by Paul Doherty
‘We heard the sound of cannon fire?’
‘Yes. King Edward brought up his artillery and archers to deliver a shower of missiles on Somerset’s battle line: this proved to be a sharp and deadly hail. Somerset was left with no choice but to attack, and became embroiled with Gloucester and the King’s phalanxes. The Yorkists held the attack until the spearmen King Edward had hidden on that wooded hill charged out to smash into Somerset’s line, forcing it back. The Yorkists then began to roll the Lancastrian line up as you would a piece of piping …’
‘But the Lancastrian centre, surely …?’
‘Ah.’ Mauclerc tapped the side of his nose; he paused as an owl hooted hauntingly through the dark.’
‘Three times!’ Urswicke exclaimed.
‘Three times what?’
‘If an owl hoots three times through the dark, it’s a prophecy for those who hear it. If there are two people in the same place, one of them will die and the other will be the cause of it. Do you believe that, Mauclerc?’
‘Aye, as I believe harridans fly through the air and the Hounds of Hell prowl this abbey. I don’t believe in such babble talk.’
‘The battle?’ Urswicke asked, quickly trying to conceal his own unease.
‘Ah,’ Mauclerc laughed abruptly, ‘the Lancastrian centre should have come to Somerset’s aid but Lord Wenlock froze, God knows why?’
‘I do,’ Urswicke replied. ‘And here’s your third token. I met Wenlock secretly on his march to the Severn. I pretended to be sending messages to the Duke of Somerset from his kinswoman, my mistress. Anyway, Wenlock who, as you know, once fought for the House of York, was open to suggestion. After all, King Edward had once appointed him to be captain of the English fortress at Calais. My couriers delivered messages informing Wenlock that if the battle went against Lancaster and he survived, my mistress would intercede for Lord John Wenlock and so would her husband, Sir Humphrey Stafford.’
‘So that explains it,’ Mauclerc interrupted. ‘Wenlock didn’t freeze, he just didn’t commit his forces to confront the Yorkists who inflicted great damage along the Lancastrian battle line. Courtenay of Devon was killed in the bloody hand-to-hand fighting, as was Beaufort’s brother John. Somerset was furious. He left the battle and galloped up to Wenlock to remonstrate. Wenlock argued back, so Somerset, and he has a fiery temper, smashed Wenlock’s head with his battle-axe.’
‘God and all his angels,’ Urswicke breathed.
‘The Lancastrians witnessed this savage clash: their leaders were killing each other whilst the rest were being cut down as you would lop branches in an orchard. The Lancastrians broke. They fled towards Abbot’s Mill, one of the Severn tributaries, but this was swollen due to recent rains. Many were drowned, the others tried to flee across the sunken water meadow only to be cut down. A day of great slaughter. Parts of the meadow were knee-deep in gore; there was enough spilt blood to float a boat. Edward’s victory was complete, a sign of God’s pleasure for the House of York. Now we must go.’ Mauclerc beckoned. ‘Our masters await.’
Urswicke picked up his cloak lying over the table and followed Clarence’s henchman out of the arbour and across the kitchen garden. He made Mauclerc, who carried the lanternhorn, walk ahead of him. Urswicke watched the moving circle of light as they made their way under the looming mass of Tewkesbury Abbey. Night had fallen but the abbey didn’t sleep. Knots of well-armed household knights, sporting the blue and yellow of York as well as the personal coat of arms of the three royal brothers, guarded all entrances to and from the abbey.
Urswicke and Mauclerc eventually left the precincts by a postern gate. They hurried down a narrow trackway into Tewkesbury village, its usual silence and tranquillity broken by the mass of soldiers camped out in the streets which led into the market square, dominated by a soaring stone cross. Edward and his brothers had taken over a merchant’s house overlooking the market area, a majestic three-storey mansion built out of honey-coloured Cotswold stone; both its door and windows were flung open in a blaze of candlelight. The royal brothers were gathered in the long, wood-panelled dining hall. They lounged at the top of the common table, Edward the King slouched on a throne-like chair, his brothers either side of him. Further down, clerks of the royal chancery copied and sealed letters, proclamations and indentures. The hall was perfumed with the sweet smell of scented candles and the rich odour of melting wax. Around the room stood York’s leading henchmen. Urswicke recognised Lovel, Catesby, Ratcliffe and others of Gloucester’s household, as well as those of the King, such as William Hastings who played such a prominent role in the Yorkist’s victory. The royal standards and other banners filled one corner of the hall. Strewn on the floor beside them were those of the defeated Lancastrians, besmirched with urine, faeces and other dirt. Urswicke glimpsed the Lilies and Portcullis of Beaufort and hurriedly glanced away. Mauclerc told him to stay before handing the lantern to a retainer and hurrying up to kneel between the King and Clarence, with Gloucester leaning over to listen to what Mauclerc whispered as he pointed back towards Urswicke. The King raised a hand, snapping his fingers, gesturing at Urswicke to approach. Mauclerc brought a stool, placing it where he had knelt. Urswicke went to bend the knee.
‘No need,’ Edward barked. ‘Not now. Time is passing.’ The King’s light-blue eyes creased into a smile. ‘I know you, Christopher, or rather your family. Your father’s loyalty provides great comfort to me and mine. Now.’ Edward raised himself out of his chair, ‘Hastings!’ he shouted. ‘Clear this room. You sirs,’ Edward bellowed at the clerks further down the table, ‘gather your manuscripts, get out and do so quickly.’ Edward rose and clapped his hands, the hall swiftly emptied. Urswicke glanced at the royal brothers. All three had stripped themselves of their mail and armour and now wore puffed, sleeveless jerkins, displaying the blue and yellow of York, over stained cambric shirts. The royal brothers were still blood-streaked and, as they moved on their chairs, the spurs on their boots jingled like fairy bells. They had taken off their broad, studded warbelts and hung these over the back of the chairs. Waiting for the hall to be fully cleared, Urswicke studied all three brothers closely. Edward the King, he concluded, certainly deserved the title as the handsomest man in the kingdom. Despite the exertions of the day, Edward still looked serene and composed, his beautiful face seemed slightly burnished as if with gold dust: Edward’s nose was thin and aquiline, his lips full and merry, his blond hair closely cropped and sheened with sweat whilst the light-blue eyes were bright with mischief and merriment. The King had retaken his seat and now sat, mouth slightly open, staring down the hall, a heavy-lidded look as he watched Hastings usher a bevy of young damsels out of a window seat towards the door. Clarence looked almost identical to his elder brother, though sharp observation would soon notice the reddish, vein-streaked drinker’s face, the mouth slightly slobbery, lips twisted into a perpetual pout. Clarence, Urswicke concluded, believed the world owed him much and still had to pay. Richard of Gloucester was remarkably different from both his elder brothers. He had long, reddish hair which framed a pale, severe face with watchful eyes and tight-lipped mouth. Rather small in height, Richard sat slightly twisted as he favoured a birth injury to his back. He kept drumming his fingers on the table while staring around the hall, as if he suspected enemies still lurked nearby. A man of nervous energy, Richard of Gloucester was totally devoted to his eldest brother, as well as to the memory of their beloved father, slain at Wakefield. Over the last few months Richard had emerged as a fierce warrior skilled in battle and totally ruthless in the pursuit and destruction of the enemies of his House. Richard turned and caught Urswicke staring at him. He winked and Gloucester’s severe face creased into a genuine smile which completely transformed him.
‘Christopher Urswicke.’ Gloucester leaned across, hand extended for the clerk to clasp. He did so, moving to the side as Edward sat back in his own chair to allow Christopher to respond. Abruptly Urswicke felt his shoulder tightly gripped. He turned. Clarence pushed his face close,
lips glistening with red wine, which drenched his breath as well as the front of his doublet. ‘And how’s your mistress little Meg? We will deal with her and her by-blow, the imp Henry Tudor. She cannot hide behind the Staffords of Buckingham forever. We will …’
‘George.’ Edward leaned over and gently prised Clarence’s hand away. ‘First,’ the King beamed at Urswicke, ‘we must deal with troubles of the day. Yes?’
Urswicke nodded his agreement. Deep in his heart, however, he would certainly remember what the King had just said. ‘First we must deal …’ He glanced quickly at Clarence. Then what, he wondered …?
‘I have thrown the dice in my last game of hazard.’ Somerset took his hands away from his face and stared up at the cross above the chantry chapel altar. He had described the battle outside, freely confessing how he had committed one mistake after another, explaining in detail his execution of Wenlock. ‘Our only hope,’ he murmured, ‘is that the Angevin crosses the Severn, to be welcomed and protected by Jasper Tudor. If not …’ His voice trailed off. ‘If not,’ he repeated, ‘you Margaret and your boy are the last remaining hope of Lancaster. Now listen.’ Somerset stared around the chantry chapel. ‘You know, Margaret, that George of Clarence, like Neville of Warwick, clashed bitterly with the Woodvilles. Both nobles were furious at Edward’s secret marriage to Elizabeth Woodville, an insult which has rankled deeply. Warwick and Clarence left the Yorkist camp in open rebellion. However, the Queen Mother, Cecily, the Rose of Raby, successfully persuaded George and Edward to be reconciled.’ He paused at the cries of some wounded man further down the nave, a shriek of agony at the pain as well as the despair which now darkened the souls of all those facing imminent death. ‘Soon,’ he whispered, ‘we will be past all sorrow.’
Margaret, despite her revulsion at Beaufort’s arrogance, which had brought him and thousands of those who trusted him to this sorry pitch, leaned over and stroked Somerset’s blood-streaked wrist. He grasped her hand and gently squeezed her fingers.
‘Anyway,’ he released his grip, ‘you know the rest. Warwick and Anjou invaded, only to be brutally defeated. Clarence, as usual, survived. As I warned you, be most wary of that most sinister prince of blood. When Clarence was with us, I heard strange rumours, stories and whispers. Some of these concerned you and yours …’
‘In what way?’
‘Apparently Clarence boasted how he has a spy deep in your household: I suspect this is most probable because Clarence is committed to the total destruction of the Beauforts and all whom we hold dear. However, Clarence nurses a diabolic pride, a real hubris which could bring him down. Such a weakness would give you the power to meddle in his affairs. Trust me, Margaret. I confess I have been guilty of following my own pride, of not listening to more subtle counselling. However, here on my death watch, let me assure you: Edward of York’s greatest weakness is his own family, his queen and the Woodvilles, a pack truly hated, cursed and reviled. Clarence will not change his nature. He is as committed to their destruction as he is to yours. The Woodvilles will supply all the necessities for the coming conflagration.’
‘And Gloucester?’
‘Loyal to his brother: “loyalty is mine” is Richard’s motto. He will stand by Edward for as long as Edward lives. What might happen if Edward died?’ Somerset pulled a face. ‘To return to my argument, Clarence is the real weakness in the Yorkist defences, his soul burns with ambition. He sees himself as the rightful Lord of England. When he was allied to Warwick and the House of Lancaster, he actually proclaimed himself King. He will now return to such idle boasting like a whore to her trade.’ Somerset wiped the sweat from his face. ‘And so we come to the Secret Chancery. Clarence’s cabal of clerks, three in number, Rhinelanders in origin, former friars. Clarence depends on these for providing grist for his mischief.’
‘Which is?’
‘We do not know, except the clerks are called “the Three Kings”, after their city of origin, Cologne where, according to tradition, the Three Kings mentioned in the Gospel lie buried. They also take the saints’ names: Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar. You may well ask, Margaret, why should I, a duke, a prominent leader of the Lancastrian cause, be interested in Clarence’s Three Kings …?’ Beaufort rose and crossed to the wall recess where the cruets were placed during Mass. Beaufort picked up an earthenware jug and drank greedily before offering it to Margaret who shook her head. ‘A gift from the abbot,’ Beaufort whispered, coming back to his chair. He sat down cradling the jug. ‘From the little we have learnt,’ he continued, ‘The Three Kings have drawn up a book, a manuscript, a secret document called “Titulus Regius”.’
‘The Title of the King,’ Margaret murmured.
Beaufort stared at his young kinswoman, the last true surviving Beaufort. He wondered if she would be safe, surrounded as she was by the different wolf packs which prowled the Yorkist court. Despite the poor light, Beaufort glimpsed a shift in Margaret’s clever eyes as she stared back. A knowing look, as if Margaret Beaufort had studied the Duke of Somerset and knew his true worth. A small nun-like woman, Beaufort reflected, and again he wondered how she would cope with the victorious, vicious Clarence, who would watch her and her household with his spies and paid assassins.
‘The “Titulus Regius”.’ Margaret demanded: ‘What is it?’ She paused as a door was flung open further down the nave. Margaret sprang to her feet and hurried out of the chantry chapel. She feared armed Yorkists might have broken in but it was only Abbot Strensham. Apparently one of the wounded Lancastrians, realising he was in danger of death, had pleaded with one of his companions who, in turn, had begged a sympathetic Yorkist guard to fetch a priest so the dying man could be shriven. Margaret watched the shifting shapes of Abbot Strensham and his prior, who followed the lead of the bobbing light from the sacristan’s lanternhorn down the nave. She froze at another fierce cry which was answered by raucous singing from the Yorkist soldiers outside. Margaret returned to the chantry chapel where Somerset was drinking from the wine jug.
‘Remember this,’ he continued as Margaret sat down, ‘our three Yorkist warlords have a strange family history, or so rumour has it: their mother, Cecily Neville, daughter of the Earl of Westmoreland, was apparently an outstanding beauty, so much so she was called the Rose of Raby. She also has a hideous temper. Rumour has it that Clarence, using the Three Kings as searchers and scribes, is investigating his own family hunting for this and that.’
‘Why?’
‘God knows, but Clarence is continuing such searches. I am not too sure what he wants to prove but, to get his own way, Clarence would go down to Hell and challenge the Lord Satan. Believe me, kinswoman,’ Somerset pulled his chair closer, ‘if you can, strike back, meddle in his affairs. Clarence is undoubtedly doing the same to you and yours but he’s even a greater threat to the House of York. Ah well,’ Somerset gestured with his head, ‘Abbot Strensham is still tending to that poor comrade. He might as well shrive me for by this time tomorrow; I will be brought to judgement before God’s tribunal …’
Margaret rose, she kissed her kinsman and crept out of the chantry, silent as a shadow back up the sanctuary steps and into the sacristy where Bray was waiting. He explained how the abbot, prior and sacristan were still in the church so he would escort her back to the guesthouse. They left the abbey precincts and made their way along paved passageways, tunnels of stone lit by the occasional lantern. They crossed the cobbled courtyard stretching in front of the guesthouse, clearly lit by sconce torches fixed to the walls. Margaret heard a sound from the sloping, tiled roof of their lodgings. She glanced up and stared in amazement at the blaze of fire which came hurtling through the darkness towards her. She pushed Bray to the left even as she darted the other way. The flaming bag of oil crashed onto the cobbles, followed by another and then a third; all three bursting into spouts of flame and fiery oil. Bray raised the alarm screaming, ‘Harrow! Harrow!’ The door to the guesthouse was flung open and Owain Mortimer, principal squire to the Countess Margaret, darted
out, followed by his twin sister Oswina. Margaret, gasping for breath, pointed up at the sloping roof. Once her trembling had subsided, she beckoned at her companions to follow her down the narrow gulley which ran along the side of the guesthouse. They turned into the backyard, a place where the refuse was piled; a stinking, slimy midden heap, home for a horde of rats which squealed and scurried away at their approach. Margaret and Bray stopped by the narrow siege ladder leaning against the back wall of the two-storey guesthouse. Bray immediately climbed this to examine the broad ledge against which the rest of the roof rested. He glanced swiftly around and clambered down.
‘So easy,’ he gestured at the roof, ‘especially for a trained assassin. He took those satchels of oil, each primed with a slow-burning fuse. He then crouched on the ledge before climbing up the tiles. Easy enough; he could rest against them and wait. He knew we would have to return here. He hears our approach, sees us clear in the light of our sconce torches. He takes his tinder, the first is lit and …’
‘The back of this guesthouse is blind.’ Owain Mortimer pointed up the wall. ‘All the chambers are to the front. No one inside would even hear or see anything amiss. No one,’ he repeated wearily in his sing-song voice, ‘no one at all.’
‘We were abed,’ his twin declared, ‘though we were not sleeping, I was worried about you mistress.’
Margaret held up a hand as she stared at the ladder. ‘Let us go inside,’ she declared. ‘It’s best to be there.’
They returned to the stark parlour close to the guesthouse entrance. Oswina busied herself lighting candles whilst Owain poured a jug of breakfast ale into four stoups on a wooden tray.
‘Is Christopher back, has he returned?’ Margaret asked, sipping her drink.
‘No he’s not here,’ Owain replied, ‘and nor should we, so close to your enemy; the rest of the household agree, they have gone to their chambers and locked themselves in. God knows mistress, what will happen on the morrow. The Yorkists will drink deeply tonight. They will all be in a bloodlust and looking for vengeance. Have you decided, Mistress – what we should do next?’