by Paul Doherty
Edward sat in half-armour, his face cleanly shaven, his trimmed hair oiled, his tawny skin gleaming with perfumed nard. He wore his crown with a drawn sword across his lap, symbols that the King was prepared to deliver judgement. Urswicke joined the rest of the henchmen gathering to the left of the throne. He sensed that some bloody masque was about to unfold. A trumpet blared and the hall fell silent. A servant hurriedly placed a stool before the throne. A side door opened and Queen Margaret of Anjou and her son, still garbed in dirty, dishevelled linen shifts, were pushed into the chamber. The former Queen was ordered to sit on a stool whilst Edward beckoned the young prince forward.
‘Why?’ Richard of Gloucester rose to his feet. ‘Why did you invade our realm and cause great hurt to the King’s peace?’
‘To assert my claim and that of my saintly father,’ the prince retorted, stepping forward as if he wanted to shake off all traces of captivity. ‘My father,’ the prince yelled, following Urswicke’s whispered advice, ‘is the true King of England. Your father was a usurper, a mere baron of York, a rebel, justly executed after the battle of Wakefield, him and his whelp Edmund—’
He got no further. Edward the King sprang from his throne and struck the prince full on the mouth with a savage blow from his gauntleted hand. The prince staggered back, blood pouring from his split lips and bruised mouth. Margaret of Anjou struggled to her feet but the Yorkist lords closed in, knocking her half-conscious to the floor. Daggers were drawn. The prince, realising the peril he was now in, screamed at Clarence for mercy, but that lord struck with his dagger time and again at the prince’s exposed chest and neck. Others, including Gloucester, joined in the blood-splattering hail of knife thrusts and dagger blows. The long blades rose and fell, glittering in the light. The prince, dying from a host of wounds, collapsed to the floor, his blood sparkling around him. Even then the Yorkist lords, led by Clarence, continued to stab, kick and punch until the King’s trumpeters brayed for stillness and the heralds shouted for peace. The blood-drenched lords, chests heaving, mouths gasping for air, stepped back. The victim was no longer a man, just a sodding heap of gore; his mother, soaked in her son’s blood, tried to crawl towards him, moaning piteously, her hand going out to caress her dead boy’s face. Edward the King shouted something, waving his hand as if he wanted to be free of the gruesome mess on the floor before him.
‘Clear the hall.’ Howard of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of England, stood on the edge of the dais, hands raised. ‘Clear the hall,’ he repeated. ‘His Grace wishes to be alone.’
Once outside the mansion, Urswicke leaned against the wall, drawing deep breaths as he swiftly crossed himself.
‘You are well?’
‘I am well.’ Urswicke patted Mauclerc’s gloved hand resting on his arm. ‘I am well but I need to rest …’ And, not waiting for a response, Urswicke, his flushed face all sweat-soaked, walked across the square, averting his eyes from the cadavers, the corpses of those hanged earlier in the day, dangling on ropes like flitches of ham in a butcher’s shed.
Urswicke forced himself to think on other matters, to recall sweet memories, to clear his mind and calm his heart. He drifted back in time to his beloved studies in the halls of Oxford; evening walks through the Christchurch meadows and, above all, sitting with his mother in their high-walled garden of his father’s mansion just off Cheapside in the heart of the city. Urswicke’s mother called this ‘her paradise, her garden of Eden’. It certainly was. Urswicke’s father, if he did anything well, furnished his wife and son with the finer things of life. The garden was a true pleasance, well stocked in length and breadth, like the great meadow of the abbey. A sea of greenery, flowers and herbs pleased the eye and turned the air constantly sweet. A most delightful place to wander with its small fruit orchards, flower beds, herb plots, rose-garlanded arbours, comfortable turf seats, stew ponds and carp tanks with small fountains carved elegantly out of stone.
The garden was a retreat where he could escape the sly lechery of his father and the constant pain such flirtation caused Christopher’s mother. When the weather was fine they would go out and she would make Christopher sit and read to her. She had a special love for the tales of Arthur and the verses of Petrarch, which had reached England and were being avidly translated and transcribed, along with Boccaccio’s Decameron and the ‘Devotia Moderna’ – a radical new approach to religion coming out to the Low Countries in a number of thought-provoking treatises.
Once he had left Oxford, Urswicke had hurried home, hiring himself out as a clerk to different households. He had been greatly helped by the Countess Margaret, who was a firm, hand-fast friend to his mother. Margaret often visited the Urswickes, sometimes in the company of his mother’s brother Andrew Knyvett, who served as physician to the countess’s household. More often than not, Margaret’s visits were by herself and, when Christopher’s mother fell ill of some evil humour of the womb, the visits became more frequent. The countess even held his mother as she died quietly and peacefully in her chamber. Shortly afterwards, the countess asked to see Christopher by himself. She informed him that his mother, just before she died, had begged her to take Christopher into her household. Urswicke would never forget that meeting, standing at the foot of the four-poster bed, its curtains pulled back, the casement window thrown open to help his dead mother’s soul on her journey into the light. Countess Margaret had grasped his hands and drew him close.
‘Christopher,’ she declared – her eyes had that fierce stare which always appeared over something deeply passionate to her – ‘I loved your mother dearly and I love you as much. You are now flesh of my flesh, the very marrow of my bone and part of my heart’s blood. From now on I will be your countess but I shall also be your mother, your sister, your comrade. I will stand next to you in the great shield wall of life, shoulder to shoulder, ready to confront the monsters who crawl out of the darkness and, believe me, they will …’
‘Master Urswicke?’
He stopped, startled out of his reverie, and realised he’d entered the abbey precincts which lay silent all around him: no patter of sandalled feet, no bells or chanting, not even the usual noises from the kitchen, buttery or bakery. Nothing but an ominous, watching stillness. Abbot Strensham, fearful about what might happen, must have ordered his brothers to stay in their cells. Again Urswicke heard his name called and turned as the countess’s squire Owain stepped out of the shadows.
‘What is it?’ Urswicke hurried towards him. ‘The countess …?’
‘She is well.’ Owain drew closer, his long, dark face wreathed in concern. ‘Our mistress has secretly left. She does not think it is safe here. She is journeying as swiftly as she can to London where she hopes to lodge at her husband’s riverside mansion …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Urswicke snapped, ‘I know where that is.’
‘She also mentioned that she might visit a secret place. What is that, Master Urswicke? My mistress was insistent that you be given this message.’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ the clerk murmured, glancing around. ‘Nothing to concern you. And what else?’
‘The rest of the household are following behind. The countess, together with Master Bray and two outriders, left hurriedly. Before she departed, she asked if you would stay until the business here is completed and then join her.’
‘Yes, yes I will.’ Urswicke stared at the Welshman’s close face, even as he prayed that the countess would exercise great caution as she entered the city. Owain pulled the gauntlets from beneath his warbelt; he put these on and stretched out a hand.
‘Master Urswicke, I was instructed to wait for you. Make sure you receive the message and that you are well. I have done that. Now I must leave and join the rest before nightfall.’
Owain withdrew his hand, raised it in farewell and hurried back into the shadows along the cloister path. Urswicke made his way over to the guesthouse, now strangely quiet. The countess’s retinue, together with other guests, had fled in full expectation that the bloody affray at Tewk
esbury was certainly not finished. Urswicke went up into the different chambers to find them swept clean. He peered through a lancet window.
‘The day is drawing on,’ he whispered to himself, ‘and I should be gone from here!’
He returned to his own closet chamber with its paltry sticks of furniture and narrow bed. He sat on the edge of this, lost deep in thought. He felt himself grow sleepy and shook himself awake. He glimpsed the half-full goblet of wine and drained it to the dregs before taking off his cloak; he wrapped this around him and stretched out on the bed. Darkness had fallen when he was awoken by a persistent rapping on his door. He drew his dagger and, slightly stiff, edged towards it.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Brother Norbert, remember me, sir?’ the voice whined through the door. ‘I am here with Brother Simeon, remember? You despatched us as messengers to Lord Wenlock whose crushed head is now poled in the market place.’
Urswicke felt a chill of apprehension. He opened the door and the two cowled figures slipped into the room. He indicated that they should sit on the edge of the cotbed whilst he drew up a stool close to them. Urswicke half suspected that these two worthies, whom he had used to convey messages, in particular to Lord Wenlock, were intent on mischief.
‘You wish to speak?’ Urswicke spread his hands. ‘The hour is late and tomorrow beckons.’
‘And it will bring more blood,’ Norbert intoned lugubriously. ‘Rumour has it that King Edward is determined on settling scores with all those who took sanctuary in our abbey.’
‘And why should that concern me?’
‘No, what should concern you, Master Urswicke, is that you are a Judas man who seemingly betrays both houses. You sent us with messages to Lord Wenlock. We now know what he did and how he died. Moreover, this abbey is clothed in darkness but we know its maze-like paths and we can thread the labyrinth. You would not even know we were there. We have watched you scurry here and scurry there. You meet the likes of Mauclerc. Even we know who he is, a man hot for devil’s work. So who do you really serve, York or Lancaster?’
‘I have done invaluable work for our Lord King.’
‘Oh yes,’ Norbert simpered, ‘I was hiding in the garden when you and Mauclerc were whispering your treachery. Did you have a hand in the capture of the young prince? How will the House of Lancaster view that? Not to mention your meddling with Wenlock. And why is your mistress scurrying off so swiftly to London? What is she hiding?’
Urswicke stared hard at these two lay brothers. Abbot Strensham had chosen them because both had served as royal messengers before being granted a pension and a corrody in this abbey. Urswicke ruefully admitted he had underestimated this precious pair: they had served as royal couriers, a breed of officials with a reputation for prying and eavesdropping, ever ready to collect juicy morsels of valuable information. Both of these villains apparently hunted together and he wondered if they had used the same guile on the abbot and the other brothers.
‘And so what?’ Urswicke asked.
‘You pay us in good pound sterling and,’ Norbert rubbed his hands together, ‘our little secret becomes a case of eye has not seen, nor has ear heard, nor will it enter into anyone’s heart what mischief you have truly perpetrated.’
Urswicke nodded, taking a deep breath as he considered the possibilities. He did not flinch at the blackmail against himself. What worried him was any threat to his mistress. King Edward suspected her, whilst Clarence was her sworn enemy ready to believe any allegation levelled against a Beaufort. More chillingly, these two malefactors had stumbled upon the countess’s great secret. She was, at this moment in time, harbouring something precious, and the lay brothers had referred to that. He did not want Mauclerc leading a swift-riding comitatus to pursue the countess and her household and thoroughly question them. Urswicke stared down at the floor and tried to recall what he knew about the abbey and its buildings. He thought hard and made a decision.
‘Very well.’ Urswicke pointed to the hour candle in its horned shell. ‘When the flame marks the midnight hour, I will meet you out near the piggery.’
‘Why there?’
‘Because that’s where I hid my money belt. Guesthouses lie open. Thievery is commonplace even,’ he added sarcastically, ‘in a house of prayer. A hundred pounds sterling, no more, for that’s all I have. Take it,’ he shrugged, ‘or do your worst.’
Norbert glanced at Simeon who nodded his approval.
‘In an hour then.’ Urswicke rose, opened the door, and his visitors shuffled out into the night. Once he was sure they were gone, Urswicke hurriedly made his own preparations to leave. He packed his saddlebags with what he needed and went down to the abbey stables, where a sleepy-eyed groom promised to prepare his horse for a journey to London.
Urswicke returned to his chamber and plotted what he should do. He knew where the piggery was. Urswicke always carefully walked any place he lodged in, as a constable would his castle, looking for those places to hide, points of strength or possible weaknesses. Tewkesbury Abbey was no different. He checked the hour candle and, at the appointed time, slipped out of the guesthouse and made his way across the abbey grounds. He tried not to meet the gaze of the stone-carved gargoyles, babewyns, saints and angels, who glared down at him in mournful expectation, almost as if they knew what he plotted. Urswicke, however, felt composed. He had not created this situation, yet for his mistress’s sake he had to resolve the challenge which confronted him.
He reached a wooden fence, climbed it, and crossed the abbey meadow, passing the cattle byres which reeked to heaven and eventually reached the hog pens where a large herd of pigs massed together, snuffling and grunting as they snouted the filthy ground. Urswicke, ignoring the stench, took up the position by the gate and waited. He half listened to the pigs, feral creatures always hungry and ever vigilant for food. The hogs sensed him, and every so often would crash against the poled fence or the iron-plated gate, stirring up the mud to thicken the cloud of filthy smells. At last Urswicke glimpsed the light of a lanternhorn bobbing through the darkness. The monks approached, almost swaggering, eager for their prize. Urswicke lifted the heavy, leather saddlebag and put his hand inside to grasp the small arbalest already primed. He moved his hand and felt the leather strap of a second crossbow.
‘Well Urswicke, you have summoned us here …?’
The monk stopped as Urswicke abruptly brought out the crossbow and, stepping closer, released the catch so the barb sped to smash Norbert’s face to a bloody, bony mess. The lay brother, still holding the lantern, crumpled to the ground. Urswicke stepped around him, dropping the first arbalest as he grasped the second. Simeon just froze, shocked to a stony stillness as Urswicke swept towards him and, with the crossbow within inches from his opponent’s face, released the barbed quarrel, taking Simeon in the forehead, smashing his skull and piercing his brain. Urswicke watched his enemy slump to the ground. Certain that both men were dead, he put the arbalests back in their leather sack. He then took each of the blood-soaked corpses, dragged them to the fence and tossed them over. The second cadaver had hardly sunk into the thick, oozing mud of the piggery when the hogs, who had already smelt blood, surged in a frenzied attack to rip and tear at this unexpected, gore-smeared banquet: their squealing and grunting rose like some unholy hymn. Urswicke grasped the saddlebag and hurried into the night.
‘You were correct,’ he whispered over his shoulder, ‘eye will not see, nor will ear hear, nor will it enter the heart of anyone about what I truly did.’
Urswicke eventually reached the stables and, as he approached the stall where his horse stood ready and waiting, a shadow slipped into the pool of light thrown by a lanternhorn on its hook close to the stable door.
‘Master Urswicke,’ Mauclerc stepped closer, ‘I have been searching for you. You are leaving?’
‘Urgent business in London.’
‘Oh yes, the Lady Margaret has already left; she did so without royal permission.’
‘Did she
need it?’
‘No but, as a courtesy, she really should have approached the royal chancery, but never mind. Everything is in a state of flux. We have received intelligence from London that the unrest there is much more serious than we first believed. We trust only a few men of power in the capital. One of them is your father. He and his comrades will have to stand like a door of steel against the rebels surging through Kent.’
For the first time in many a year, Urswicke thanked God for his father, yet he held himself tense. ‘So what now?’ he demanded.
‘Matters move swiftly to judgement,’ Mauclerc retorted. ‘The King intends to force the issue here at the abbey early tomorrow. Our master also has need of you, not only here but in London as well. So, for the moment, you must stay, Master Urswicke, and see whatever the new day brings.’
Urswicke discovered that the day brought bloodshed: swift, cruel and terrible. Along with other Yorkist henchmen, he was roused roughly just before dawn, the abbey bells already tolling their dire warning, a loud protest against the King’s intended actions. Edward, however, had his way. The abbey doors were forced. Yorkist soldiers flooded into the nave, searching out and seizing their enemy who sheltered in the chantry chapels, even behind the high altar. A few resisted, fighting back, but at last all the prisoners were chained and led like common felons out of the church. Abbot Strensham tried to protest but Clarence, surrounded by knights of the royal household, their swords drawn, rejected the abbot’s protests. Clarence loudly declared that Tewkesbury Abbey did not enjoy the right of sanctuary. Moreover, the captured men were no ordinary felons but dyed-in-the-wool traitors who had been taken in arms against their rightful King. They were guilty of heinous treason and should answer for it.
Urswicke mingled with others of Clarence’s coven and joined them as they escorted the prisoners out of the abbey precincts and down to the market place. Here the execution platform had been fully prepared. The common hangman, face all masked, stood by the execution block with a huge wicker basket beside it. A glowing brazier fanned by the morning breeze flared and smoked, the flames leaping up in bright tongues of fire. Some townspeople had also gathered to watch. A few of these, prompted by Clarence’s henchmen, hurled curses and whatever refuse was at hand. In the main, however, the crowd just watched the pitiful masque unfold.