by Paul Doherty
‘Not yet,’ Bray retorted.
‘Then when?’ Oswina replied.
Margaret, still holding the tankard, sat back in her chair. ‘The assassin,’ she spoke, her voice sounding harsher than she had intended, ‘the evil soul who tried to burn me alive, who could it be? Why now? Why now? Though I suspect,’ she put down the tankard, ‘that those fiery missiles were the work of York, Clarence in particular.’
‘They wish to root out the Beaufort tree.’ Bray lapsed into his usual homily, a whispered tirade against the House of York. Margaret sat back in the cushioned chair and let her mind drift. She had to curb the fear curdling within her. She closed her eyes and prayed for her husband Humphrey Stafford, now lying grievously wounded after Barnet. The news she had received from her manor at Woking was most disturbing. Humphrey, never the strongest of men, suffered from a life-long skin corruption, St Anthony’s fire, which some leeches likened to leprosy, so much so that four years ago, she and Humphrey had joined the confraternity of Burton Lazars. Margaret had bought statues, triptychs and other paintings celebrating St Anthony’s life to decorate the solar of her manor house, praying constantly beneath them, yet these supplications had not worked any miracle. Now the household leeches reported how the contagion had been grievously affected by the wounds Sir Humphrey had received: a knife cut to the thigh and a sword blow which had glanced off his shoulder. Margaret murmured another prayer and opened her eyes. She really should return to Woking but not until the present business, vital to her, was completed in London.
Margaret half listened to Bray and Mortimer’s heated whispering and her mind went back to her manor house, wondering what was happening there. She loved her Woking estates; she had inherited them as part of a legacy from her grandmother, the redoubtable Lady Holland, along with a rich collection of manuscripts and delicately inscribed psalters and other devotional literature. Margaret tried to recall the manor in an attempt to soothe her humours: how her residence was screened by copses of ancient oak, beech and copper set in lush, fertile parkland. The house itself was twice-moated; the outer one contained the poultry runs, livestock sheds, warren, granges and a small deer park. The inner moat, crossed by a drawbridge leading through a fortified gateway, contained the manor itself, with its great hall, large pantry and spacious buttery. Then there was a chapel, chancery office and, above all, a range of private chambers overlooking the herb and flower gardens, a well-stocked stew pond and lush orchards.
Margaret felt her eyes grow heavy and she sank into a half-waking sleep; as she did so, the different visions which always swept in, returned clear and precise. Margaret felt as if she was staring at a finely etched painting or the brilliant illumination in some psalter. She sat and watched herself struggling through snow which had drifted heavily. There were trees, bushes and rocky outcrops, and she was sure that she was in Pembrokeshire. She was hastening towards a great iron wall which soared up into the wine-coloured sky. The wall was at least sixty yards high, entered through a fortified gateway guarded by snarling, black-haired war dogs. Margaret was not frightened of these; she was more anxious about what was waiting for her beyond the wall. She turned and glanced piteously at the corpses which sprawled against the hard-packed snow. She recognised that of her father, stretched out as they had found him in his chancery chamber; the goblet of wine he’d been drinking had rolled close to her dead father’s head, turning his blond hair blood-red, as if he had been struck a grievous blow. She also recognised the other corpses, her first true husband, the beloved Edmund Tudor. He was lying all crouched as he had on his deathbed, consumed by a raging fever. Other corpses littered the snow, men and women of her family and household. She wanted to go back to them but the snow dragged at her, its whiteness hurting her eyes. She was sure she could hear her son crying from behind the soaring iron wall whilst the harrowing baying of wolves somewhere around her seemed to be drawing closer …
‘Mistress, mistress?’ Margaret opened her eyes. Bray was staring beseechingly down at her. ‘Mistress, you were chattering. Father Prior is here. He is very concerned.’ Margaret blinked, rubbed her face and sat up in the high-backed chair and smiled at Prior Anselm, who took the stool placed in front of her, his bony, angular face wreathed in concern.
‘My Lady,’ he began, ‘the good brothers have had their horarium severely disturbed; the abbey is full of armed men, more blood stains our flagstones than dust. Violence stalks the cloisters, our choir stalls, even the great sanctuary itself. Now we hear reports of fiery missiles being thrown down into the courtyard outside – that’s true, isn’t it? I have inspected the cobbles; they reek of burning oil whilst scraps of scorched leather scatter like leaves. One of our brothers glimpsed this as he hurried to fill waterskins from the well. What is this, why now?’ The prior joined his hands in prayer. ‘God knows what further mischief will raise its sinister head like some deadly vicious serpent – because that is what Satan is, he and his many legions.’
‘Father Prior?’ Margaret grasped the old monk’s right hand, raised it to her lips and kissed his thick, copper ring of office. The prior blushed.
‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘But the truth is we are all terrified. We are not men of war.’
Margaret, throwing a warning glance at Bray, Owain and Oswina, quickly described what had happened, offering the conclusion that the assailant was probably some drunkard eager to do hurt to a Beaufort or a Lancastrian fugitive furious that a Beaufort should be sheltering amongst Yorkist warlords.
‘You see, Father Prior,’ Margaret gently touched the back of his hand, ‘I am living proof that you cannot serve two masters.’
The prior laughed and clambered to his feet. He walked to the door then paused and glanced at Margaret’s three companions. ‘I recognise you, Master Bray, as the Lady Margaret’s steward, but these young persons? They look alike. They must be brother and sister?’ The prior cocked his head sideways like some curious sparrow. ‘Yes, night-black hair, smooth, sallow faces, large eyes and full-lipped mouths. You must be Welsh, yes? We have some of those from the southern tribes here in the abbey.’
‘Owain and Oswina Mortimer,’ Margaret replied, gesturing at the twins to grasp the prior’s proffered hand. They did so hurriedly, then stepped back as if shy at the attention now being shown them. ‘They are kinsmen of the noble Mortimer family, orphans raised by my brother-in-law, Lord Jasper Tudor.’
‘Ah,’ the prior sighed, ‘a man the Yorkists would love to seize. And he is where?’
‘Pembroke Castle,’ Margaret retorted, ‘where he will stay until he can take ship to France.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘Jasper entrusted Owain and Oswina to me. They, along with Reginald Bray and Christopher Urswicke, are my privileged chamber people.’
‘Urswicke, ah yes. We have heard about him. A brother saw him leave for the town where more excitement is brewing. The King has taken over Merchant Stratford’s house. A party of horsemen have been despatched on urgent royal business. I understand Urswicke was one of them. Now my Lady, take care. I understand my Lord of Clarence has insisted that he visits you to present his compliments.’ The prior sketched a blessing in the air and then left.
Margaret would have loved to retire. She felt sweat soaked, heavy limbed, her mind fraught with anxiety which gnawed at her peace of mind, the prospect of meeting Clarence only sharpening this. She tried to compose herself, putting on a brave face while she and her chamber people hastily prepared the parlour. Clarence arrived and Margaret wondered at the sound of heavy cartwheels across the cobbles, the clatter of sharpened hooves and the deep neigh of dray horses. Owain volunteered to go and see. Margaret shook her head saying that he should stay at table and eat the light repast the refectorian had left in the small adjoining buttery.
Clarence arrived, he almost kicked the door open, mincing in like some court lady. He’d wrapped a bottle-green cloak around him which caught on the jingling spurs of his war boots. Clarence, grasping a wine goblet in one hand, simply tore the cloak free. He sn
apped his fingers and pointed at a stool. One of the three shadowy figures who accompanied him hastily brought this across. Clarence sat down with a heavy sigh, his sweaty face creased into a false smile, lips glistening with wine, eyes bright with malice. He stroked his finely clipped moustache and beard, dragging at the bits of dry wine caught there.
‘My Lord,’ Margaret turned in her chair to face him squarely.
‘My Lady.’ Clarence bowed mockingly, raised his goblet in toast and drank deeply. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he pointed at the shadowy figures behind him, ‘these are my chancery clerks who manage my Secret Seal.’
Margaret glanced up at them and tried to hide her fear at the three sinister figures garbed in hoods and blue-black robes. She recognised the colour and cut as belonging to some minor order of friars but she could not recall their name. These three were certainly not men of prayer. They stood, menacingly silent, hands up the voluminous sleeves of their robes which, Margaret suspected, concealed a dagger, stiletto, or some other such weapon. One of these leaned down to whisper in Clarence’s ear and, as he did so, Margaret, with her keen sense of smell, caught the odour of oil and smoke and she wondered if one – or all – of these macabre figures had been responsible for the recent attack on her. Margaret shifted her gaze from Clarence and stared hard at his sinister companions, refusing to be cowed or frightened by them. She found it difficult to distinguish individual features but she was aware of heavy-lidded eyes and noses as sharp as quill pens. All three were thin-lipped which, with their bulging foreheads and tight-lipped grimace, gave them an odd fish-like appearance. Wolfsheads, Margaret concluded: whatever their garb or whatever Clarence said about their status, these were predators ready to strike.
‘Three brothers,’ Clarence whispered, as if revelling in their company. ‘Excellent clerks!’
‘I have heard of them.’ Bray spoke up. ‘Former friars, the Three Kings from Cologne.’
‘Others call them that.’ Clarence lifted his goblet. ‘To me they are just the most faithful of retainers who accompany me here, there and everywhere. They do my bidding like the loyal lurchers they are. Now,’ Clarence smacked his lips, ‘I have brought you something, little Meg.’
‘That is not my name. I am, sir, the Lady Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond.’
‘Which makes you a kinswoman to the Beaufort traitor and other vile miscreants lurking in the abbey church.’ Clarence, face seething with hate, jabbed a finger. ‘Where is your brother-in-law, the traitor Jasper Tudor and your dearly beloved son Henry? Little Henry?’ Clarence’s voice became a squeal of mockery. Bray’s hands went beneath the table, close to the long, stabbing dagger in his belt. Margaret glanced up. One of the Three Kings had brought his hand from the sleeve of his gown. Margaret glimpsed the glitter of the long, thin blade.
‘My brother-in-law,’ Margaret retorted quickly, ‘resides in Pembroke. So does my beloved son.’
‘Do they now?’ Clarence taunted.
‘My Lord.’ Margaret fought to curb the almost overwhelming desire to claw at Clarence’s false, fat, glistening face. ‘My Lord,’ she repeated, ‘I am tired and I need to retire.’ She made to move. ‘I should do so now.’
‘Oh no, no, no.’ Clarence fluttered his fingers in her face. ‘I must show you something before you sleep. You must say goodbye before they leave.’
‘Who?’
‘Come, come! You must see this.’ Clarence rose to his feet and swept out of the guesthouse, Margaret felt that she had no choice but to follow. She stopped however, just before the threshold, and stared at the great war cart which stood in the centre of the small bailey. On each corner of the cart a cresset torch flared against the cold night breeze, the flames illuminating the horror displayed there. The sides of the cart were nothing more than sharp poles lashed together. Their sharp, spear-like tips provided gaps for archers inside to loose, whilst the poles would serve as a sturdy defence. Now these sharpened posts had been used to display, on all three sides of the cart, a row of severed heads thrust on the tips like so many ripe apples. The breeze shifted, rippling the hair of the decapitated heads, and Margaret caught the salty tang of dried human blood.
She walked slowly forward, fascinated by the abomination. She recognised some of the dirty, gore-stained faces, their hair pulled back and tied in a topknot so each face could be clearly seen. Margaret immediately glimpsed the once handsome face of John Beaufort, Edmund’s younger brother, now contorted by a savage, bloody death. Clarence grasped Margaret by the elbow, a tight clasp as he moved her around the cart so she could clearly see the severed heads of Lancastrians killed in battle, their corpses decapitated in preparation for being tarred and poled above the gateways of different cities. As she passed the tail of the cart, she glimpsed the blood-drenched sacks of severed limbs, which would also be displayed and proclaimed to the sound of horn, trumpet and bagpipe. Margaret could take no more. She turned, gagged and retched, going down on her knees. Clarence crouched beside her. Bray protested and tried to come between them. Clarence drew his dagger.
‘Enough George, enough!’ Clarence clambered to his feet as Richard of Gloucester strolled out of the darkness. ‘George, the King needs you. My Lady?’ Gloucester pointed to Margaret resting on Bray’s arm. ‘I bid you goodnight and good rest.’ He came closer, in the juddering light. Gloucester’s harsh face seemed softer and Margaret glimpsed genuine pity in those ever-shifting eyes. ‘George,’ Richard lifted a gauntleted hand, holding Margaret’s gaze as he spoke to his brother, ‘You have no further business with this lady, the hour draws on. Judgement awaits, come.’
Clarence backed away from Margaret, fluttering his fingers in mock farewell before spinning on his heel and following his brother into the darkness, his three sinister guards close behind. Margaret watched them go as she tightly gripped Bray’s arm.
‘Master Reginald,’ she hissed, ‘I swear by the light I will kill that demon incarnate and all his ilk. How dare he threaten my beloved son?’ She turned and Bray, who knew his mistress’s secret soul, was frightened by the look of intense fury which had transformed her usually placid face.
‘Master Bray,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘this is truly à l’Outrance, usque ad mortem – to the death, whatever form that death takes.’
PART TWO
‘Queen Margaret was taken and securely held.’
Crowland Chronicle
Urswicke reined in with the rest of the Yorkist war band before the gate of Little Malvern Priory. He stared around at his companions. In the main they were Clarence’s henchmen, professional killers; a few royal knight bannerets had also joined the cohort led by Sir Richard Crofts, a local magnate who knew the twisting, sunken lanes, narrow trackways and coffin paths of Gloucester as he did the veins on the back of his hands. For a while the cohort just sat, horses snorting, shaking the sweat out after such a vigorous ride, sharpened hooves scraping the ground.
‘They must know we are here,’ Mauclerc called out over his shoulder. He dismounted, drew his sword and pounded on the gate. ‘Les Roiaux!’ he shouted, ‘we are King’s men, open in his name. Open, I say, or we’ll force the gate.’
Lights appeared on the crenellated wall above them, moving circles of dancing torchlight. One of Mauclerc’s riders primed his crossbow and loosed a bolt. Others did the same to the scrape of swords leaving their scabbards. The crossbow bolts were aimed at the pools of light which swiftly disappeared. Urswicke heard a horn bray followed by the rattle of chains and the scraping of bolts. The great gate was thrown open and Urswicke joined the charge into the entrance bailey which stretched up to the main priory buildings. Mauclerc had despatched members of his war band to search the priory’s two postern gates: these must have met some resistance as the clatter and clash of arms echoed from the other side of the priory. They all dismounted. A monk carrying a cross in one hand and a lantern in the other hurried through the darkness and sank to his knees. Mauclerc and Crofts showed him no mercy. Clarence’s henchmen seized the monk’s h
ead between gauntleted hands and squeezed hard, shouting questions at him. The monk, gasping with pain, dropped the lantern and pointed back to a two-storey, grey-ragstone building with lights glimmering between the shutters. Again Mauclerc shouted questions then pushed the monk away. The man stumbled to his feet and pointed at the shutters of what Urswicke believed was the guesthouse; these were flung open followed immediately by the sharp whirr of crossbow bolts cutting the air. Most of these fell short but the monk seemed almost to stumble onto one, taking the barb deep in his chest.
Mauclerc’s party, weapons drawn, charged towards the building, racing across the cobbles so as to distract the aim of the bowmen sheltering in the guesthouse. More bolts whistled sharply, most missed their target. Urswicke, panting and gasping, felt one whip past his face. At last they reached the door and the bowmen above found it difficult to loose, let alone find a target. A bench was found and used as a battering ram to smash the ancient door off its leather hinges, then they were inside. Men-at-arms wearing the blue and white livery of Lancaster confronted them, thronging in the hallway, along the gallery, as well as on the stairs leading up to the solar. A savage hand-to-hand struggle ensued, sword grinding bone, dagger piercing flesh, mallet, war axe and morning star crushing heads and faces. Flesh was ripped. Blood gushed to the devilish cacophony of shouts, screams and heart-rending yells. No quarter was asked. No mercy shown, until the remaining defenders threw down their weapons and fell to their knees, hands raised in surrender. Mauclerc and Croft screamed at their own men to respect this. Urswicke, who had managed to avoid any real danger by keeping to the rear of the press, watched the surviving Lancastrians being disarmed and pushed out into the darkness. Mauclerc ordered most of his cohort to stay whilst he, Urswicke and a select few climbed the stairs to the solar. Mauclerc kicked open the door and went inside. He stood, sword drawn, staring at the group huddled before the hearth.