‘So what happened next?’ asked Claire. ‘What happened to young Richard and Sir John?’
Rob picked up the pages again and glanced through them, finding his place.
In the afternoon there was a great crying out in the town that the battle was lost and Kinge Rychard slain Sir John would not wait for certain tidings but would be away at once for he said we must not be in the town when the Earl of Richmond came And so we took to our horses and rode away and found a great crowd of men on the roads With some fleeing the battlefield and some still riding to join Kinge Rychard And some called out to us for tidings but Sir John would speak to none and stopped only to eat and rest our horses and so we came to Ashleigh again
The old man laid down his pen again and picked up the ring which lay on the table before him, turning it between his fingers and thumb. The gold gleamed against his brown and roughened hand. He had never worn the ring. At first it had been a painful reminder, and too dangerous; there was always a chance, however small, that someone might recognise it. Then he had no occasion to wear it. He had kept it hidden a long time, for why would a bricklayer have such a thing? Sometimes he had forgotten all about it and had been surprised to come upon it, wrapped in a piece of an old, cast off cloak, tucked into a corner of the wooden chest that held his few belongings. The ring was part of a life that he now barely remembered, that sometimes seemed not even to have been real. Now, when there was no-one left to recognise it, and he was old enough not to care, the ring would not fit. His joints were too swollen and his fingers too bent from all the years of working with his hands in cold and wet and wind.
An unexpected life for a king’s son, some might say a life beneath one of his birth. But Our Lord grew up in a carpenter’s house. And he had had a life to live. From the news that had made its way to Ashleigh, over the years, he knew that few of his lineage lived into old age under Henry, the seventh and eighth of that name. He put down the ring and picked up his pen again.
Then Sir John died and his son was Lord of the Manor and took his knighthood and became Sir William I do not know what he knew of my history deeming it better never to speak of it Then Ashleigh was taken from Sir William by Kyng Henry upon some pretence of disloyalty by Sir William I do not know if Sir William had been disloyal in word or deed but Kyng Henry was quick enough to see treason in everything Sir William took his family into another part of the county where he had another mannor that was his wifes he would have taken me but I was content to stay at Ashleigh By that time there were few enough who remembered that I had not always been there or that I had ever had any name but Dickon Broome
‘Broom?’ said Chris.
‘The plant,’ said Rob. ‘Plantagenet is Latin for broom.’ He continued reading.
And in trueth I think Sir William was happy enough with my choice although he said he was sorry for it And so I stayed at Ashleigh At first I had money that Sir John bequeathed me that I think he had of Kinge Rychard when he took guardianshipp of me But when I could not live at the mannor and must find my own food and lodging it was more quickly spent and I must needs find myself a craft As a boy I watched the men at work on the mannor thinking it better sport than going to my lessons And they for sport also taught me theyr misteries And so I learned of brickmaking and bricklaying which was a craft brought new into the country and much wanted by gentilmen building theyr howses new And I think I took as much pride in laying a fayre course of bricks as my father did in good governing his people
And so I sojourned much about the county with others of my mistery never taking a wyfe being unable to tell the truth of my birth yett thinking it not right to deceive And thinking also of the danger that might come to my chyldern if my secrets were to be known
And at last I came back to Ashleigh when Sir Thomas was new building his howse And it grieved me to see that Sir John his howse was gone for in spite of all I was happy there when I was a boy Yet Sir Thomas I fownd to bee a master full of charitie toward his servants and a man most curious in all respecting the building of his howse And soe I shewed him somewhat of my craft for the sake of the men who did thus much for mee when I was a boy And as we were therefore much in each others companie Sir Thomas perceyved that I knew of Latin and of the Court and other things whereof a bricklayer would not For I had not spoken of such things in many yeres beinge not in the companie of gentilmen so that in speech with Sir Thomas I did not take care to guard my tongue
For a tyme I did stand fast agaynst his desire to heare all my story owte of fear for him and for myself But then I yielded to his urging and told him my trewe name and of my father and how I came to Ashleigh And hee proved hymself still my frend in taking care for me in my aged dayes
And now I am old and I think my days in this world are nearing their end And I am not sorry for it for I find no joy in a world in which we may not pray to the Blessyd Vyrgin or the Saints and the churches lose their glory and holy men and women are driven on to the highwaies And so I bequethe my bokes to Sir Thomas Mildmay that gave me them and the rest of my wordly goods also to do as hee thinks fitt and I commend my soul to God and my body to the Earth whereof it came And I pray that when my soul has departed my body shall not suffer the desecration and dishonour that Kyng Rychards body did and shall be left to lye in peace
And I sign for the onelye and last tyme
Rychard
‘And there’s a bit added after the signature,’ Rob said.
And haveinge thus written for that the truth shalbe knowen Sir Thomas counsaills that it be hid still for that the Kynge is yet a child and the Duke of Somersett the Protector hys Uncle has many enemies and well doe I knowe howe that may be and soe the tymes be still uncerten And soe the trade that has served me well shall serve me yett once more and by it I shall at the end conceall the truth of my beginnings
Chapter Seventeen
After Rob finished speaking, there was a pause. Rob thought they were all imagining the same thing. An old man, white haired perhaps, holding a quill pen with stiff, cramped hands more accustomed to handling a trowel, scratching out the words laboriously. He put down the printed pages and reached for his coffee. It was cold; he gathered up the mugs and went into the kitchen to make fresh for everyone. When he came back, Chris was looking at the transcript.
‘He says the king was a child. Who was that?’
‘Edward VI, Henry VIII’s son. He was only nine when he came to the throne in 1547. He was right about the Protector Somerset – the kings uncle – having enemies. He ended up losing his head.’
‘It didn’t do to be the king’s uncle, did it,’ said Claire, reaching for the mug that Rob was handing to her. ‘We’ve got Richard who took the throne from his nephew, and ended up dying in battle. Now Somerset.’
‘Everyone always suspected the king’s uncle of plotting,’ Rob said. ‘That’s probably partly why Richard took the throne for himself. He thought he wouldn’t be safe if young Edward V’s mother’s family, the Woodvilles, were in power during Edward’s minority.’ He set Chris’s mug down on the coffee table and returned to the kitchen for his own.
‘So how old was this kid Richard, when he met the king?’ Chris asked, when Rob had returned and taken his seat again.
‘We don’t know,’ Rob said. ‘But if he was old enough to ride to Leicester in 1485, and notice and remember all the things he mentions here, I’d say he must have been around ten at least.’
‘So now you’ve read the document, what are you going to do about it?’ Claire asked.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Rob said. ‘None of this can be made public. We didn’t come by the document legally, and without it there’s no proof.’
‘Pierson didn’t get it legally either. What was he going to do with it?’ Chris wanted to know.
‘Good question. He must have thought there was some profit in it, to have gone to so much trouble,’ Rob said. ‘There’s a market for historical documents, especially if there’s a connection to a well known historical figure.
Maybe he thought he could sell it.’
‘But how could he sell it? It’s stolen. He couldn’t exactly advertise it on e-bay. And who’d buy it?’ Claire said.
‘What about the multi-millionaire who arranges for works of art to be stolen for his private collection hidden in a secret vault under a Swiss mountain?’ Rob said.
‘Oh, come on, that’s fiction. I’m talking about real life.’
‘Richard III arouses strong feelings, especially among people who think he was innocent of all the crimes he was accused of. They’ve even got a society – the Richard III Society. It’s a scholarly group with a genuine interest in all aspects of the fifteenth century. But I suppose there’s always a fringe element. Something associated with him, or new information about him, would be valuable to someone like that.’
‘Nutters, you mean?’ Chris said.
‘Well, yes.’ Rob grinned. ‘But I’m not going to e-mail the Society to ask if any of their members are crazy enough to go to these lengths to get their hands on a bit of Ricardiana.’
‘Ricardi-what?
‘Ricardiana. Something pertaining to Richard.’
‘You made that up,’ Claire said accusingly.
‘You can have Edwardiana and Victoriana. Why not Ricardiana? But you’d be surprised how much stuff is stolen from archives and libraries,’ Rob said, more seriously.
‘Stealing from an archive is one thing. Assaulting an elderly lady in her own home and putting her in hospital is something else,’ Claire said.
‘Well, the assault wasn’t in the original plan. That was just Wayne and Jason panicking when Emily came back unexpectedly.’
‘And they didn’t mean to knock her down,’ Chris said. ‘They just banged into her as they ran past.
‘And that makes it all right?’
‘No, course not. I’m just saying.’
Rob thought he had better intervene.
‘There was the ring that we found with the document, that Pierson took from me. I didn’t get a proper look at it, but I think it was gold,’ he said.
‘Even if it was gold, it wouldn’t be that valuable, would it?’ Claire said.
‘No, but if it could be proven to have an association with Richard III, it would be enormously valuable to a collector.
‘But not to you?’ Claire suggested.
‘Not really,’ Rob said. ‘Kings and queens aren’t my thing, I’m an economic historian. And a ring – well, it’s just a bit of jewellery, isn’t it? It doesn’t tell you anything about the person, or what happened, does it?’ He gestured to the transcripts and photocopies. ‘This is what it’s about for me. Putting together the evidence from a whole lot of sources to find out what was really happening.’
‘Anyway, the same thing applies to the ring as the document,’ Claire said. ‘It wasn’t obtained legally. Anyone trying to sell it would have no provenance. This isn’t getting us anywhere. We’re just going round in circles.’
‘So what do you think we should do?’ Chris said.
‘Go to the police,’ said Claire instantly.
‘No,’ said Chris bluntly. ‘Weren’t you listening earlier? I found Homer – and that’s not something I’m going to forget in a hurry. What d’you think the police are gong to say if I turn up now and say, sorry I didn’t mention it at the time, but I think I might know why he might’ve been done in and who might’ve done it? D’you want to see me banged up?’
For the first time, Claire looked uncertain. Rob realised she was probably as much out of her depth as they were, maybe more. He and Chris had been drawn in gradually, hardly noticing they were getting deeper in with each step. Claire had had almost the whole thing dumped on her at once. Her abrasiveness was probably due to anxiety as much as anything else.
‘I don’t think Pierson is interested in Emily any more,’ Rob said. ‘He wanted the book because he thought it would tell him how to find the document. Now we’ve got the document, he doesn’t need the book.’
Claire nodded briefly. Then she said,
‘So if you won’t go to the police, what are you going to do? What about this Pierson? Do you think he’s given up? What if he comes after you again, tries to get the document back?’
‘The document is hidden away where he can’t get it. It’s not here in the house.’
‘What if he kidnaps you again, tries to make you tell where it is?’
‘Even if I told him where it was, he wouldn’t be able to get it. I’m the only person who can get it, so he can’t afford to damage me too much.’
Claire muttered something that sounded like ‘macho idiots.’ Then she said,
‘So what are you going to do with the document? Just leave it in its hiding place forever, until someone else stumbles across it in another five hundred years?’
Rob had not thought that far ahead.
‘Who does the document belong to?’ Claire went on.
‘Lord Somerden, I suppose. He owns Ashleigh, where we found it.’
‘You should return it to him. As long as you’ve got it, you’re in possession of stolen goods. And giving it back would get Pierson off your back.’
‘How can we give it back?’ Chris demanded. ‘I’m not trying to put it back where we got it. Much too risky.’
‘Could you pretend to find it somewhere? Up in the attics, say?’ Rob suggested.
‘It’d be tricky. The place has pretty much been cleared out now. I’d have to come up with a good story for why it wasn’t found before.’ He sounded unenthusiastic. Rob did not blame him. Rob himself would be sorry to part with the document. He would still have the transcript, but the parchment, written in Richard Plantagenet’s own hand, brought the story far more vividly alive than any twelve point font on a computer screen or A4 page ever could.
‘So what are you going to do?’ Claire said. ‘This man Pierson might be really dangerous. Suppose he did kill this boy Wayne? What if he knows you know he was involved in this? He might want to make sure you can’t tell anyone what you know.’
‘We could find out about him,’ Chris suggested. ‘Get something on him that’d make him back off. Something that wouldn’t mean dropping ourselves in it as well, I mean.’
‘And how would you do that?’ Claire wanted to know.
‘You could look him up,’ Rob suggested.
‘Absolutely not!’ said Claire, appalled. ‘I could lose my job, and any chance of ever getting another one.’
‘Why not? You found out about Lord Somerden.’
‘We didn’t think he was doing anything criminal. And I didn’t look at anything that wasn’t in the public domain. And even that was pushing it, using resources at work for a private matter.’
‘Oh, well, we’ll have to find another way, then,’ Chris said. Claire stood up.
‘If you do, I don’t want to know about it.’ She picked up her coat and bag. At the door, she stopped and turned back.
‘Have you mentioned any of this to Laura?’
‘No.’
‘Well, don’t, will you, if you see her? This business with Auntie Emily seems to have upset her a lot. Either that, or things aren’t going well with the boyfriend.’
When Claire had gone, Rob sat down again, and picked up his notebook.
‘What do we know about Pierson? Where could we start digging?’
‘We know where he lives. Audley Avenue.’
‘We know he knew Emily had the book. He knew where to look for it. He knew Emily would be out. But anyone asking around about Finch family history in Wynderbury could have found all that out. But he didn't know she had lent the book to me.’
‘He knew Homer,’ said Chris.
Rob looked up.
‘Good point. How did he find Homer? He couldn’t advertise for a burglar, any more than he could advertise the document for sale.’
‘And I bet he didn’t meet him on the Greenway. You wouldn’t find someone like him within a mile of it. Flash git.’
‘And Wayne wouldn’
t have a reason to go to Audley Avenue.’
‘Not unless he was planning to do it over,’ Chris agreed. ‘I’ll have a word with Jason, see if he knows.’
Chapter Eighteen
Researching Maria Mildmay was easy enough. Rob found her burial in the Ashleigh parish registers. She had died in 1814, a spinster aged sixty-two. She had left a will.
To my nephew William Mildmay my mahogany desk and bookcase in my chamber here at Ashleigh wherein I now lie and all the books that shall be therein Also my mourning ring that I had in remembrance of my late brother William Mildmay To my niece Frances Wellard my striped silk gown and coat my black silk gown and coat my green silk petticoat and my white petticoat with fringe of my own work
The residue of her property was left to her brother Sir Thomas Mildmay of Ashleigh. Maria, it seemed, had lived all her life, and died, at Ashleigh. It was likely that any personal papers she had left had remained there too, and were among the family archives.
Rob turned to researching Nigel Pierson. He had a theory, and in pursuit of proof he went online, to the family history websites, and started searching for the registration of Pierson’s birth. From what Chris had said, and from the ease with which Pierson had overpowered him and stolen the document and ring, Rob was sure he was not an elderly man. He was looking for man no older than his mid-fifties. Nigel Pierson turned out to be approaching forty. He noted the reference and moved on to order a copy of the certificate.
The certificate, when it arrived, confirmed his suspicions. He showed it to Chris.
‘Pierson’s birth certificate? What does that tell us?’
‘Look under name and maiden surname of mother,’ said Rob, pointing to the place.
‘Patricia Pierson, formerly – Somerden? Pierson’s related to Lord Somerden?’
‘When we went to see him, Lord Somerden told us his great-nephew had begun to sort the family papers.’
The Plantagenet Mystery Page 16