by Paul Doherty
‘Are we safe?’ Bray demanded.
‘Yes! Come!’ Hempen led them out of the porch and across the taproom. In the corner he lifted a trapdoor, which stretched down to murky cellars. Margaret followed the taverner, a man who had nearly died of hanging until her late husband Edmund Tudor had cut him down from the gallows. Hempen was a retainer whom Margaret trusted with her life: one of the few men who would do all he could to help her and her beloved son.
The taverner, muttering to himself, led his guests along the mildewed passageway, an ancient tunnel leading from The Wyvern’s Nest, across the alleyway above, and into the cellars of the house directly opposite. Margaret and Bray squeezed themselves through the narrow gap which Hempen cleared by pulling away a stack of timbers. They entered the gloomy, wet-walled cellars, a place reeking of mould and damp, a deep-cold blackness broken only by the dancing light from the lantern Hempen carried. He led them up steep steps and pushed hard at the door concealed behind a heavy dust-strewn arras: this opened and Hempen waved them into a small, shabby solar, where two individuals were sharing a bench before a meagre fire in the mantled hearth. The man, dressed in travel-stained jerkin, hose and boots, rose and warmly embraced his sister-in-law.
‘Jasper,’ Margaret breathed, ‘thank God you reached here safely and you, light of my life,’ Margaret crouched to embrace Henry, a narrow-faced, pale-skinned boy with large, pleasing eyes, smooth cheeks and a dimpled chin. She lightly touched his black hair, now nothing more than stubble, his head had been so closely shaved. ‘I hardly recognised you,’ Margaret smiled, ‘and yet,’ she lapsed into Welsh, ‘I know you to be the very beat of my heart and you shall always rest at the centre of my soul.’ She grasped the fourteen-year-old’s arms and rubbed her hands up and down. ‘He is well?’ Margaret glanced sharply at Tudor.
‘I am well,’ Henry declared before his uncle could reply, ‘and Mother, I am so pleased to be with you. I had a sickness of the belly as we have travelled far and fast. But now I feel better. I am pleased to be off the roads.’ His face became more serious. ‘Uncle Jasper warned that we are in great danger.’
‘Yes you are,’ Margaret whispered and stood up. ‘But we will keep you safe.’ Margaret eased herself down onto the bench, Bray standing behind her. Jasper sat on her left, her son on the other side. Margaret peered out of the corner of her eyes at him. Henry looked a little pale and thin but he seemed healthy enough. She stretched out her hands to the fire as she repressed a shiver of fear. Hempen coughed, making to leave, but Margaret gestured at him to stay, politely refusing his offer of wine and food.
‘Master Hempen,’ she smiled at her son, ‘was not of that name when he was held over the baptismal font in his parish church at Powys. He received his new name when he was caught up in the fierce clan wars which rage along the Welsh valleys. Hempen was taken prisoner and his opponents were actually hanging him from a branch when your father, my husband, like some knight from the tales of Arthur, galloped up and cut him down.’ Margaret rocked herself gently, eyes half closed, ‘but that was my Edmund, a true knight. Anyway, he took my good friend here into his service. Is that not true, Master Hempen?’
The landlord nodded, rubbing the great, red weal around his neck. ‘The noose did this,’ he declared, ‘burning like a flame from Hell. I forsook my old name and assumed a new one, Hempen, as a constant reminder of my foes and a token of remembrance for my saviour. Oh yes.’ The more the landlord spoke, the more sing-song his voice became, distinctly echoing the accent of a Welsh valley-dweller. ‘Lord Edmund,’ he continued, ‘was insistent that I leave Wales with him. He supplied me with good coin and letters of introduction to the Vintner’s Guild here in London.’
‘My late husband encouraged Hempen to purchase The Wyvern’s Nest, and he also bought this house which stands directly opposite. Edmund knew about the secret tunnel stretching between the two, a relict of smuggling days. People can enter the The Wyvern’s Nest and promptly disappear if the tavern is raided and searched.’ Margaret pointed to a bell under its coping, high in the corner of the solar wall, just above the door. ‘Twine is fastened to that and snakes back to the tavern: if the taproom is raided, the cord is pulled and the bell will ring its warning.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Edmund always had to be wary when he visited London.’ She shrugged elegantly. ‘And so it is now. Nothing has changed. Amongst the powerful, the Beauforts and the Tudors are regarded with disdain. However, you are here. More importantly,’ she patted her son on the shoulder, ‘our enemies think both of you are locked up in the fastness of Pembroke Castle. Long may they continue to believe that. I am sure Edward of York, urged on by his two brothers, will despatch troops into Wales.’
‘They’ll still think we are there,’ Jasper broke in. ‘We slipped very quietly out of the fortress and we have created the pretence that we still shelter within.’ He paused. ‘I did muster troops, a host of Welsh horse and foot advanced as if they intended to cross the Severn and assist the Angevin.’ He waved a hand. ‘Smoke in the wind. Margaret of Anjou’s cause was doomed. You received my cryptic message from Lambert the page boy, my courier?’
Margaret nodded.
Jasper spread his hand. ‘However, I agree with you, sister, it is only a matter of time before Edward of York lays siege to Pembroke and his war cogs appear off the coast.’
‘Would the Yorkists,’ Bray demanded, ‘really besiege by land and sea? Pembroke is a formidable fortress. It could take months if not years before it fell.’
‘Oh the Yorkist lords know that,’ Jasper half laughed, ‘but they would only be too pleased to keep the fortress locked up so that no one can get in or get out. And now we will use that to our own advantage. Though,’ Jasper rubbed his face, ‘it’s only a matter of time before some traitor sells the news that we have flown the cage.’
‘And in your journey here, how did you travel?’
‘Master Bray, you are looking at two pilgrims who suspect they may suffer some affliction of the belly, their humours severely disturbed. So, we intend to visit Becket’s shrine at Canterbury and then move north to the Blessed Virgin’s house at Walsingham. Of course now we are here, we intend to take a ship abroad. I understand that the Breton cog, The Galicia, is about to berth at Queenhithe, its master has agreed—’
‘No, no, no,’ Hempen intervened. ‘It is not as simple as that. We must be prudent, careful. The watchers and the scrutineers, as thick as lice on a dog’s fur, are out along the streets and quaysides. Searchers carry the city commission and have been appointed and despatched to watch out for any from the House of Lancaster trying to flee the realm.’
‘Yes, yes, we have already encountered the same.’ And Bray swiftly told them about the sparrowhawks and the appearance of no lesser person than the Recorder of London, Thomas Urswicke, eagerly searching for someone or something.
‘And that could be young Henry,’ Hempen retorted. ‘We know a few of the searchers and sparrowhawks. There is a rumour that they are looking for someone important,’ the landlord pointed at Henry, ‘and I suspect that is you.’
‘We should move,’ Bray murmured.
‘No, no,’ Hempen retorted. ‘As I have said, the ports, quaysides and river steps are plagued by spies. South of the river, the men of Kent are stirring. Fauconberg threatens the city. We must not move while such storms swirl. We could be caught up in them and trapped.’
‘We must wait.’ Margaret rose and beckoned her son into her close embrace and then kissed the bristles on his shorn head. ‘God keep you.’ She whispered urgently. ‘Pax et bonum, my son. You must prepare yourself for sudden flight. We need Urswicke here. I am certain he is on his way.’
‘Mistress,’ Bray cleared his throat, ‘Mistress,’ he repeated, ‘Urswicke’s father is leading the hunt for us. It is all too close for comfort. Mistress, I beg you …’
Margaret lifted a hand for silence even as she winked at her son. ‘Christopher,’ she replied, ‘I trust him with my very life. We will wait. Urswicke will help us �
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Christopher Urswicke made himself comfortable on the chancery stool before his father’s writing desk in a gloomy chamber on the second storey of the Guildhall, its windows overlooking the great market of Cheapside. Urswicke had arrived in London the previous day but kept himself discreetly away from either The Wyvern’s Nest or Sir Humphrey’s riverside mansion. The clerk knew he would see his mistress in good time but that had to wait. Other pressing business demanded his attention, not least the urgent messages he carried in his courier’s pouch from Edward of York and his two brothers.
The noise and smells of Cheapside seeped through the window, the perfumed fragrances mingling with the fetid stench from the slaughter sheds. He rose, crossed and opened the small door window peering down at the crowd thronging about, a sea of constantly shifting colour and noise. Urswicke, on his walk to the Guildhall, had also caught the tension, a growing fear of the impending storm gathering to the south of the city. Rumours were flooding through London that the men of Kent were now in Southwark, whilst Fauconberg’s war cogs, armed with culverin and cannon, would unleash a hail of fire against the north bank of the Thames. As if to express this growing tension and mounting hysteria, a travelling chanteur, perched on his box, bellowed a warning in a powerful, carrying voice.
‘The waves of death will surge about us,
The torrents of destruction shall overwhelm us,
The snares of the grave shall entangle us,
The fear of death confront us.
‘Citizens of London,’ the chanteur continued, ‘fire and brimstone will rain down on this city. A sea of flame sweep through your dwellings. On your knees, and prepare yourself by prayer and fasting against the day of the great slaughter.’ The chanteur immediately broke off as a group of city men-at-arms surged through the crowd to arrest him, but the chanteur picked up his box and ran, still shouting his chilling warnings.
‘Dire indeed.’ Urswicke spun around; his father had entered the chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. Thomas Urswicke, Recorder of London, pointed down to his soft, wool-edged buskins. ‘I have always been silent, soft-footed.’
‘A necessary talent,’ Christopher replied, ‘for when you slipped down the stairs to the servant maids’ quarters.’
‘Now, now.’ Thomas Urswicke’s smooth, jovial face creased into a knowing grin, his sharp green eyes bright with life, his mouth twisted into that merry smile which Christopher knew was a mask for a mind that teemed like a box of worms and a heart full of lechery and deceit. Thomas Urswicke scratched his thinning blond hair and adjusted his gold-threaded guild robe. He fingered the silver chain of office around his neck, the other hand thrust through the ornamented swordbelt with its costly copper stitching and embroidered dagger scabbard. Nervous gestures! Christopher idly wondered if his father had been tumbling some wench in one of the many deserted enclaves of the Guildhall.
‘Well.’ The Recorder tried to assert himself, stretching out a hand. Christopher ignored this; he undid his chancery satchel, took out the sealed documents and handed them over. His father, mood all changed, snatched these, muttering to himself as he kissed and broke the seals. He read quickly, lips mouthing the words: he glanced up, staring at Christopher as if seeing him for the first time.
‘Good news out of Tewkesbury.’ The Recorder straightened up and preened himself. ‘His Grace the King and his beloved brothers put great trust in me: these messages hint that I may be dubbed a knight.’
‘For what?’
‘For holding this city against rebels and traitors. I am glad to see,’ his father added archly, ‘that you have come to your senses. You may pretend to work for the Beaufort bitch but my Lord of Clarence says you did great work in capturing the Angevin she-wolf and her whelp.’ The Recorder sat down in his chair. ‘The messages talk of a desire to impose order, to bring the violence to an end.’ He tapped the documents. ‘According to these, the killings at Tewkesbury included other victims. Two lay brothers were found mauled and eaten by hogs. Abbot Strensham is furious. Do you know anything about such killings?’
‘How could I? The armies of both York and Lancaster contain professional killers, men of blood; mercenaries who fear neither God nor man. Father, we live in a time of war! Murder, treason and betrayal prowl the roads of this kingdom like starving, rabid dogs.’
‘Aye, and talking of prowling the roads, so do traitors. We have information that Lancastrian rebels may well slip in and out of the city to foreign parts. Some of this information hints that your mistress harbours outlaws, fleeing Lancastrians—’
‘Such as?’
‘We don’t know. Just hints that her own son, together with her traitorous kinsman, Jasper Tudor, might be amongst those she actively harbours and protects.’
‘Henry Tudor!’ Urswicke exclaimed. ‘Never! He and his uncle shelter behind the fastness of Pembroke. Who gives you such information?’
‘Anonymously,’ his father replied. ‘In the entrance to the Guildhall you must have seen the two lions carved out of wood, heavy statues, their mouths open in a roar. Citizens, good honest citizens, are encouraged, indeed exhorted on their allegiance to the Crown, to give any information they learn about the whereabouts and doings of traitors, malefactors, outlaws, whatever their status or station. Of course most of the intelligence is given without seal or signature. This system is valuable, especially when allegations are laid against a Beaufort: that she shelters traitors, even if these be her own son and kinsman.’
The Recorder seized the blackjack of morning ale on the table before him and drank noisily before offering it across to his son. Christopher just shook his head as he tried to school his features and curb the agitation curdling in his stomach. ‘And you believe all this?’
‘Yes, Christopher, I do. The Beaufort bitch certainly acts mysteriously. I myself have ordered her to be watched most carefully and, from personal observation, since her return to this city, she acts in a highly suspicious fashion. I went hunting for her but lost my quarry. Now you are back in the city, such a pursuit should be your prime duty.’ The Recorder waved a hand. ‘The Beauforts are spent. Nevertheless, my Lord of Clarence wants you and me to be in at the kill, the utter destruction of that damnable family. However,’ the Recorder leaned across the table, eyes all excited, ‘we must also prove our loyalty and deal with other problems which beset us. The Bastard of Fauconberg has landed in Kent and sweeps towards the city. He leads seasoned troops from the garrison at Calais, men harnessed for war, well furnished with horses, weaponry and cannon. Fauconberg styles himself “captain and leader and liege lord to King Henry’s people in Kent”. Accordingly, Fauconberg demands to be allowed safe passage through the city so he can seek out and destroy – and these are his own treasonable words – the usurper Edward of York and his ilk.’
‘And the city’s response?’
‘Stockton our mayor and myself have rejected Fauconberg and all his works. We have informed him that the Lancastrian generals Warwick, and his brother the Marquess of Montague, were slain at Barnet; their corpses lie exposed in St Paul’s. We have also sent Fauconberg a second letter proclaiming our King’s great victory at Tewkesbury. And so, my son,’ Christopher caught the sarcasm in his father’s voice, ‘we have tasks to complete.’ He rose, came round the table, placing a hand on Christopher’s shoulder, leaning down so close that Christopher could smell the ale on his father’s breath. ‘The hurling time is here, Christopher. Stay close to me and our family will rise like the evening star. Keep the Beaufort woman under close watch and, at the appropriate time, betray her. Lancaster is finished, yes?’
Christopher nodded and rose quickly to his feet so his father had to withdraw his hand. ‘I swear,’ Christopher held his father’s gaze, ‘that at the appropriate time, I shall betray the usurper.’
‘Good, good. Now to these seditious commotions …’
For the next week, Urswicke busied himself around London, ostensibly at his father’s behest, taking messages to Earl Rivers
and other Yorkist commanders. Secretly, Urswicke kept a sharp eye on the quaysides and realised that for the moment it was nigh impossible for anyone to steal out of London.
Fauconberg eventually emerged but his first assault was paltry. One of his war cogs fired against an especially fortified gate at the Southwark end of London Bridge, whilst a barge, packed with his soldiers, set fire to some houses close by. Both attacks were easily beaten off. What secretly impressed Urswicke was the work of his father and other Yorkist leaders such as Lord Dudley, Earl Rivers and Mayor Stockton. They had prepared hastily yet greatly improved the city’s defences. The gates at both ends of London Bridge had been strongly reinforced with bristling bulwarks. At the same time, the entire north bank of the Thames was being fortified from the Tower right up to Castle Baynard, with a barricade of wine pipes filled with sand and gravel, on which cannon, trebuchets and culverin were positioned so as to sweep the river approaches with a veritable firestorm.
Despite the emerging crisis, being busy on this or that task proved to be Urswicke’s best defence and protection. He acted the bustling retainer though he realised he was being watched. In his journeys around the city he would stop to eat and drink in a variety of taverns or alehouses and concluded that he was being followed by different people at different times in various places. A swift glance around a taproom and he would search out an individual on his own, always busy on something; be it fixing a scabbard, cleaning a boot or sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Such people always made the same mistake. Urswicke would rise and cross to the counter or jake’s room and the watcher would also make to move.
For the rest, Urswicke lodged at The Sunne in Splendour in Queenhithe ward with Mauclerc and the Three Kings. They had returned with him into the city, hiring chambers at this spacious, majestic tavern. Apparently its owner Minehost Tiptree was a former member of Clarence’s household. The landlord intrigued Urswicke; a bland-faced, balding man, thin as a beanpole. He seemed gushing and welcoming, but Urswicke sensed the taverner’s deep unease. On the one hand he was patronised by the most powerful lord in the kingdom, yet Urswicke would catch Tiptree staring at Mauclerc with a barely concealed disdain. Urswicke was also intrigued by what the Three Kings were actually doing, his curiosity sharpened even further by the secrecy surrounding their chancery chamber; this was always closely guarded by one of the Three Kings and Urswicke was rarely invited to enter. He also noticed how the tavern was visited by strangers dressed in the brown and blue garb of what Urswicke reckoned to be that of an obscure order of friars. These mysterious figures, hooded and masked, would usher the occasional visitor, similarly cloaked and cowled, into the tavern and up to the chancery chamber, where they might stay for hours, before being just as quietly taken away. Urswicke was tempted to eavesdrop or even send messages about it to the Countess Margaret: in the end he decided not to give Mauclerc any grounds for suspicion, as Christopher was certain that those who prowled behind him in the city were in the pay of Clarence’s devious henchman. Mauclerc wanted to be certain of him so Urswicke decided he would wait for the countess to approach him.