by Paul Doherty
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Titles from Paul Doherty
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Historical Note
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Author’s Note
A Selection of Titles from Paul Doherty
The Margaret Beaufort Mysteries
DARK QUEEN RISING *
The Brother Athelstan Mysteries
THE ANGER OF GOD
BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT
THE HOUSE OF CROWS
THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE
THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN
THE FIELD OF BLOOD
THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS
BLOODSTONE *
THE STRAW MEN *
CANDLE FLAME *
THE BOOK OF FIRES *
THE HERALD OF HELL *
THE GREAT REVOLT *
A PILGRIMAGE TO MURDER *
THE MANSIONS OF MURDER *
The Canterbury Tales Mysteries
AN ANCIENT EVIL
A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS
A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS
GHOSTLY MURDERS
THE HANGMAN’S HYMN
A HAUNT OF MURDER
THE MIDNIGHT MAN *
* available from Severn House
DARK QUEEN RISING
Paul Doherty
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
Crème de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2018 by Paul Doherty.
The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-107-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-587-9 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-985-5 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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HISTORICAL NOTE
By May 1471 that most ferocious struggle known as the Wars of the Roses was reaching a fresh, bloody climax. Edward of York and his two brothers, Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence, were determined to shatter the power of Lancaster. Henry VI, the Lancastrian King, was their prisoner in the Tower and marked down for death. Edward then moved swiftly to annihilate the Lancastrian army at Barnet before turning west to search out and destroy Henry VI’s Queen, Margaret of Anjou, their son, also called Edward, and their leading general, the Duke of Somerset. The year 1471 was one of Yorkist victories, yet it also gave birth to forces intent on the total destruction of the House of York. Dark Queen Rising chronicles the beginning of this. Of course this is a work of fiction, yet most of this dramatic story is firmly grounded on evidence, as the author’s note at the end of the novel will attest.
House of York
Richard Duke of York and his wife Cecily, Duchess of York, ‘the Rose of Raby’.
Parents of:
Edward (later King Edward IV),
George of Clarence,
Richard Duke of Gloucester (later King Richard III).
House of Lancaster
Henry VI,
Henry’s wife Margaret of Anjou and their son Prince Edward.
House of Tudor
Edmund Tudor, first husband of Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and half-brother to Henry VI of England. Edmund’s father Owain had married Katherine of Valois, French princess and widow of King Henry V, father of Henry VI.
Jasper Tudor, Edmund’s brother, kinsman to Henry Tudor (later Henry VII).
House of Margaret Beaufort
Margaret Countess of Richmond, married first to Edmund Tudor, then Sir Humphrey Stafford and finally Lord William Stanley.
Reginald Bray, Margaret’s principal steward and controller of her household.
Christopher Urswicke, Margaret Beaufort’s personal clerk and leading henchman.
PROLOGUE
‘On the evening the Duke of Clarence, contrary to his honour and oath, departed secretly from the Earl of Warwick to King Edward his brother.’
Great Chronicle of London
‘And so kingdoms fall, thrones tip and crowns topple,’ Melchior, a Barnabite friar from a village outside Cologne, a Rhinelander, solemnly intoned. He stared across at his two companions who had gathered with him in this small writing chamber deep within the precincts of Tewkesbury Abbey.
‘Indeed it is so,’ one of his companions replied, ‘and we, the Three Kings as they call us, have the true knowledge to make that happen.’ He placed his hands on the book of hours. ‘I would swear to such as I would on that held by our brothers at St Vedast.’
‘We are nearly finished,’ Balthasar, the third Barnabite declared. ‘We shall soon return to our friends in London.’
‘Hush.’ Melchior, their leader, raised a hand. ‘Do you not hear it?’ The chamber fell silent. The Three Kings listened intently. The great Benedictine abbey did not echo with any sound: no bells tolling, booming their invitation to prayer; no melodious plain-chant drifting on the early morning breeze, no patter of sandalled feet; nothing but an ominous, oppressive silence. Balthasar went to speak but Melchior shook his head and lifted a finger.
‘There,’ he whispered, ‘the clash of armies. It has begun!’
His two companions strained their hearing and nodded in agreement as the clamour from the nearby battlefield rolled through the abbey. The armies of York and Lancaster were at last locked in deadly combat along the water meadows of the Severn river.
‘Edward of York,’ Melchior declared, ‘and his brothers have brought the Lancastrians to account. Queen Margaret of Anjou hoped to escape across the Severn into Wales, but that will not happen. Instead, she will face defeat. Her general Beaufort of Somerset and all his host will be scattered as was pharaoh’s army; they will be swallowed up in disaster.’
‘But our master surely will remain safe even if his House is the victor?’
‘Do not worry,’ Melchior replied, ‘George of Clarence is the King’s own brother, a man who will not put himself in harm’s way even if this day is vital to him and his kin.’
‘He will be pleased,’ Balthasar, the youngest of the Three Kings, declared, ‘the secrets we have gathered …’ He paused. ‘Is it not time we shared t
he fruits of our work with him?’
‘True, he gave us the seed for the sowing,’ Melchior replied. ‘But we are the ones who planted and tended the growth of this rich, bountiful harvest: a veritable treasure chest of intrigue and scandal.’
‘But we have not finished yet.’
‘No, we are not. I have received messages from Brother Cuthbert at St Vedast. He has discovered a porter who served Duchess Cecily and heard her scream certain words. Cuthbert has invited him to St Vedast.’ Melchior grinned to himself. ‘He will be rewarded, once Cuthbert has taken a verbatim account of what Duchess Cecily shouted when she discovered that her royal son, Edward of York, had married the Woodville woman.’
‘Oh, rich indeed,’ Caspar the third Barnabite whispered. ‘And what else? What more could be done?’
‘News has arrived,’ Melchior turned to face Caspar, ‘that Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, has been defeated and killed at Barnet. He may once have been York’s great friend and champion but, as we know, because of his hatred for the Woodvilles, he withdrew his allegiance and entered Lancaster’s camp. Anyway,’ Melchior continued, ‘our King-maker has paid the price for such a choice and been despatched to his eternal reward. More importantly, Warwick left no male heir, only two daughters: Isobel, married to our Lord George of Clarence; the other, her sister Anne, will, in my view, be the object of affection for our master’s younger brother, Richard of Gloucester. He will be in the thick of the fight today and, if he survives, if Gloucester is victorious, I am sure he will approach his brother the King and demand the hand of Anne Neville in marriage, along with half of her father’s estates which are the richest in the kingdom.’
‘But surely our master will oppose that?’ Balthasar demanded.
‘Of course.’ Melchior sighed. ‘And so my Lord of Clarence has asked us to provide a solution without,’ he sighed again, ‘without causing the death of that young lady.’
‘What happens,’ Caspar asked, ‘if York loses the fight today? What then?’
‘Oh, safe enough for us.’ Melchior rubbed his hands. ‘If Warwick deserted York, so did Clarence. He betrayed his brothers for a while and sheltered deep in the Lancastrian camp, and we went with him, we had to! Now,’ Melchior pulled a face, ‘if York loses, if my Lord of Clarence is killed, if Clarence survives and is taken prisoner, will not be the important issue. We have certain knowledge! We possess information, valuable information, precious little nuggets of scandal hidden away in a manner known only to ourselves. If Margaret of Anjou and Somerset carry the day, they will need us, and so we will still profit in so many, many ways.’ He paused, listening to the growing clamour of steel against steel rolling across the abbey grounds. ‘In the meantime,’ Melchior murmured, ‘we must act as if York will sweep the day. Remember, our master has asked us to keep another matter in mind as well as under close watch.’
‘The little Beaufort bitch?’ Caspar retorted.
‘The same,’ Melchior agreed. ‘Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, late widow of Lord Edmund Tudor, mother of now possibly the sole Lancastrian claimant, Henry Tudor. If the stories are correct, the Beaufort bitch is to become a widow again: her husband Sir Humphrey Stafford is apparently not long for this vale of tears. Now the Beaufort woman also shelters here in this abbey with her leading henchmen, her steward Reginald Bray and her clerk, Christopher Urswicke. I understand she was visiting kinsmen in Wales before being caught up in this clash of armies.’
‘Why doesn’t my Lord of Clarence deal with her?’
‘Oh, he will in time,’ Melchior declared, ‘and when he can! Remember the Beaufort woman is protected by her husband Sir Humphrey Stafford, who has at his disposal all the support of his powerful kinsman the Duke of Buckingham. My master has not forgotten that. However, the woman is being closely watched. Indeed, my Lord of Clarence and his henchman Mauclerc claim to have a spy deep in the bitch’s household. So,’ he rose to his feet, ‘let us see what is happening. The good brothers here chatter like birds on a branch: they’ll have news from the battlefield as well as information about the Beaufort Bitch whom we may have to deal with.’
‘And in London?’ Balthasar demanded. ‘Brother Cuthbert has orders on how to deal with the porter he has questioned.’
‘Oh, do not worry. Cuthbert knows exactly what to do.’
Brother Cuthbert, a purported Barnabite friar, stood staring through the narrow window in the small chancery chamber on the second storey of the priest’s house: this crumbling mansion adjoined the ancient, almost derelict church of St Vedast on Moorfields, that great wasteland beyond London’s northern wall. The Barnabite peered through the narrow lancet, the dark was beginning to grey. He had done his duty, now it was time to bring matters to an end. Brother Cuthbert turned and walked back to Raoul Bisset, a former porter in the household of Duchess Cecily of York. The friar smiled and lightly touched the dagger hidden beneath his robe. He studied the porter carefully. Cuthbert was now satisfied that this small, greasy tub of an old man was no spy or threat; Bisset was simply desperate for money and ready to sell the priceless morsel of information he had treasured for many a year.
‘So,’ Cuthbert forced a smile, ‘what you have told me,’ the Barnabite gestured at the transcript on the table before him, ‘is the truth. Duchess Cecily definitely said that?’
‘Oh yes, Brother.’ Bisset licked his lips and stared longingly at the wine tray on the chest in the far corner. Brother Cuthbert walked across, filled a pewter goblet, brought it back and watched as Bisset greedily drank.
‘You were saying?’ Cuthbert demanded.
‘Brother,’ Bisset licked his lips, ‘the duchess had a fiery temper and a tongue which cut like a razor. She and her husband Richard of York were forever quarrelling and her tantrums only worsened with age. After her husband was killed at Wakefield fight, Duchess Cecily would lash out with both tongue and cane. The only person who could placate her was her favourite, her eldest, Edward who is now King. The duchess dreamed that her darling son would marry the princess of some great foreign house, be it France, Castile or some other kingdom. She boasted as much and would constantly lecture him and others on the need for such a marriage. Duchess Cecily detested the Woodvilles. She hated them with a passion beyond measure and would not allow them into her presence—’
‘And this remark,’ Brother Cuthbert interrupted, ‘you were there?’
‘Yes, yes, I stood outside her chamber. I was bringing up a parcel and I noticed the door was slightly open. The duchess, who was sheltering at Windsor, had just received a messenger who had been dismissed to the buttery.’
‘The duchess was alone?’
‘Oh no, no, no, her chamber priest was present. Well, that poor man has long since died. He fell down some steps. Anyway,’ Bisset tapped the transcript before him, ‘this is what I heard. Now, Brother, I was promised a reward. Good silver, freshly minted coins?’
‘This chamber priest, was he hearing her confession?’
‘He may have been,’ again Bisset tapped the transcript, ‘but this is what I heard. Now, Brother, my reward?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, but it is not here. You see St Vedast,’ Cuthbert waved a hand, ‘is a derelict church, once the heart of a small village until the Great Plague wiped the hamlet from the face of the earth.’
‘Yes, yes, we had the same outside Framlingham in Norfolk.’ Bisset fell silent as the smile faded from Brother Cuthbert’s face. ‘I am sorry,’ Bisset stammered, ‘you were saying?’
‘Moorfields is now the haunt of outlaws, wolfsheads and other malefactors, Master Bisset, so we hide our coin deep in the cemetery. Anyway come, come, I will take you to your reward.’ He made to turn away but then came back and watched as Bisset struggled to his feet.
‘What is it, Brother?’
‘When you worked in the duchess’s household, were you ever visited by Bishop Stillington of Bath and Wells? Did you ever hear his name being mentioned by the duchess or by any of the great ones who visited he
r?’
‘Never.’
‘And does the name Eleanor Butler mean anything to you? After all, you were a porter, you brought people and goods into the households and dwelling places where the duchess resided?’
‘Brother, the name means nothing to me, nothing at all.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course,’ Bisset gabbled on, ‘as in any great household, rumour and gossip were common enough. Stories about the duchess and her husband.’
‘But you witnessed nothing first hand?’ Cuthbert pointed back at the table. ‘Only what you have just told me?’
‘Brother, that’s the truth, but now I am hungry and I would like to go. You promised me shelter and food as well as those coins.’
‘Of course.’
Brother Cuthbert led Bisset out of the chamber, down the rickety stairs, along a passageway which swept past the small refectory and out into God’s Acre; a gloomy graveyard which looked even more sombre with the river mist swirling in. Cuthbert walked briskly, gesturing at Bisset to hurry as he listened to the old porter’s gasps and groans. They made their way along the pebble-strewn path which wound around the ancient headstones and decaying funeral crosses of that sombre house of the dead. They passed through a clump of yew trees and onto a stretch of wasteland, a tangle of weeds, briars and sturdy bushes. Brother Cuthbert stopped and bowed at two of his colleagues who stood resting on spades over a freshly dug grave. Cuthbert walked back to the porter, who stood sweaty and gasping, staring around.
‘What is this?’ Bisset exclaimed. ‘Why have you brought me here? You don’t keep coin …’
‘Here’s payment, my friend.’ Cuthbert stepped closer and thrust his dagger deep into Bisset’s belly, twisting the knife so the blade turned up, rupturing the flesh. Cuthbert dug and dug again as he watched Bisset gag on his own blood and the life light fade in the porter’s eyes. The Barnabite withdrew his dagger and watched the dying man topple to the ground. Once Bisset lay silent, eyes staring, mouth gaping, the Barnabite turned to his two companions who had stood silently watching the killing.