by Paul Doherty
‘My Lady.’ Dudley raised a hand. ‘Please, it’s an honour to see you.’
Margaret allowed the constable to kiss the tips of her fingers; she then introduced Bray. Once the pleasantries and introductions were finished, Dudley, dressed in chain mail and half-armour, took a stool and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees, hands joined as if in prayer. He scratched his forehead then stared long and hard at Margaret, a fierce look but Margaret held his gaze. She had met Dudley before at some court celebration and knew him to be a good soldier of some integrity. She noticed the fresh scars to his face and moved to look at those on the side of his neck. Dudley grinned in a display of broken yellow teeth. He gently tapped his bloodied skin.
‘River pirates,’ he declared, ‘as they once were. All gone now: their souls despatched to judgement, their corpses impaled on a row of sandbanks along the Thames.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘Yes, I fought with John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, or so he was, until he supported the wrong side. He was caught and executed. Worcester fought in Wallachia around the city of Tirgoviste, in the service of the Lord Count Drakulya. A fearsome warlord, my Lady, who took no prisoners. Tiptoft learnt about impalement and how effective it is. More striking than a corpse dangling from the end of a rope or,’ he shrugged, ‘heads being severed in Tewkesbury market place. Yes, we have heard the news. King Edward is preparing to leave for London and he is issuing proclamations by the day which are posted at the Conduit in Cheapside and the Great Cross in St Paul’s graveyard.’ He took a deep breath. ‘For what it’s worth, my Lady,’ he crossed himself, ‘the list of dead is also being posted, and again, for what it’s worth, I am truly sorry for your loss. The Beaufort family,’ he sighed, ‘have suffered grievously.’ He fell silent, tapped his boots on the ground and glanced up. ‘Margaret of Richmond, I know why you are here.’
‘I wish to see the old King.’
‘Many, including myself, do not see him, speak to him, or even allow ourselves to be seen consulting with him.’
‘I want to.’ Margaret steeled herself. ‘And I need to see him soon. Edward of York and his brothers march on London. Henry is a problem Edward must address. I suspect he will, sooner rather than later. Consequently, sir, I wish to have words with a dying man. You cannot refuse me that. I must add that he is a kinsman of mine. I beg you sir, I need to have words with him.’
Dudley bowed his head; when he glanced up his cheeks were tear-soaked. ‘I know,’ he murmured, ‘but I am concerned.’
‘His Grace the King, and he was crowned that,’ Margaret asserted herself, ‘is half-brother to my late husband Lord Tudor. You know what is going to happen. I need to speak to the old King before the clouds gather and this fortress of yours becomes shrouded in mystery, if not murder. I am no threat to you, Edward of York or any of his ilk. I am here out of sheer compassion.’
Dudley nodded and rose, barking orders at his henchmen who had gathered close by. Margaret and Bray, surrounded by men-at-arms, were led out of the pavilion and through the sombre, cavernous postern gate into the Tower. Night was falling, but that grim fortress was frenetically busy. Men-at-arms milled around. Catapults, mangonels and trebuchets and all the other hideous engines of war were being prepared. The air was riven by the screech of cordage, the clatter of armour and the cries of officers. These all mingled with strident squealing from the hog pens, where the pigs were being slaughtered, their guttered carcasses being prepared, smoked and cured in preparation for a siege. The women of the garrison were busy around the wells filling water pots. The Tower was preparing for war and the imminent attack by the Bastard of Fauconberg’s forces, be it across London Bridge or from the river.
Margaret’s escort marched swiftly and they were soon in the great cobbled bailey where the formidable White Tower soared up above them, stark against the early summer sky. Margaret expected to be taken there. Instead, they were led across the execution yard, past the Church St Peter Ad Vincula and into the Wakefield Tower. Here the escort left them. Lord Dudley seized a ring of keys, led them up some steps, unlocked a door and waved them into a grim, grey circular stone chamber with a small enclave which served as an oratory. A murky place, the only light being provided by lancet windows and a few tallow candles fixed on spigots. The cowled prisoner sitting at the chancery table, strewn with manuscripts and books, sighed noisily and rose to greet them. A tall, angular figure garbed in dark clothes and shabby slippers. He shuffled forward. Margaret was immediately struck by how surprisingly young he looked; a pleasing countenance with a broad forehead, well-spaced eyes and rather pallid skin which seemed to emphasise his very pointed chin and protuberant lower lip.
‘Your Grace.’
Margaret and Bray sank to their knees. Henry VI, King of England, God’s anointed, hastened towards them.
‘Not now, not now.’ He half stuttered. ‘Who are you? Emissaries from my wife?’
‘Your Grace, this is Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and I am her steward Reginald Bray. We have come to pay our respects.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Henry gestured at Dudley to prepare the chamber, a chair for himself and stools for his visitors. At last all was ready. Margaret glanced pleadingly over her shoulder at Dudley; the constable bowed, snapped his fingers at his escort and left the chamber, closing the door behind him. Margaret sipped at the cup of posset she had been served. Bray stood close to her, fingers resting on the hilt of his dagger. ‘Come, cousin.’ Henry stretched forward, hands extended. ‘You are so kind. You have come to visit your poor kinsman.’ He smacked his brow with the heel of his hand. ‘So many Beauforts, good, generous people,’ he lifted his head, tears brimming in his eyes, ‘all gone into the dark. Oh, the years pass and I have seen them go.’
‘Your Grace,’ Margaret replied, pulling her stool closer, ‘time is short. You have heard the news fresh out of Tewkesbury?’
‘I have.’ Henry sat all slack, mouth half open, eyes fearful. Margaret stared pitifully at this poor excuse of a king. She recalled what one of her kinsmen had said, ‘Poor stock breeds poor stock.’ Henry’s paternal grandfather had been a leper: his French grandfather had suffered fits of madness believing he was a glass vase which could crack at any time. Henry had now reigned for fifty years, a period of decline and decay. As King he had been reviled, seized, mocked and humiliated the length and breadth of his kingdom as he passed from the hands of one violent warlord to another. He certainly wasn’t born to be a king, more of a monk than monarch. A saintly man who loved his book of hours, psalter and ave beads, murmuring his prayers or, if he was lucid enough, poring over ancient manuscripts.
‘I have heard the news,’ Henry repeated, fingers going to his lips. ‘I fear for my son and beloved wife.’ His hand fell away. ‘You know what they say? That the prince is not truly mine but the by-blow of one of my wife’s lovers?’
‘It’s a lie, your Grace.’
Henry peered closer at Margaret. ‘Yes, yes you would say that, wouldn’t you? And how is your boy, the offspring of my darling half-brother Edmund?’ Margaret just stared back. Henry abruptly turned sideways, peering at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘I know, I know,’ he whispered, ‘this is the killing time. The wheel is being turned once more.’
‘Your Grace,’ Margaret gestured at the chancery desk, ‘you have parchment, wax, ink, pen and signatory ring. I need a writ under your seal that it pleases you to allow the bearer of such a warrant to do as he or, in this case she … well, whatever I want. I need to thread my way across this city and, more importantly, find a path through the murderous maze of court politics. Your Grace, my pardon, my apologies but, as you say, the killing time is here.’
Henry sucked on his lips and nodded. ‘Yes, yes, it so pleases me,’ he murmured. He rose, crossed to the table, beckoning at Bray to join him. The writ was scrawled and sealed with the King’s signet ring. Henry then sat down, rubbing his lips with bony fingers.
‘So, sweetest cousin, what do you want?’
‘The
Titulus Regius?’ Margaret retorted. ‘The Title of the King?’
‘Ah yes.’ Henry smiled. ‘Searchers have been busy looking for that, industrious in discovering information. Somebody told me that.’ He paused. ‘Everybody searches for secrets. They look for lies, sometimes the truth, which they can use against their enemies. Now.’ He became all brisk. ‘The Titulus Regius is the creation of George of Clarence and, if the truth be known or, so my wife hinted, it is an attack on the Yorkist claim to the Crown of England.’ He licked his lips. ‘It’s either that or a document which shows that George of Clarence should be King of England.’ Henry seemed to find that amusing and he began to laugh softly.
‘How do you know that?’
Again Henry’s fingertips brushed his lips and his eyes lost that knowing look; his expression grew more vacant, vacuous and slack.
‘Your Grace?’
‘Oh yes, oh yes.’ Henry breathed out noisily, staring over his shoulder at the chancery desk. ‘When my wits returned and my beloved wife held the reins of power, I learnt a great deal about George of Clarence. You see Clarence changed sides, didn’t he? Flitting like a shadow, or slinking like a rat, between his own kin and the House of Lancaster. A man who blows hot and cold. He can be your firm friend on Monday and your deadly enemy on Tuesday. Anyway, during the time Clarence was in the Lancastrian camp, he insinuated that he knew great secrets. How he himself should be King. Wasn’t a proclamation issued declaring that? Anyway, anyway,’ Henry fluttered his fingers, ‘according to my wife, Clarence later hired three clerks skilled in collecting chatter and gossip. They were making careful note of all this in a secret chronicle. I believe others helped them but I forget the details.’ Henry took ave beads out of his belt pouch and began to thread them through his fingers. ‘God save us, God save us. Clarence even gathered scandal about his own parents, but I forget the details. My wife could tell you more if she dare.’ He glanced fearfully at Margaret. ‘I shouldn’t even be discussing this. If the Yorkist lords discovered …’
Margaret nodded understandingly; she knew all about the old King’s shifting moods. How he could lapse into sudden silence, totally withdrawn from the world, or indulge in hysterical fits bordering on a frenzy. Once Henry began to change, there was little sense to be had out of him. Margaret suspected that was about to happen. She glanced at Bray, who quietly nodded, as if he’d read her thoughts and agreed with her. It was time to leave. Margaret rose and made her farewells but Henry now seemed unaware of anything and, bowing his head, he intoned the opening verse of Vespers.
‘Oh Lord come to my aid. Oh Lord make haste to help me …’
Margaret glanced pityingly down at this broken King who’d been deprived of his crown, his kingdom, his wife, his heir, his liberty and, undoubtedly once the Yorkist lords swept into London, his very life. She left Henry to his prayers.
Dudley was waiting in the stairwell and escorted her back down through the postern gate. Margaret and Bray hastened through the bustling crowd towards the Tower quayside. They walked carefully to avoid the carts and sumpter ponies being led up to the fortress with food and munitions for the garrison. Bray wanted to hire a barge but the crowd thronging around the quayside steps meant that they would have a long wait. Moreover, Margaret’s mood changed. She believed, and Bray agreed with her whispered warning, that she had a deepening conviction of being quietly followed, watched and scrutinised. She tried to stifle the fear which coursed through her. The hunters were out, she was sure of that, but even worse, why were the dogs so close? Did they know something about what she intended? Of course she had been seen entering London through Aldgate, her presence would be noted, but this was different. She truly felt she was being closely scrutinised, her every step noted. Margaret prided herself on how her days at court had sharpened her ability to sense danger, threats as well as the means to avoid them. Of course that had been at court where she could count on powerful protection, but the power of the Beauforts had been shattered. So what did the hunters search for? Did they suspect what was hidden away in her most secret plans? Once again she recalled Somerset’s warning in the chantry chapel at Tewkesbury. Did she really nurse a Judas close to her breast? Did this traitor, whoever he was, work for someone else? That must be Clarence and his coven. Was that why the King’s brother hinted and baited her about her precious son?
‘Mistress?’
Margaret stared fiercely at Bray who stepped back in alarm.
‘Mistress,’ he repeated, ‘I did not mean to startle you.’
‘We are being watched, Reginald, so let us play them at their own game. We must go.’
She turned, going back up Tower Street which led them into Eastcheap, the great fish market around Billingsgate. The place stank of the fish, salt and offal strewn across the cobbles where cat and dog fought with the hordes of tattered beggars over the different scraps. The pillories and stocks set up in this foulsome place were being well used, especially for fishmongers who had tried to sell stale produce and were now being forced to stand, head and hands clasped, with the rotting carcasses of fish slapped across their faces. Margaret pretended to turn to look at these and slipped as if she had lost her footing. She used this to stare around, as did Bray who hastened to help her. Nevertheless, they could detect nothing amiss until they entered a narrow lane leading down to Candlewick. Bray stopped to turn back to give a beggar boy a coin when he glimpsed a sudden darting movement along the roof of a house further down the street. A small furtive shape skilfully treading the sloping, tiled roof. Bray smiled to himself and walked back to join his mistress.
‘Sparrowhawks.’ He murmured. ‘Little street urchins who can scramble across the roofs better than any rat, cat or squirrel. They have us under watch so …’
He pulled Margaret into the dirty, dingy taproom of a tavern, a low-beamed room smelling of ale and fried food. Bray summoned the landlord, offered him a coin and quickly explained what he wanted. The man nodded and led both Margaret and Bray across to a door with eyelets high in the wood.
‘Stay there.’ The landlord tapped his barrel-like belly. ‘Stay there,’ he repeated, ‘peer out. Let us see who comes.’
He opened the door; the small chamber was no better than a musty, cobwebbed cupboard, though it had a seat built into the wall. Margaret sat whilst Bray peered through the slats and waited. He was about to turn away when he quietly cursed, beckoning at Margaret to join him. She did so, peering through the eyelets. The noise of the taproom had stilled. No one moved but froze, staring at the men-at-arms garbed in city livery who’d slipped into the alehouse. Margaret reckoned there must be at least a dozen and she certainly recognised their leader Roger Urswicke, Recorder of London and the estranged father of her clerk Christopher. The landlord acted his part, running up to greet the visitors, fingers fluttering, face beseeching, eyes eager to help. Yes, he assured the Recorder, a man and woman had just entered his tavern but they had slipped across the kitchen garden and out through the wicket gate which fronted the alleyway beyond. Urswicke nodded, snapping his fingers at the men-at-arms to follow. Once they’d gone, the landlord busied himself around the taproom until one of the slatterns hurried in and whispered, pointing in the direction of the garden. Minehost rubbed his hands in glee and hurried across to open the door, gesturing at Bray and Margaret to come out.
‘Gone.’ He breathed. ‘They have all left. I hate the bloody Guildhall and its nosey judges, the arrogant aldermen and clever-tongued lawyers. I say that, sir,’ he peered at Bray, ‘yet I apologise if you are lawyer; you look like one.’
‘I am, but not of that ilk,’ Bray retorted. ‘However …’ He slipped the landlord another coin and led Margaret out into the alleyway.
Margaret could glimpse no movement along the rooftops or at the mouth of the narrow runnels. They moved on, eager to hide amongst the crowd surging up from Cheapside where the long range of stalls offered everything under the sun. Trading was vigorous, as if the merchants of the city could not care which warrior
s fought, who was victorious, who rose and who fell. Margaret had learned a very salutary lesson in her life, something she treasured close to her heart. How the patronage of the arts, the pursuit of knowledge – be it in the cathedral schools or the halls of Cambridge – were part of the very fabric of life which any worthy prince should foster. The hideous slaughter at Tewkesbury was a grievous sin which threatened that fabric and should be curtailed at all cost. She wanted her darling son to learn the lesson, that trade not war, learning not battles were the true business of a prince. Margaret broke from her reverie as a group of bailiffs shrieked at a cutpurse and plucked him out of the crowd. Every day men were taken up and arrested, Margaret reflected, determined that would not happen to her, young Henry or any of those close to her heart. She was determined to weave the web she wanted and the most important part of this was the removal of her son from any danger.
PART THREE
‘King Henry was secretly assassinated in the Tower.’
Milanese State Papers
They reached the corner of St Andrew’s Street. Across from this, a chanteur, his skin as dark as night, stood on a barrel, trying to entice passers-by to listen to his tale about the fate of the great city of Constantinople. How swarms of Turcopoles had filled its wells with corpses and soaked the streets of the great city in blood. Margaret swiftly scrutinised him but he seemed genuine enough, hardly a spy in the employ of the Guildhall or Clarence. Nevertheless, she still had that chilling feeling of being closely watched. Bray, however, who stood staring up and around, whispered the danger was past. They continued halfway down the street, stopping at The Wyvern’s Nest, a nondescript alehouse. Bray led Margaret in as he bellowed for Hempen the landlord, a fat, bustling, grey-haired tub of a man with a cruel red scar around his throat.