by Paul Doherty
A line of broken, wounded men being herded into the square towards a great log table set up in front of Merchant Stratford’s mansion. The table, now a court bench, was covered in a dark-green baize cloth. The symbols of royal justice, the royal sword and mace, rested there, along with a black, stark crucifix and a book of the Gospels. Urswicke glimpsed Edward the King standing at an upstairs window of the mansion. The King was peering down at this summary court of ‘Oyer et Terminer’, hastily assembled to dispense swift retribution. Behind the table sat the judges, Richard of Gloucester, who was also High Constable of England, on his left the Duke of Norfolk, the King’s own marshal, and on Richard’s right, Lord William Hastings, the Crown’s special commissioner to the West Country and along the Welsh March. Clerks and scriveners sat ready to record a faithful account, parchment unrolled, quill pens at the ready. Gorgeously garbed heralds unfurled the royal standard as well as the banners and pennants of the three judges. These were placed behind Gloucester and his colleagues in specially prepared sockets on the three, throne-like chairs. Other heralds dragged the standards of the accused and placed these across the mud-strewn cobbles, creating a macabre carpet stretching from the table to the steps of the execution platform. A trumpeter blew a shrill blast, then, in a loud voice, proclaimed how the King’s justices of Oyer et Terminer were ready for judgement.
The ceremonies and protocols eventually ended and the process began; it brooked no opposition and provided little hope for the accused. Each of the prisoners was dragged in front of the table to hear the charges read out by a clerk in a bell-like voice; every indictment was one of high treason and so worthy of death. Somerset was the first to hear this, and when asked for a reply he simply spat at his judges and cursed them now and for eternity.
‘It will not be long,’ he shouted, ‘before you Yorkist vipers follow your father into the dark …’
Richard of Gloucester would have sprung to his feet but Norfolk, a cynical smile on his face, just grasped the young prince by his arm, whispering into his ear. Richard nodded as if in agreement and glanced over his shoulder up at the window where his brother the King was watching. Urswicke glimpsed Edward raise his hand. Richard turned back.
‘You,’ he pointed at Somerset, ‘are attainted and so are worthy of death.’ Gloucester then banged the table with his left hand as his right gestured at the guards to take Somerset away. The Lancastrian leader was seized and pushed up the steps onto the execution platform where he was forced to kneel before the block. Somerset’s jerkin and shirt were roughly ripped and pulled down so his neck and head were fully exposed. The duke’s hands were tied behind his back, even as the executioner’s assistants forced Somerset to turn his head before thrusting it down onto the block. The axe man lifted his two-bladed weapon, brought it back in one glittering flash of sunlight then down, cutting the neck so sharply, Somerset’s head bounced away as his torso jerked and spurted an arc of blood which drenched the entire platform. Somerset’s head was then lifted, the executioner grasping it by the hair as he held it high, walking to the edge of the platform so that the judges could clearly view the half-closed eyes still blinking, the lips slightly twitching. The executioner then turned to the left and right so all could see, as a herald proclaimed, ‘The fate of all such traitors.’
Urswicke was standing just behind Clarence and watched the Yorkist lord clap and jump, as if this was all some childish game put on for his pleasure and entertainment. Other prisoners, such as the Courtenays of Devon and the prior of the Hospitallers, were also tried and condemned. They too were hustled up the steps, forced to kneel, and then the great, gleaming execution axe whirled, followed by a sickening thud as it severed bone, muscle and flesh. The head would roll away before being displayed and placed in the waiting basket. The execution platform swirled in blood which seeped over the edge, into the gaps, to snake amongst the cobbles, drenching the Lancastrian banners left strewn there. After each execution, Clarence would clap his hands and chortle with glee as he performed another jig. Once the executions were over, however, Clarence became self-important, snapping his fingers for Mauclerc, the Three Kings and Urswicke to follow him across the slippery cobbles, back into The Golden Lion and up to the chamber they’d used before. Servants brought bowls of hot potage, chunks of meat and croutons in a highly spiced sauce, along with freshly baked manchet loaves and a jug of the tavern’s finest Bordeaux. Clarence insisted on serving this himself, praising its richness and repeating how fitting that such blood-red wine should be drunk on the same day as the enemies of his House went under the axe.
‘But now for fresh fields.’ Clarence sucked on his fingers and pointed at Urswicke. ‘My brother and I want you in London,’ he leaned across the table, ‘to keep the sharpest eye on that little bitch Meg of Richmond. You must also deliver a message to your redoubtable father, the Recorder.’ Clarence shook his head. ‘Thomas Neville, the Bastard of Fauconberg, intends to seize the city. You, your father and other loyal souls must prevent him. If London falls, our cause is seriously injured …’
Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, had left Tewkesbury on Sunday morning, reaching London late the following Tuesday to find that the news of the Yorkist victory at Tewkesbury and the summary execution of her kinsmen and others had swiftly preceded her. Margaret paused to rest and think in an ancient church just inside Aldgate. At first she busied herself lighting tapers before a statue of the Virgin, as well as paying a chantry priest to sing three requiem masses for all those slain at Tewkesbury. Afterwards she sat in the shadows, watching the shifting light as the candle-flame before the different shrines and statues flickered vigorously before guttering out. Margaret strove to compose herself as she stared at a fresco on the pillars: this depicted the Wheel of Fortune, how it would raise prince, priest and prelate only to cast them down again. Margaret did not want to be part of that wheel. Indeed her struggle was more dangerous. The mighty Beauforts had, apart from herself, been annihilated and wiped off the face of God’s earth. She had to survive if only for her son. If she went down, he would certainly follow. And who would do this? The Yorkist warlords, Clarence in particular, were her mortal enemies. In the first instance, she would have to confront Clarence and destroy him, both root and branch. Yet how?
A plan was forming, like a snake uncoiling, though slowly. She had to remain cunning, prudent and patient. If she struck, when she struck, she must not make a mistake. She heard a voice raised further down the church and recalled the herald standing on a cart just inside Aldgate. This city official proclaimed the news from Tewkesbury as well as the more dangerous reports: that the Bastard of Fauconberg’s war cogs were sailing up the Thames, whilst the men of Kent were gathering to storm through Southwark and seize the southern gate of London Bridge. Of course such proclamations caused deep unrest, yet Margaret was relieved. All this upset might distract the Yorkist lords and their ilk in the city. Margaret was determined to ensure that her beloved son remained safe, as well as plot for the future. She wondered about the ‘Titulus Regius’. Margaret suspected that this document, from the little that Somerset had told her, was highly injurious to the House of York. She determined to seize such a manuscript and use it to sow discord. Somerset was correct; Clarence may be her avowed enemy, but he was also, albeit secretly, the implacable enemy of his own House and family.
Margaret threaded her ave beads through her fingers. Now and again she would lapse into prayer as she wondered about whom she could truly rely on and trust? Thanks to her marriage to Sir Humphrey, she had the full protection of the Stafford family and their leader the Duke of Buckingham. However, Sir Humphrey was a truly sick man, made weaker by the hideous injuries sustained at Barnet. So how long would he live? Whom else could she trust? Was Somerset correct? Was there a spy deep in her household?
The countess knew she had two shield comrades, especially Christopher Urswicke. She crossed herself and prayed that her clerk would remain safe in that wolf’s lair at Tewkesbury. The other stalwart was
Reginald Bray, the steward and controller of her household. She glanced over her shoulder. Bray was sitting on a wall bench, legs apart, head down deep in thought. Margaret smiled to herself. Urswicke was astute but still young. He had complete loyalty for her, born out of his deep love for his mother as well as a burning resentment against his father and the heartbreak he had caused. Margaret also knew that Christopher was deeply grateful for what she had done to ease Urswicke’s mother during the last painful months of her life.
Bray was different, a man who lived deep in the shadows. Ostensibly Reginald was her steward, a man with ink-stained fingers, well versed in matters of the chancery and the Exchequer. To all appearances, a faithful retainer, skilled in administration. Margaret, however, knew the full truth. There was a gap in Bray’s service as a clerk when he, by his own confession to her, had fought in the King’s array across the Narrow Seas as well as along the Scottish March. He was a veteran soldier and had risen to be one of the ‘Secreti, the Secret Men’ who went before the King’s army to discover intelligence, spy on the enemy and, if they could, inflict damage on enemy leaders, be it through some ambush or secret attack at the dead of night. Bray was a master bowman and just as proficient in the use of the dagger and the garrotte. In truth, Bray was an assassin, a man who could become a shadow, to flit fiercely and silently where other men feared even to tread.
Margaret shifted in her seat, eyes on the dancing candle-flame even as a stratagem, subtle and complex, began to emerge in her teeming brain. She was determined to play the little maid, the court lady but, in truth, she would carry the war into the enemy’s camp. She recalled her study of the classics and the writings about the Roman senate; how they would vow to wage war by land and sea, by fire and sword: that is what she would do! At times, if she could, she would cause public unrest but, in the main, her war would be secret yet just as devastating. She desperately wanted to visit her secret place, The Wyvern’s Lair, but that would have to wait. At the moment the situation was too dangerous. Margaret knew she was under surveillance. As they had passed through Aldgate earlier that afternoon, Bray, sharp of mind and keen of wit, had whispered how he had glimpsed the scrutineers, informers paid by the city council, to observe and report on who entered and left the city. They must have noticed her and sent information by the street swallows, urchins who could be hired and taught to learn some message by rote. The Lords of the Soil at the Guildhall must already know that Margaret Beaufort Countess of Richmond had entered the city and would act accordingly. She crossed herself for a final time.
‘Reginald,’ she murmured, beckoning her steward forward. He crouched down beside her and she smoothed his cheek. ‘Tell the rest of my household, now they have joined us, to go direct to Sir Humphrey’s house in Queenhithe. The steward there is waiting and I am sure chambers will be ready. Tell Oswina and Owain to ensure everything is settled.’
‘And you, Mistress?’
‘You and I Reginald, are off to that grim house of war.’
‘My Lady?’
‘The Tower!’
A short while later they left St Katherine’s. Dusk was falling as they made their way down Mark Lane to Thames Street. Margaret kept herself cloaked and cowled whilst Bray, sword drawn, strode beside her. The lanes and streets were narrow, a maze of arrow-thin alleyways where the upper storeys of the houses on either side leaned forward to block out both light and air. Shop signs creaked and swung precariously just above their heads, and they had to guard against the constant rain of slops from the upper windows. The stench of the refuse rotting in the lay stalls as well as the crammed open sewers running down the centre of the street was so offensive Bray had to buy pomanders from a chapman. Margaret held one of these over her nose and mouth, trying not to glance at the bloody battles being waged in and around the steaming midden heaps by cat, rat and dog. A pig which had attacked a child had been caught, tried, its throat cut, and had been hung from a three-branched gallows, the other two nooses being occupied by the corpses of housebreakers; apparently these had been caught red-handed by the bailiffs who had stripped them, placed a rope around their necks before kicking away the barrels the two wolfsheads had been forced to stand on.
Such sickening sights were common. London life in all its rawness bustled on; traders, tinkers and shop-men touted raucously for business. Hot-pot girls, sent out by the nearby taverns and cook-shops, tried to entice passers-by with what was on offer: minced chicken in pastry, beef brisket, honey-coated pork along with little beakers of ale, cider and wine. Beggars whined, clacking their dishes. Whores pouted and simpered in doorways where they stood in their garish, striped gowns and fiery-red wigs. Margaret grew accustomed to such sights and sounds, closing her ears to the raucous din, be it the wail of bagpipes, the screams of children and the constant strident cat-calling by those who thronged the streets. The countess, however, sensed something else: a palpable tension, as if the city knew that it was about to be drawn into the bloody conflict which had raged at Barnet and Tewkesbury.
Men-at-arms, hobelars and archers thronged about, all garbed in the royal livery or the blue and yellow of York. Carts crammed with weaponry were being pulled down to the different gates of the city, and Margaret even glimpsed culverins and cannon being dragged on sledges to the principal quaysides along the Thames such as Queenhithe and Dowgate. Knights in half-armour grouped at the different crossroads, where city men-at-arms were fastening chains to be dragged across the mouth of the main streets as a defence against enemy horsemen. News from Tewkesbury was being proclaimed time and again by professional chanteurs, who stood on barrels or casks to regale the passing crowd, embellishing their tale with bloodthirsty stories from that fierce battle.
They left the city, moving into Portsoken, a desolate area between the Abbey of the Minoresses and the Church of St Mary Grace’s. Here the unlicensed troubadours, minstrels and actors could perform free without being troubled by city bailiffs. A travelling troupe had set up a stage and mummers, their faces hidden by hideous masks, were busy playing out the execution of the Lancastrian lords in Tewkesbury market place. They used figures fashioned out of straw, buckets of pig’s blood and baskets of offal to make their account more gruesome. Margaret swiftly averted her eyes and murmured a requiem. Bray now held her arm in this squalid place of fleshers’ yards and tanning sheds, which flooded the area with filth and attracted savage dogs, a real threat to the weak or unwary.
Margaret heaved a sigh of relief when they reached the great postern gate to the rear of the Tower. This was now protected and barricaded with war carts, palisades and sharpened stakes driven into the ground. Banners and pennants floated in the breeze, their gorgeous insignia besmirched by the smoke billowing from fiery braziers. Men-at-arms and mounted archers patrolled the entrance under the command of knight bannerets, and all who approached were challenged. Margaret, resting on Bray’s arm, walked carefully towards the table which spanned the narrow gap between the two sides of the barricade. A royal clerk, dressed in the livery of the King’s household, looked Margaret and Bray up and down from head to toe before imperiously lifting his hand, snapping his fingers at them to approach. One of the knights behind the clerk recognised Margaret as she pulled back the hood of her cloak and, leaning over, whispered heatedly into the clerk’s ear. The man changed in an instant, he rose, smiling from ear to ear, beckoning her closer and tactfully refusing the warrants and licences Bray produced from his wallet.
‘My Lady,’ he bowed, ‘you are most welcome.’ He turned and spoke to one of the soldiers behind him. The man hurried off and the clerk waved Margaret and Bray through the barrier into a small enclosure. Margaret raised a hand in thanks to the young knight who had recognised her, then followed the clerk into a sparsely furnished pavilion pitched before the Tower gate.
‘My Lady,’ the clerk grated, ‘I have sent for the constable. Lord Dudley will be here shortly.’
Margaret made herself comfortable, Bray standing behind her. She listened keenly to the conve
rsation amongst the officers who stood close by talking about the looming threat. How the Bastard of Fauconberg intended to sweep the men of Kent into London, recalling the turbulent days of Wat Tyler and Jack Cade, when the city suffered all the horrors of attack, sack and rapine. Nevertheless, despite the impending menace, Margaret truly believed that the civil war was finished. Edward of York, that golden-haired English Alexander, would tip the scales and carry out the total destruction of his opponents. He had fought them for years: his recent victories had annihilated most of his enemies, and those who had survived would be marked down for death. Despite the sinister Clarence, she quietly prayed that the Yorkist King did not consider her to be one of these. The pavilion emptied. Bray, who stood close to the entrance, walked across and leaned over.
‘Mistress,’ he whispered, ‘Christopher Urswicke, should he not be here?’
‘He tends to urgent business in Tewkesbury,’ she replied.
‘His business or ours?’
‘You don’t trust him, Reginald?’
‘My Lady I do but, if I discover that I am wrong, I shall kill him.’
‘And Urswicke has said the same about you.’ She grinned impishly up at him. ‘Trust is trust, Reginald. You stand by it or you fall. Believe me, you and Christopher are my shield companions. If I go down, so do you. If you fall, you could very well drag me with you …’ She broke off as Lord Dudley, Constable of the Tower, a tall, balding man with a thick bushy moustache drooping at the corners of his mouth, entered the pavilion. Margaret made to rise.