by Paul Doherty
Urswicke immediately recognised Queen Margaret of Anjou, the Angevin, resplendent in blue and gold, surrounded by her principal ladies whom Urswicke knew by sight: Anne Neville, the Countess of Devon, Katherine Vaux, and other leading lights of the Angevin’s court. Urswicke felt a pang of pity as he wondered if all these ladies knew they were now widows, their husbands being cut down at Tewkesbury. Beside the Queen stood her son Prince Edward, resplendent in silver Milanese armour, his ornate plumed helmet on the floor beside him, his warbelt lying across his mother’s lap. He walked towards Mauclerc with all the arrogance of a peacock, his mouth twisted in contemptuous anger.
‘What business!’ He paused before Mauclerc. ‘Sir, what business have you here?’
Mauclerc lurched forward and struck the prince full in the face. He then hit him again and again, ignoring the screams and cries of the Queen. The prince tried to resist but the knights who had accompanied Mauclerc seized the young man and also pummelled him with blows and kicks.
‘Strip him!’ Mauclerc yelled. ‘Take his foolish finery as plunder.’
The knights did so, tearing off the prince’s breastplate, greaves and the chainmail jerkin beneath, until the prince was reduced to standing in his linen shirt and leggings. A pathetic young man, now aware that he truly was in the hands of his enemies. Queen Margaret rose and hurried towards her son, hands out, pleading and begging. Mauclerc struck her repeatedly in the face, pushing her back, shouting at his men to strip her to her shift. He then ordered his retainers to bind the hands of both mother and son. The royal couple were hustled like Newgate felons out of the solar, down the stairs and out into the yard where a cart was waiting. Both royal prisoners were pushed into this; an archer lashed their hands and feet to the slats.
Mauclerc went back into the priory to inform the fallen Queen’s ladies that they must fend for themselves, whilst their men-at-arms who survived the furious mêlée were to be stripped of all their weapons and possessions then be released. Nor did the monks escape unscathed. Mauclerc yelled how they had sheltered sworn traitors so they should look after the wounded and bury the dead. Urswicke used the confusion, the to-ing and fro-ing, to climb into the cart to sit beside Prince Edward who slouched, eyes half closed, mouth dribbling. The young prince was deep in shock like his mother. Urswicke stared piteously at them. Once these were the Golden Ones, the Mighty of the Land: they had wielded great power with legions at their beck and call. Now it was all finished. The old King Henry VI, Margaret’s saintly husband, was locked in the Tower. The Yorkist warlords had put him on a sorry-looking nag and paraded him through London, showing the people that he may be holy but he was no warrior king. Henry’s armies were shattered: his captains of war either killed or soon to be. The few who had escaped, such as De Vere of Oxford, were to be put to the horn and exiled for life.
The fallen Queen was muttering to herself. Now and again she would sit up, stretch across and try to stroke her son’s head. Again she seemed unaware of what was really happening. For a while she sat, eyes blinking, lips moving soundlessly. She scratched her face, clawing back her greying-gold hair and peered at Urswicke.
‘I know you, sir.’ The Angevin’s voice was surprisingly harsh. ‘You’re clerk to Lady Margaret Beaufort.’ She laughed so abruptly behind her raised bound hand, Urswicke wondered if her wits were wandering. ‘You are,’ she continued, ‘aren’t you, little Margaret’s clerk? Her son Henry is the last of us. Oh, they will hunt him down, they will pursue him like dogs would a deer through wood and thicket till they capture and kill him as they have my beloved …’
Prince Edward lifted his head and turned to Urswicke. ‘What do you advise, sir? What do you say that I do?’
Urswicke hid his surprise at being asked about what he intended to offer. ‘Defiance,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘Defiance! You came back to this kingdom to claim what was yours by birthright and lawful descent. You are the King’s heir and they are traitors, as was their father Duke Richard, executed after Wakefield fight. So play the man,’ Urswicke urged in a whisper. ‘Do not ask for mercy for, I assure you, none will be shown.’
‘I am a French princess,’ Margaret slurred. She now sat crookedly, sifting her hair through her fingers. ‘I will demand to be treated as such.’ She straightened up abruptly, hands on her lap, adopting a regal pose, as if she was attending a crown-wearing ceremony at Westminster. She turned and, eyes full of hate, glared at Urswicke. ‘And who are you, varlet?’ She mocked. ‘You are Urswicke? Your father is a Recorder of London, a fervent adherent of Edward of York. What are you doing here?’ She moved her tied hands, stretching her wrists as if to snap the rough twine binding them.
‘You’d best leave,’ the prince whispered hoarsely. ‘My mother must be left alone. Soon she will begin her rants and there will be little reasoning with her or peace for ourselves.’ He half smiled at Urswicke, his handsome face now bruised and tearstained, his light-blue eyes full of fear. ‘This will end in blood,’ he whispered, ‘certainly for me. You’d best leave.’
They reached Tewkesbury just as the greyness began to fade and the sky was scarred by fiery streaks. War had engulfed that small market town, and all the demons which trailed in its wake were making their presence felt. Huge yawning burial pits were being hurriedly dug outside the town. The dead, their dirty ghost-like flesh displaying all the gruesome wounds of battle, were piled on the ground like slabs of pork on a flesher’s stall. Some of the womenfolk of the slaughtered men desperately searched amongst the fallen for the corpse of a beloved, their grief and mourning made all the more bitter by the raucous abuse and lewd invitations from the Yorkist men-at-arms preparing the pits. Many of the Lancastrian camp followers had already been seized and ravished. As Urswicke rode by an alleyway he glimpsed one woman on her knees before a group of soldiers, their hose all unlaced and pulled down around their ankles. Plunder was rife and the royal marshals were eager to retrieve all the precious objects seized from the Lancastrian camp. The air was thick with smoke from the many campfires and the makeshift pyres where the corpses of the horses killed in the battle had been doused in cheap oil and placed on stacks of wood. These had been fired, the flames shooting up before the foulsome, black smoke billowed in filthy clouds, spreading a horrid stench across the town.
Couriers and messengers galloped along the narrow streets, bringing news of what was happening both north of the Trent and, more importantly, London. From there the news was grim. The capital was now being threatened by a fresh Lancastrian army and a flotilla of war cogs under Thomas Neville, the Bastard of Fauconberg. Urswicke overheard all of this when a chamberlain of the royal household joined their cavalcade. He also insisted that the two royal prisoners wear thick cloaks and cowls pulled over their heads so they would not be recognised. Once they reached the royal quarters, the mansion house of Merchant Stratford, the prisoners were dragged from the cart and pushed down the cellar steps to be imprisoned in a store chamber. The doors to the great hall were closed and guarded by a host of royal knights, one of whom informed Urswicke that the King, together with his brothers, Lord Hastings, Norfolk and other Yorkist leaders, were deep in discussion.
Urswicke tried to excuse himself, pleading that he should return to the abbey, but Mauclerc, jubilant at what he described as ‘the best night’s work ever’, insisted on Urswicke accompanying him back out into the streets and across the square to The Golden Lion, a spacious, black-and-white timber tavern. The market had now been cleared of its stalls and a soaring execution platform was being constructed. The royal carpenters were feverishly working to put the finishing touches to this macabre scaffold. The rage of York was apparent. Even though this execution ground was not fully completed, it had already been used to carry out summary punishment. Lancastrian captains had been hustled up and killed just before dawn, their blood-drenched cadavers quartered, salted and tarred before being tossed into large vats beside the scaffold, their heads thrust into barrels to be pickled. Other prisoners had been hanged on the rail
ing around the gibbet: nooses put around their necks before they were summarily pushed over to jerk and dance until they hung, swaying slightly in the breeze, wafting a host of disgusting smells around the market place. Urswicke felt as if he was in a nightmare. Hideous death pressed all around him, yet some of the carpenters were whistling and singing as they went about their business, totally oblivious to their gruesome surroundings. Tewkesbury was now possessed by the full terror of war which assailed, sight, sound and smell. Urswicke abruptly felt nervous, a spasm of fear which made him wonder if the path he was following was the correct one, a twisting, tortuous, snake-like trackway. Would this, he wondered, end in disaster, or the realisation of his mistress’s dream?
‘We are here!’
Urswicke broke free from his reverie. They had entered the sweet-smelling taproom, a spacious chamber; fresh green summer rushes strewn with herbs covered the floor, these exuded a spring-like fragrance to mingle with the delicious tang from the hams hanging in white nets from the rafters. The meat and other foods would dangle there until they were cured by the smoke and steam billowing out of the great kitchen, as well as the constant fragrances from the huge spit being slowly turned in the majestic hearth.
Mauclerc had a word with minehost who whispered back and pointed across to the stairs. Mauclerc and Urswicke went up these into a well-furnished chamber where three individuals were waiting. Urswicke suspected these were the Three Kings, the clerks of Clarence’s Secret Chancery. They lounged in chairs or on the broad settle which served as a window seat. They rose as Mauclerc and Urswicke entered. One of them, Melchior as he introduced himself, hurriedly swept documents and manuscripts from the chamber’s writing table, pushing these into a chancery coffer reinforced with steel bands and protected by three locks. The other two pulled back their hoods. One of them gestured at a stool close to the table before offering Urswicke some wine and cheese from the food platter on a side dresser. Urswicke asked for a little wine and a piece of cheese wrapped in a linen cloth. These were handed over as introductions were made. Once these were finished, Mauclerc talked to the Three Kings in what Urswicke suspected was German, a spate of harsh, guttural words. All Three Kings listened carefully, nodding and saying ‘Ja! Ja!’ in agreement. Occasionally they would glance at Urswicke and smile thinly. He acknowledged their greeting but pretended to be more interested in his food and drink than anything else. Urswicke felt he had the measure of Mauclerc, a mailed clerk, a man of war, a ruthless henchman. The Three Kings, however, despite their pale, sharp, bony faces, seemed pleasant enough. They were apparently skilled in tongues by their own admission, whilst their ink-stained fingers and the spots of wax on their robes showed they were chancery men. Once Mauclerc had finished talking in German, all four gathered at the table.
‘You must be curious?’ Melchior demanded.
‘Of course,’ Urswicke ruefully admitted. ‘You have a reputation. A good one,’ he added hastily. ‘Skilled scriveners, shrewd clerks, loyal henchmen. You are not from this kingdom, so how did you enter my Lord Clarence’s service? Three brothers, yes? Friars?’
‘Former friars,’ Melchior retorted. ‘Members of a community, the Barnabites, who had a small house outside Cologne. A lovely, peaceful place until we heard our mother had been arrested and burnt as a witch in Karlstadt, our home town, a true place of dark suspicion. Apparently she had been taken up to be interrogated, tortured, tried and executed. We received the news too late but we journeyed back to Karlstadt.’ He paused, smiling slightly at Mauclerc and his two brothers.
‘And?’
‘As I said Meister Urswicke, we were too late. Our mother had been tried and convicted. Nobody spoke in her defence. She had been burnt alive in a market square. They didn’t even give her the comfort of a swift garrotte by the executioner. Nor were pouches of gunpowder tied around her neck to hasten her end. The woman who bore us, our mother, was reduced to ashes which were then strewn on a dung heap. Nobody would talk to us. You would think we were lepers rather than friars. So what could we do? We were regarded as learned men, very skilled in tongues, proficient in the chancery, but our mother they treated as you would a piece of filth, something to be burnt, totally destroyed. So what could we do?’
‘And what did you do?’
Melchior smiled a wolfish grin, his white teeth strong and pointed. ‘Oh Meister Urswicke, we exacted punishment. We killed the Ritter, how would you say it? The lord of the town? We cut his throat in the dead of night along with those of his wife and children. We did the same to all who had sat in judgement on our mother; be they judges, jury or prosecutor. Finally we seized the executioner, a stupid burly butcher whom we drowned in his own cesspit. We then set fire to the church and city hall and fled as fast as we could to the sanctuary church of Dordrecht in Hainault. You must know it, Meister Urswicke, a busy port where, by chance, my Lord Clarence was resting during one of his many …’
‘One of his many journeys abroad.’ Mauclerc took up the story. ‘My master became deeply intrigued by the story of these three brothers, warrior clerks, very skilled with the pen and the knife. He visited them in sanctuary and they talked. Indeed, my Lord spent a great deal of time in that church. A true friendship was formed, a bond made; unswerving loyalty promised. My Lord Clarence managed to settle matters. My comrades here would leave sanctuary and enter his household. They would take oaths of fealty, to serve their master body and soul, day and night, as long as they lived.’
Urswicke nodded and sipped from his goblet.
‘You are shocked by what we did?’ Melchior demanded.
‘Oh no! Your mother was innocent?’
‘Certainly not,’ Melchior replied. ‘She was as guilty as we are. Our mother was a self-proclaimed witch who raised three warlocks. We entered the Roman Church to gain advancement, acquire knowledge, learning, and so secure preferment. Our mother and our good selves are certainly not innocent of anything.’ Urswicke nodded as Mauclerc and the others laughed, softly clapping their hands in appreciation at what had been said.
‘Beyond the Rhine,’ Balthasar, the youngest of the Three Kings spoke up, ‘the old religion still holds as fast as the oaks of the ancient Teuterborger forest; its roots go very deep. Much more profound than the influence of fat priests, noddle-pates and peasants who certainly don’t practice what they preach.’
‘Enough!’ Mauclerc clapped his hands. ‘Comrades, you now know the excellent service Master Urswicke performed on our behalf. The Anjou wolf and her whelp have been seized and they are for the dark. Master Christopher Urswicke is now one of us, a trusted henchman of my Lord Clarence, even though he will continue to dance attendance on the Beaufort brat. So …’ Mauclerc rose, crossed to the door, opened it and bellowed for a servant. A short while later, minehost brought up platters of food; vegetables fried in duck fat, strips of pork covered in mustard, morsels of venison garnished with herbs and salmon from the Severn ponds. The jug of wine proved to be the best from Bordeaux. Urswicke joined his new comrades as they ate and drank until their hearts’ content whilst outside echoed the ominous beat of both mallet and hammer as the execution platform was finished. Urswicke realised the meal was being used in order that he could be observed, questioned and judged, so he adopted the guise of a father confessor, listening carefully and nodding wisely.
The conversation flowed around what was to happen next and Urswicke learned more about the violent disturbances which had broken out in Kent. How some of the rebels were common robbers who, according to Balthasar, wished to dip their filthy hands into rich men’s coffers. Other rebels were farmers who had donned their wives’ smocks and wore cheesecloths on their heads to demonstrate their resentment at the low prices Londoners were paying for their dairy products. More ominous, however, were the intrigues of the nobles and gentry of the surrounding shires: these had raised the black banners of anarchy and the blood-red standards of revolt. The rebel lords were now preparing to aid and assist Thomas Neville, the Bastard of Fauconberg, as he prepared
to bring his fleet armed with cannon and culverin up the Thames. Fauconberg was an ardent Lancastrian: Urswicke listened carefully and wondered how he and his mistress could exploit this growing chaos.
‘The King has undoubtedly heard all about this,’ Mauclerc observed. ‘He will be ruthless. He will crush all opposition …’
Urswicke drained his goblet and declared he was tired; he added that he would rest for a while, accepting Mauclerc’s offer of using the settle as a bed. He swiftly fell asleep and was later roughly woken by Mauclerc shaking his shoulder.
‘You slept like a babe at the breast,’ Mauclerc hissed, ‘but our master has summoned us, he wants us with him.’
Urswicke rose and left the chamber for the garderobe. He then returned to splash cold water over his face and hands at the wooden lavarium. The hour candle on its spigot in the corner showed it to be five hours after midday. Urswicke dried himself, making sure he was presentable. He could tell by the hurried preparations of the Three Kings that they too had been sleeping off the heavy effects of food and wine. They all left the tavern. The market square had fallen strangely silent, like a mausoleum reeking of dead things and pregnant with fresh horrors brewing. The scaffold was draped in black and purple cloths, the entire square being ringed by royal archers and men-at-arms.
Merchant Stratford’s mansion was similarly guarded. Inside, the great hall had been changed, its furniture swept aside. A gleaming Arras tapestry displaying all the insignia of York and the royal household covered the wall opposite the door; this served as a dramatic backdrop for the canopied throne placed on a makeshift dais. Edward now sat on this, flanked by his brothers together with their leading henchmen, the Woodvilles, Hastings, and others of their ilk. Banners and standards displaying the Boar of Gloucester, the Bull of Clarence, the Bear of Warwick and the White Lion of Norfolk clustered close to the throne.