by Paul Doherty
‘Deliver them!’ Clarence shouted, shaking his sword. Abbot Strensham walked as close as he could to the pointed blade.
‘George, Richard,’ Edward the King dramatically re-sheathed his weapons, ‘our quarrel is with traitors, not Abbot Strensham and his Benedictines,’ a note of humour entered the King’s voice, ‘and certainly not with Holy Mother Church. These malefactors, double-dyed in treason and treachery, men twice as fit for Hell as any sinner, have sought sanctuary here. Let them have it.’
The King stepped forward, one hand raised. ‘Abbot Strensham, you have the word of your King.’ Edward turned away and, escorted by his brothers who also re-sheathed their weapons, left the abbey church. The Yorkist knights streamed after them. Abbot Strensham gave a deep sigh, raised a hand, snapping his fingers. Two monks hurried forward to close the heavy, double portals, turning the key in its lock and bringing down the great bar whilst others of the brothers did the same at both the Devil’s porch and Corpse door.
‘Are you ready?’ Urswicke bent down and stared at his pallid-faced mistress, mouth all puckered, her tired eyes watchful and wary. ‘Abbot Strensham has arranged for you, and you only, to slip through the rood screen into the nave.’ He gestured at Bray. ‘Reginald and I will accompany you into the sacristy but no further. Mistress,’ he added, ‘be careful. You know you have to be. A person claiming sanctuary cannot, according to canon law, receive any visitors who might bring weapons, purveyance or comfort, be it physical or spiritual, to a sanctuary seeker. So be vigilant and remember the risks both you and the abbot are taking, not to mention your kin.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Margaret sighed. She got to her feet, took a deep breath, pulled up the hood of her gown and, with Urswicke leading the way, they left the guesthouse. Urswicke paused whilst Bray locked the doors behind them; they then continued along stone-paved passageways where harsh-faced angels, sullen saints and smirking gargoyles peered down at them from the shadows. An eerie silence had crept through the abbey, as if it was part of the thick river mist now seeping in from the Severn. All sound was dulled, the echoing song of plain-chant, the ringing of bells, the slap of sandalled feet on stone and the cries and shouts of the lay brothers working in the vast abbey kitchen and buttery. All this seemed to have been cloaked by an ominous silence. Occasionally black-garbed figures, robes flapping, would flit across their path. Now and again Margaret glimpsed peaked, white faces of monks peering out at them from some window or embrasure.
Edward of York’s men were also there but Abbot Strensham had issued his own orders. The sacristan of the abbey did not fire the sconce torches, light the powerful lanternhorns or lower the Catherine wheels, their rims crammed with candles. This lack of light proved to be a real obstacle to York’s soldiers, who did not know the abbey with its twisting runnels, narrow winding paths, different gardens, herb plots and flower beds. They had to thread themselves through a veritable maze of stone where it was so easy to lose their way. Urswicke, however, faced no such difficulty as he followed the precise directions provided by Abbot Strensham.
At last they reached the small door to the minor sacristy of the great abbey church. Urswicke knocked and Abbot Strensham himself ushered them in. He had a hurried, whispered conversation with Urswicke and Bray ordering them to stay then, taking Margaret by the hand, he led her out of the sacristy. They crossed the darkened sanctuary, through the rood screen, down steep steps into the nave and across to the chantry chapel of St Faith. Margaret felt she was walking through the halls and chambers of the underworld, where ghosts gathered and pitiful moans and groans mingled with the whispering of desperate men. The light was very poor and this only deepened the illusion that all of this misery was part of some blood-chilling nightmare. At the entrance to the chantry chapel Margaret paused and stared at the dark shapes huddled along the nave.
‘We do what we can for them,’ the abbot murmured, ‘but they are all doomed men. Edward of York is intent on their deaths. Both I and Somerset know that.’
The inside of the chantry chapel was opulently furnished with blue-dyed turkey rugs. The polished woodwork of both the screen and the chapel furniture gleamed in the light of the six-branched altar candelabra. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, the leader of the Lancastrian host, sat slumped in the celebrant’s chair, feet resting on a stool. On the floor around him lay his battle harness, his weapons stacked in the far corner. Margaret, aware of Abbot Strensham leaving and the door closing behind him, walked softly around and stared into the face of a great lord whom she knew faced certain death. At first Somerset did not even acknowledge her but sat cradling his head in one hand, the other tugging at the sweat-soaked tufts of his blond hair which fell down to his shoulders.
‘My Lord,’ she whispered, ‘my Lord I am here. Margaret Beaufort, daughter of the first Duke of Somerset.’
‘Margaret, Margaret, Margaret.’ Somerset’s hand fell away. He straightened up, removed his feet and pointed to the stool. He then abruptly leaned forward. He grasped her hands, drew her close and kissed her softly on each cheek before gesturing at the stool. ‘Margaret, my little Margaret.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Four years.’ She smiled through the dark. ‘Four years almost to the day. You remember, the May Day celebrations?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Somerset gestured at his stained but still glorious tabard lying on the floor beside him. ‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ he murmured, ‘thus passes the glory of the world, Margaret. My brother John was killed in today’s battle, Courtenay of Devon likewise. God knows where the rest are or what the future holds for them! And as for you, the last of our line.’ Somerset joined his hands in prayer. ‘Little Margaret, since I heard of you visiting me, I have been reflecting. I shall give you a homily, a sermon on the times. Much of it you will already know but some of it points to the future. So Margaret, let me begin my sad story of kings. Remember the verse that all the waters of the sea cannot wash away the balm and chrism of coronation? A king is sacred! Henry VI, son of Henry V and Catherine of Valois, is God’s vice-regent here in this kingdom. True,’ Somerset wiped his sweaty, bewhiskered face, ‘our enemies claim that Henry sits closer to the angels than any of us; that he is not of this world yet he is still our King. We Beauforts descend from John of Gaunt, son of Edward III and his mistress Katherine Swynford; we also have a claim to the throne. We are legitimate and have been declared such by both King and Parliament, yet we support the Crown. Henry VI, holy but witless, married Margaret of Anjou, the so-called Angevin she-wolf. She produced an heir, Prince Edward.’ Somerset shook his head. ‘A most unlikeable young man. Another killer! God knows what will happen now to Henry or his son because the House of York, also descended from Edward III, believe they have a claim to the throne, one superior to anyone else’s. Richard of York was killed at Wakefield but his three remaining sons Edward, Richard and George have continued the struggle and so we are here. We have been brought to this pass. The Beauforts and the House of Lancaster are truly finished. Margaret of Anjou and her son will be captured and slain. Many of those who supported them, men such as Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick – the so-called King-maker – was killed at Barnet along with many of our comrades.’ He paused and peered at Margaret. ‘You will need protection. You are a Beaufort, Margaret. Your husband is Sir Humphrey Stafford?’
‘Fought for York to protect us all,’ Margaret replied. ‘He too was at Barnet, and grievously wounded! I cannot say if he will survive. Thankfully his kinsmen the Staffords of Buckingham are well protected by Edward of York and sit high on his council.’
‘And if Sir Humphrey dies, Margaret, as I too am going to die very soon. Oh yes.’ Somerset held a hand up. ‘I am reconciled with that. Edward and his brothers want to destroy Lancaster root and branch. You Margaret,’ again he touched the back of her hand, ‘you are the last sprig of our tree, or at least your son is, Edmund Tudor’s golden boy. Where is he?’
‘Safe.’
‘Where?’
&nbs
p; Margaret just stared back.
‘Yes, yes,’ Somerset whispered, ‘it’s best not to say … But to return to you. If Stafford dies, will you take a third husband?’
‘God will decide.’
‘Yes, Deus vult,’ Somerset replied. ‘Listen Margaret, your father, my kinsman, the first Duke of Somerset, died out of sheer despair. Some even claim that he took his own life.’
‘Some are liars. Why do you mention that?’
‘I just wonder if we Beauforts are cursed, whether we are doomed to fail. This morning I thought we would carry the day. I really,’ he paused to control the stutter which marred his speech, a legacy, or so they said, of a powerful blow to the head during a tournament at Windsor, ‘I truly thought victory was within our grasp. I plotted to clear the field and destroy York.’ He clenched his fist. Margaret watched and recalled how Somerset was a man of bounding ambition and fiery temper: she secretly wondered if such faults played their part in his defeat and that of Lancaster along the meadows outside.
‘Pity poor Warwick killed at Barnet. Pity your brother-in-law Jasper Tudor did not reach us in time. Pity that we were unable to ford the Severn.’ Margaret flinched at the self-pity which curled through Somerset’s voice. ‘Pity us all Margaret.’ Somerset, eyes closed, rocked backwards and forwards. A loud scream echoed down the nave and Somerset broke from his reverie. ‘Be on your guard against Clarence.’ He hissed. ‘Clarence is a killer to the very marrow, a Judas soul bound up like Lucifer with his own ambition. He intends to kill you, murder your son and anyone else of Lancastrian blood. He will do all this and then, like the rabid wolf he is, turn once again on his own kith and kin. He will prowl both court and kingdom. Murder, treachery and ravenous ambition will trail his every footstep: these hounds of Hell will be famished, hungry for the taste of blood and for Clarence’s self-preferment …’
Christopher Urswicke gently removed Mauclerc’s hand and pushed it away.
‘What is the matter, Christopher? Are you not interested in the male as you are in the female? Do you not prefer the company of men to that of women or are you …?’
‘Hush now.’ Urswicke leaned over and pressed a finger against Mauclerc’s lips. ‘Remember why you are here,’ Urswicke hissed to this most sinister henchman of George Duke of Clarence.
‘Yes, here we are.’ Mauclerc’s voice was mocking. He fell silent as Urswicke drew his dagger: the blade gleamed in the light of the lanternhorn set on the garden table deep in a rose-fringed arbour overlooking the kitchen garden of Tewkesbury Abbey. Urswicke placed the dagger on the table before he twirled it; the blade spun, glittering and pointed. ‘Do you threaten me Urswicke?’
Mauclerc leaned closer, the lantern light casting shifting shadows. Urswicke watched intently. Mauclerc was a dagger man and Urswicke wondered if others lurked in the darkness behind. He held Mauclerc’s gaze, studying him carefully. Clarence’s henchman had a wolfish face with those narrow, slightly pointed eyes, the hollow cheeks, squat nose, and a mouth which seemed unable to close fully around the jutting teeth. A man who wore a perpetual sneer, as if he had judged the world and found it wanting to himself. Mauclerc scratched his black, glistening shaven pate, then abruptly snatched at the dagger, but Urswicke was swifter. He grasped the knife, twisting it in his hand so it pointed directly at Mauclerc’s face. Clarence’s henchman smiled thinly.
‘I’ve heard of that Urswicke.’ He murmured. ‘Fast you are, swift as a pouncing cat. A born street fighter, despite your delicate frame.’
‘Or because of it? So Master Mauclerc, put both hands where I can see them and do not think of even touching either the dagger in your belt or the Italian stiletto in the top of your boot. Nor must you whistle or, indeed, make any sound to draw in your escort which must not be far from here. Good? Do you understand?’ Urswicke didn’t even bother to wait for an answer. He re-sheathed his blade and leaned against the table. ‘So we are,’ he began, ‘at the witching hour on this balmy May evening in Tewkesbury Abbey. A short distance away the corpses of the Lancastrians are being stripped and collected like faggots of wood for the fire. Here in this abbey, the remaining surviving Lancastrian leaders lie bloody and besmirched: their only defence is Holy Mother Church in the person of Abbot John Strensham—’
‘They’ll die,’ Mauclerc interrupted. ‘They will all die. Clarence my master is insistent on that.’
‘Even though, for a while, he turned coat and fought for Lancaster, changing back to his royal brother when Warwick and Somerset seemed weaker?’
‘My master,’ Mauclerc retorted, ‘had no quarrel with his brothers but only with the Woodvilles. The King’s marriage to Elizabeth of that name offended many of the lords. The Woodvilles are grasping, a family greedy for power, deeply ambitious without the talent to match …’
‘Like so many of our noble lords.’
Mauclerc drew his breath sharply. ‘You insult my master?’
‘No Master Mauclerc, I tell the truth, but enough of this fencing, this sham swordplay.’
‘You talk of my master betraying his own brother,’ Mauclerc jabbed a finger at Urswicke, ‘yet you are here to act the traitor to your own mistress, Margaret Beaufort.’
‘My loyalty is to the King,’ Christopher insisted. ‘My own father is Recorder of London, an important judge and the most fervent supporter of Edward of York.’
‘Though your relationship with your father is hardly cordial?’
‘We have our differences.’
‘You mean he has his women who, I understand, drove your mother to an early grave …’ Mauclerc paused as Urswicke’s fingers fell to brush the hilt of his dagger.
‘My father is my father,’ Urswicke murmured. ‘I am who I am, a clerk, a lawyer well versed in politics who now accepts his hour has come. The House of Lancaster, the fortunes of the Beauforts are finished, shattered and pushed into the dark.’
‘We were not talking about them but your mother?’
‘Leave that, Master Mauclerc. Let us concentrate on what’s going to happen.’
‘Oh, that’s easy enough. The King, not to mention Gloucester and Clarence, are determined to pull Lancaster up by its rotten roots and consign that stricken tree to the fires of history.’
‘And my mistress, the countess?’
‘You mean your former mistress?’
‘True.’ Urswicke half smiled. ‘But her fate?’
‘She is married to a Stafford who, like many of his tribe, fought for our King, in particular at Barnet. Consequently she is safe providing she behaves herself. Her son is another matter. You see, once all this is over, the English court will divide. There will be the King, his wife Elizabeth Woodville and her brood. Close to them Richard of Gloucester and George of Clarence. Then there are the Yorkist warlords, men such as William Hastings, Stanley, Buckingham and the others and, of course, Holy Mother Church. We now deal with the Lancastrians. There is Henry VI, that holy fool who lies locked up in the Tower. He can stay there, he will never come out.’ Urswicke tried not to flinch at the venom in Mauclerc’s voice. ‘Yes, yes Christopher, Henry VI will not be making any more royal progresses through the kingdom. He can stay imprisoned, pattering his prayers and preparing for his own funeral. We, however, are going to hunt for his Queen, Margaret of Anjou, and the bastard Edward, her son. We want to capture them. In the meantime, those who have taken sanctuary here must die and my master intends to kill any other remaining Lancastrian with even the weakest claim to the throne.’ Mauclerc pushed his face closer. ‘And that includes your mistress’s son, Henry Tudor, the offspring of her former husband Edmund who was, as you know, half-brother to that holy fool Henry. What we now want to know are the whereabouts of your mistress’s son?’
‘In a while,’ Urswicke replied. ‘We must not travel that road so swiftly. We must proceed at a canter, not at a gallop.’
‘Time is passing, Urswicke. You must make choices. As I have said, Somerset and the others are for the slaughter. You want protection from my master
and you shall have it, but it comes with a price …’
‘It always does.’
‘Or it can be interpreted as a token of good faith by yourself.’
‘I offer you three such tokens.’
‘And what are these?’
‘The whereabouts of Margaret of Anjou and her son.’
Mauclerc’s surprise was palpable. He half rose, gasping for breath. ‘Nonsense.’ He breathed. ‘How can you?’ Mauclerc sat down. ‘Why should she …?’
‘Margaret and her son are desperate to cross the Severn and seek the protection of my mistress’s brother-in-law, Jasper Tudor, who hides behind the vast fastness of Pembroke Castle where, by the way, her own son also shelters. So,’ Urswicke waved a hand, ‘you have two tokens, take them or leave them.’
Mauclerc stretched out a hand, Urswicke clasped this. Mauclerc squeezed, let go and got to his feet. ‘Hold.’ Urswicke peered up through the dark as he gestured with his head towards the abbey. ‘The Lancastrian defeat, so swift, so crushing. What happened? And I might be able to give you another token.’
‘Edward of York,’ Mauclerc paused as if gathering his thoughts, ‘Edward of York,’ he replied, ‘came on fast, passing through Southwick, aiming like an arrow for this abbey. Margaret of Anjou and her army were desperate to cross the Severn but they failed. She and Somerset had no choice but to advance to meet us. The Lancastrians divided their host into three battle groups. Prince Edward and Lord Wenlock held the centre. Somerset their right, Courtenay of Devon their left flank. They advanced swiftly through the Vineyards and reached the south of the abbey.’
‘And King Edward’s army?’
‘Also divided into three phalanxes. King Edward held the centre, Gloucester the left, Lord Hastings the right. What the enemy didn’t know was that King Edward had hidden a host of two hundred mounted spearmen on a wooded hill a little to the south of Gloucester’s phalanx.’