn into the story. The hand might be cramped, but the thoughts flowed easily, as if this was a story that had long been waiting to be told.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the Name of God and in the yere of Oure Lord MDxxxxviii and in ye second yere of the reyne of oure Sovraine Lord Kynge Edward ye Sixte

  For that Sir Thomas hath set me on work in building a tomb for himself and hys kin I have thought much on mortality in especial mine own And soe it came into my mynde that I shoulde sett down my Testament

  And soe I Richard called Plantagenet of the parish and manor of Ashleigh in the county of Wynneslade being aged and infirm in body but of sound mind memory and understanding God and the Blessed Vyrgyn be thanked therefore do hereby make and ordain this my last will and testament And at the behest of Sir Thomas Mildemay Who has been my True Friend Patron and Benefactor I do also set down my history For although all Things are known unto God Our Father Who alone has the right to judge our actions I deem it right that All may some day know the trueth in this Worlde Alsoe

  I came to this Manor of Ashleigh in the Year of Our Lord MCCCClxxxiii and in the first yere of Kynge Rychard ye Thirde where I lived under the Tutorshipp or Curatorshipp of Sir John Amory who was then Lord of the Manor and a loyal servant of my Father I lived at Ashleigh for two years seeing no strangers and hearing little of the World being content enough being only a Boy and haveing in good plenty all those things which doe make life pleasing to a boy

  Then I saw that Sir John and his Dame were affraid and there was much going aside to speak in corners Sir John then told me that the Earl of Richmond had landed in Wales –

  ‘The Earl of Richmond?’ said Chris.

  ‘Henry Tudor – the future Henry VII.’

  ‘I wish they’d all stick to just one name.’

  – and Kynge Rychard was mustering an army to meet him One day a messenger came to the house and Sir John told me that we were to make a journey he left his harvest to his steward which I do not know that he had ever done before and we rode north with one servant resting at certain houses only Sir John telling me I was to speak to no strangers and answer no questions as we rode

  I did not know where we went but learned after that it must have been Leicester where we rested at Grey Friars Sir John had thought to end our journey there but we learned that Kynge Rychard and his army had already marched out to the west and so we must follow And now I learned that we had been summoned to the Kynge (for he was Crowned and Annoynted in the Sight of God and therefore he was a Kynge however it may be said that it was not rightfully done)

  Sir John and I rode out of Leicester after the army and the road was full for many others were hastening to join the Kynge fearing to be too late for the battle I saw Sir Robert Brackenbury and he knew me and spoke kind words to me And of all those who dyed in the battle I think I grieved most for him for he was a good man and would oftentimes stop in his duty to play at shooting or sundry other games

  When we came to the place where the kinges army was it was night –

  The old man paused in his writing, easing his hand, looking back more than sixty years to that August night in Leicestershire. Their arrival had been expected; when Sir John whispered his name to the man at arms who challenged them they were immediately passed into the camp. Their servant was bidden wait with the horses and a man, grim faced and of few words, led the two of them to the King’s tent. There at the entrance they were told the King was in council and they must wait. It seemed a long time they stood there. Men came and went; a page entered the tent with a flagon of wine. They could hear the voices of men within the tent, sometimes raised in disagreement, although they could not make out what was said. The night grew darker and more chill, for all it was August. The boy yawned and shivered. A torch flared, suddenly lighting the scene. The boy saw the banners outside the tent; the three lions of England; the red cross of St George; the King’s own badge of the white boar.

  In ones and twos the captains of the King’s army began to leave the tent; the council of war was over. One man glanced idly towards Sir John and the boy as he passed. Sir John moved in front of the boy, as if to shield him from view.

  ‘Pull up your hood,’ he said.

  Then a gentleman came out to bring the boy into the tent. Sir John was to wait outside; the boy looked back anxiously as he was led away from his guardian. The gentleman ushered the boy into the tent and left him. The torchlight cast deep shadows; the boy thought he was alone until a man’s voice spoke.

  ‘Put off your hood.’

  Startled, he turned, and tried to push back his hood and make his bow at the same time. He had all but forgotten such courtesies, and Sir John, desiring no doubt to keep their purpose secret, had given him no instruction as they travelled. When he had disentangled himself the boy saw that a man had come forward out of the shadows. He was dark haired and wearing plain, dark clothing. He was slender, less tall than Sir John, but the boy thought he was strong, nevertheless. His face was pale and sad. The boy, young as he was, could recognise the difference between the eve of battle grimness on the faces of the other men in camp and the burden of grief and care borne by this man. He had a nervous habit, too, of pulling at the ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand, sliding it off and then on again. The light fell on the ring, making it glint and gleam as it moved. The boy found that his attention was caught by it and he could not look away until the man – the King – spoke again.

  The old man drew his mind back to the present and took up his pen again.

  I know not if I had ever seen him before He said he wished to ask my forgiveness for any wrong he had done me I said I did not know of any wrong but if there was any I freely forgave it so far as I had the right and power for Father Matthew had taught me my Pater Noster especially dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittibus debitoribus nostris He said that if he won the victory in the battle then I should have my rightful place (my brother being then dead) and he would care for me as a father.

  ‘His brother?’ said Claire.

  ‘Richard’s legitimate son, I suppose he meant,’ said Rob. ‘He died in – ’ he reached for a book and flipped the pages ‘April 1484 – well over a year before this happened.’

  ‘So what did he mean by his rightful place?’

  ‘Maybe he meant to make young Richard his heir,’ Rob said.

  ‘Could he do that?’ Claire asked. Rob shrugged.

  ‘You could do almost anything you wanted if you could get the Pope to agree to it. There were rumours Richard wanted to marry his niece. If you could get a dispensation to do that, I should think Richard making his bastard his heir would be easy.’

  ‘Wanted to marry his niece?’ said Chris. ‘That’s – sick.’

  ‘She was grown up, not a child. It was only a rumour. Richard denied it. But some people did marry their nieces – Philip II of Spain, for one. It was possible.’

  Rob resumed reading.

  If the battle was lost I must return to Ashleigh and henceforward live there and keep silence about my name and never speak of my father

  As the king spoke he fell to playing with the ring once more. Off his finger, and on again. Off, and on again. The king saw the boy looking, and drew the ring off entirely. He held it out to the boy.

  ‘You may have it. It has never seemed to sit well on my finger.’

  ‘Your Grace – ’

  ‘It’s a small enough token, but it is all I have to give at this present. If the day goes against us tomorrow it may be the only thing I ever give you.’

  ‘I will ask God’s blessing upon the endeavour,’ said the boy, not knowing what to say and resorting to the formula he had been taught. The king shook his head.

  ‘Do not. If it is God’s will that the day will be ours, then so it will be.
If it is not His will, then petitions will not make it so. Rather, pray for the souls of all who will die tomorrow, whether friend or foe.’

  So he gave me a token of his intent and I knelt and received his blessing and returned to where Sir John awaited me And we were taken to our horses and rode away again to Leicester and there we waited at Grey Friars for Sir John thought that King Richard would return there after the battle And so indeed he did but in a way as to cause great sorrow and heavyness to many

  Rob paused and took a gulp of his coffee.

  ‘Richard lost the battle,’ said Claire soberly.

  ‘He lost because some bloke – ’

  ‘Stanley.’

  ‘Yeah. He switched sides at the last minute. Isn’t that what you said before?’

  ‘Yes. And Northumberland didn’t bring his men up to join the battle, even though Richard sent messages asking him to.’

  ‘Bastards. And Richard was killed leading a charge against the other side. So the other bloke – Henry – got to be king.’

  ‘Yes. Took the crown Richard was wearing and had himself crowned there and then on the battlefield.’

  ‘Shame. Richard sounds like a good bloke, from what you said.’

  ‘So how did Richard come back to Grey Friars?’ Claire asked.

  ‘His body was stripped and flung across the back of a horse and taken back to Leicester,’ said Rob. ‘He was buried at Grey Friars hastily and secretly. Grey Friars was destroyed, along with all the other monasteries, by Henry VIII, and Richard’s grave was lost. That would have been about 1540 – just a few years before Richard Plantagenet wrote this.’

  They were silent for a few moments. Then,