by Paul Doherty
On 14 May 1471, with fresh rumours sweeping the city, Urswicke decided that the countess must have moved to contact him. He gave his pursuers the slip and made his way down to St Peter’s-at-the-Cross in Cheap, an ancient church, its lancet windows so narrow the nave was cloaked in perpetual darkness. Urswicke, silent as a ghost, crept up the transept to the statue of St Peter where he glimpsed the small scroll pushed into a wall niche directly behind the statue. He took this out, unrolled it and noticed the dates, 9th, 12th, 14th. Urswicke slipped the scrap of parchment into his belt wallet and strode out of the church. He walked swiftly, turning and twisting along the needle-thin alleyways like a hare in a cornfield. At last Urswicke reached the The Wyvern’s Nest, where Hempen immediately took him down the cellar steps, along the tunnel into the house opposite. Countess Margaret, Bray, Jasper Tudor and the young Henry were breaking their fast in the solar. Urswicke was warmly greeted, hands clasped, and then Urswicke sat down, staring hard at Margaret’s young son.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Bray followed Urswicke’s gaze, ‘it’s difficult, nigh impossible to get out of the city.’ Bray stared challengingly at Urswicke whom he did not fully trust.
‘It’s made even more difficult,’ Margaret declared, ‘because you Christopher, myself and Reginald are followed, inspected and scrutinised. To be out on the streets is to be noticed. If we take young Henry into London, we would all be seized. Yet,’ Margaret tried to keep her voice from turning tremulous, ‘we cannot stay here. We may have a spy, a traitor in our own household who busily searches out our secrets.’ Margaret let her worry hang like a noose in the air. Young Henry glanced nervously at his uncle, who grasped him by the shoulder and pressed reassuringly, whispering in Welsh. Urswicke studied Jasper Tudor, the Welsh lord’s unshaven face and worn clothing. Tudor had disguised both himself and young Henry very cleverly and, as he stared at them, an idea took root, a subtle plot which Urswicke was sure he could bring to fruition.
‘You are accepted by Mauclerc and his master the Earl of Clarence?’ Margaret broke into his thoughts. ‘He thinks you have done good work for the House of York?’
‘Yes, I informed him about the agreement we tried to reach with Wenlock. I also gave Clarence precious information about the Angevin she-wolf and her son. The messages delivered to Wenlock were in a cipher: he replied in kind about the whereabouts of Margaret of Anjou.’ Urswicke ignored Jasper Tudor’s sharp intake of breath.
‘Do not be shocked or surprised, kinsman,’ Margaret retorted. ‘We had to clear the field. The Angevin has had her day in the sun: her time and that of her arrogant, bloodthirsty son are over. Now,’ Margaret spread her hands, ‘this war has raged for over sixteen years not only in this kingdom but in France, the Low Countries and along the Narrow Seas.’ She pushed back the platters on the table before her. ‘Much of the same,’ she continued, ‘this war could have gone on for ever and ever Amen. Margaret of Anjou could have escaped from Tewkesbury and fled abroad with her son to continue this tedious, wearisome struggle. More invasions, armies marching, days of slaughter, of blood and mayhem: this will not happen now. The Sun of York is in its ascendency. However, one day young Henry here, and those who accept him, will emerge from the shadows. We must prepare for that. We must nurse and nurture our opposition.’
‘And the old King?’ Jasper Tudor abruptly paused as Margaret banged the table with the flat of her hand.
‘God forgive me, God forgive us,’ she retorted, ‘but the old King’s day is also finished. Edward of York will soon be in London and any further threat to his rule will be ruthlessly destroyed. The old King will die of some sickness or a fall, or by a cause known only to God, but Henry will certainly die. We must make sure that his one and only legitimate heir,’ she pointed at her son, ‘escapes to plot his return to seize what is rightfully his.’
‘And how do we do that?’ Jasper paused at a clatter on the stairs outside and Hempen burst into the chamber.
‘The searchers!’ Margaret exclaimed, springing to her feet.
‘No, it’s Saveraux, master of the Breton cog The Galicia. He’s in the tavern.’
‘Bring him up,’ Margaret ordered.
‘Do you trust him?’ Bray demanded.
‘With my life,’ Margaret snapped, then she smiled up at Bray. ‘Reginald, we need to trust the few we really trust and we must act on that trust. Saveraux’s sons and two brothers were hanged on Flamborough Head by Richard of York, Edward’s father. They were executed on a special gallows which soared black against the sky. York falsely accused them of piracy. They were tried but given no opportunity to reply. Sentence was imposed and immediately carried out. Now Saveraux is a blessing, a Celt like you, Jasper: he has invoked the blood feud and taken the blood oath. He is the mortal enemy of Edward of York and all his kin. So yes, I trust him, Master Hempen, show him up.’
Saveraux was a balding, bulbous-eyed, burly mariner who stank of fish, tar and oil. He was garbed in dark-brown leather jacket and leggings with thick-soled, salt-encrusted sea boots. He swaggered into the room, thumbs thrust under his warbelt which sported a sword and two daggers. He bowed to Margaret, nodded at the rest and stood scratching his chin.
‘Valuable information, my Lady, you may use it as you wish. But first let me tell you. I am moving The Galicia further down river, close to the approaches to the estuary.’
‘Why?’
Saveraux grinned. ‘Ah, that’s my valuable information. Fauconberg and his allies are about to launch a surprise attack on the city. The assault will be two pronged. Fauconberg is to occupy St George’s Fields, that great open space between Lambeth and Southwark. He intends to range cannon and culverin along the riverbank opposite the city. He hopes to invade the city from the south whilst another host of rebels will force the northern defences to break through into Aldgate and Bishopsgate.’
‘And your source for this?’ Bray demanded.
‘Wars come and go,’ Saveraux retorted, ‘but the sea remains. We mariners are a brotherhood with loyalties which have nothing to do with York, Lancaster or anybody else. To cut to the quick, one of Fauconberg’s captains, a mercenary in charge of a war barge, came to warn me to move both my ship and my crew.’
‘I believe you.’ Margaret snapped her fingers at Urswicke. ‘Christopher, swift as you can. Hasten to the Guildhall, tell your beloved father what you have learnt here. Do not betray your source but depict yourself, yet again, as a stalwart for the House of York.’
Urswicke did so. He reached the Guildhall safely where his father gave him a warm welcome. He listened carefully to Christopher’s news and almost did a jig of joy. He summoned his clerks and, with Christopher lounging in a chair, despatched messages to Clarence and the other Yorkist commanders. Urswicke decided to stay with his father and learn as much as he could. He wondered about Saveraux’s warning, yet the Breton captain was soon proved correct. Fauconberg’s attack on the city was swift and savage. He secretly transported a force across the Thames to capture and hold both Aldgate and Bishopsgate so he and his henchmen could use these gateways to funnel more troops into the city. The attacks were led by two of Fauconberg’s principal captains, Bardolph and Quintain.
Urswicke was despatched with messages to the Yorkist captain responsible for defending both of these city gates. The clerk, armed with sword and dagger, picked his way through the streets. As he approached the once-bustling towered gateways, Urswicke smelt the burning and glimpsed black columns of smoke streaming up against the clear summer sky. Many citizens had fled. The streets were deserted, though littered with the detritus of battle. Apparently the outworks of Aldgate had been forced, the fighting so savage and bitter, they’d been forced to drop the heavy portcullis on both defender and attacker. About six of the latter had been trapped inside the walls, caught and summarily executed, their headless cadavers impaled upside down on the approaches to the city gate.
The area around the defences was strewn with the dead. Corpses sprawled everywhere; faces an
d heads smashed, bellies ripped open, bones shattered, dreadful wounds caused by handguns and sharp arrow-storms delivered at close quarter. Smoke billowed to obscure the view so Urswicke simply followed the raucous din of battle. The fog of powder and fire parted and Urswicke glimpsed his father in sallet and mailed jerkin mounting a warhorse in preparation to lead a counter-attack. The destrier was caparisoned for battle, eager to charge, its sharp hooves impatiently scraping the cobbles. Around the Recorder milled men-at-arms and archers wearing the city livery. Urswicke glimpsed his son and pointed his sword at him, lifting the visor which protected his mouth.
‘We will drive them back!’ he roared. ‘Christopher, go down to the bridge, see what is happening there. For the rest …’
Christopher’s father lifted his sword and the soldiers around him shouted their approval. The entrance to Aldgate was cleared and the Recorder and his troops surged through. One of the men-at-arms, left behind because of wounds to his arms and face, informed Christopher that the rebels were in full retreat, falling back on St Botolph’s Church. Urswicke thanked him, turned away, and hurried down towards the Tower, threading the streets where makeshift barricades, bulwarks and bastions had been hastily assembled. Stout cords and chains had been dragged across the streets and alleyways to impede the enemy. Urswicke was also warned to be wary of the caltrops strewn across the cobbles; sharp, cruel traps to bring down both man and beast.
Using the warrants his father and Mauclerc had provided, Urswicke safely negotiated his passage. He pushed his way through the press of city militia as well as the mob, a swarm of cutpurses and thieves who’d crawled out of their filthy dens to see what mischief could be had. As was usual during any unrest in the city, foreigners were singled out for punishment. Makeshift gallows set up at street corners were decorated with the dirt-strewn, twisting corpses of Flemish prostitutes seized from the nearby brothels; mouldy, mildewed mansions which had been sacked and put to the torch. More respectable foreigners had flooded into the churches to seek sanctuary or hidden in the houses of merchant friends along Cheapside.
Urswicke eventually reached the bridge where city troops massed under their captains, a moving horde of heavily armoured men, packing the approaches to the river. Engineers pushed their bombards, culverins and cannons down towards the Thames. Dirty-faced street urchins who served as powder monkeys for the engineers, scampered around the huge war carts. Stacks of corpses killed in the furious affray which had raged across the bridge ranged two yards high, though now it was all over. The rebels had seized the first gateway on the Southwark side and burned a number of houses. Urswicke, however, soon realised that Fauconberg’s troops had been severely defeated, beaten back by the bridge defenders as well as city troops who had crossed the Thames by barge and were now threatening to encircle the rebels. The attack was over and Urswicke realised it was time to rejoin the countess …
By 18 May, the rebels had fled the city. Yorkist forces, together with the levies raised in the city, pursued the rebels deep into Essex and Kent. Urswicke decided to act. He begged Saveraux to bring The Galicia to Queenhithe, berth it there and act as normally as possible. Urswicke personally checked the Breton cog, a large, deep-bellied two-masted ship with a lofty stern and prow. Once he was sure The Galicia was safely berthed in Queenhithe, Urswicke asked the countess to hold an urgent meeting of her small council. They all gathered in the solar of the narrow house opposite The Wyvern’s Nest. Night was falling, the only light being that from candles and flickering lanterns. Once assembled, Urswicke described his plan, adding that they had to act now. Saveraux and his ship were ready, whilst Edward of York and his entire host would soon be in the city. Once he arrived, an even closer guard and watch would be imposed over the quaysides, whilst the length and breadth of the river and all its ports would be ruled by martial law, and that included the likes of Saveraux, his ship as well as other foreign cogs.
The Breton loudly agreed with Urswicke, adding that he would have to flee before any attempt was made to detain him. Bray, ever cautious, argued heatedly for doing nothing, but Urswicke, his mind and wits sharp as a razor, countered that. He argued that the difficulties raised were nothing compared to the real danger of following any other path. If Lord Jasper and young Henry fled back to Wales, Urswicke declared, there was a strong possibility of being captured and summarily dealt with. A savage, swift death was all they could expect in some desolate spinney or lonely wood. Even if they reached Pembroke safely, what then?
Urswicke described how Edward of York was already laying siege to the castle by land and sea. How could Lord Jasper and the prince enter the castle, and would they be really safe there? If they stayed in London, the net would tighten. Sooner or later they would make a mistake, the danger being all the sharper if there truly was a traitor in the countess’s household. Nor must they forget the watchers in the street, the spies swarming everywhere, the sharp and observant street swallows and sparrowhawks. True, the city was a mass of winding, stinking alleyways, but what would happen if Edward of York imposed martial law, sealing off each ward and conducting a house-by-house search?
Urswicke argued long and persuasively. He could tell by her silence that the countess was listening most intently to his suggestion and eventually she agreed, adding that, if this stratagem went awry, they could always devise some other subtle way forward. They were committed. The countess, Lord Jasper Tudor and the now fearful Henry realised there was no better plan. The Yorkist bloodlust was up. Already rumours were seeping in that royal troops were pursuing the rebels into Essex and Kent, inflicting dire punishments on all those who’d taken up arms. Individuals such as Nicholas Faunte, the Mayor of Canterbury who had decided to support Fauconberg, suffered the full penalty for treason, being hanged, drawn and quartered in the market square of his own city. The tarred, torn remnants of his corpse, along with his head poled above the city gates. Urswicke urged Jasper and Henry to prepare themselves by the evening of the following day, adding that he would counsel and advise them on what they must do so as to be ready to depart on 20 May.
Early on the chosen day, Urswicke presented himself in his father’s chamber at the Guildhall. The Recorder, still brimming with glee and good humour at what he described as ‘the city’s great victory against the rebels’, didn’t realise at first the full significance of what his son was telling him. He sat, mouth gaping, and then asked Christopher to repeat what he had said. Urswicke did. He explained how downstairs in the Guildhall parlour were a man and his son, wandering beggars, scavengers along Queenhithe who had glimpsed well-garbed strangers being brought secretly aboard a Breton cog, The Galicia. The Recorder stared down at the tabletop, rubbing his hands, then he lifted his head and smiled at Christopher.
‘We will surely profit from this, my son.’ And, springing to his feet, he called a servant and told Christopher to wait until his good friend, as he described Mauclerc, came striding into the chamber. Clarence’s henchman swaggered in booted and cloaked, a broad warbelt strapped around his waist.
‘Master Christopher,’ he exclaimed, ‘what is this, what is this?’ Urswicke repeated his story and Mauclerc demanded that the beggars, both father and son, be brought up for questioning. Urswicke agreed; going down to the parlour he ushered up the two informants, shaven and shorn, garbed in filthy rags, their bare feet slapping the floor. Urswicke introduced Ragwort and Henbane, father and son, who’d assumed the names of herbs. The beggars spent their lives scavenging backwards and forwards across the quaysides of London, especially Queenhithe, begging for what could be had and desperate for any opportunity to earn a coin or a platter of food. Both Ragwort and Henbane, dancing from foot to foot, filthy faces set in a manic grin which showed yellow, blackening teeth, listened intently. They both nodded vigorously as Urswicke described how they earned a living and, like others of their brotherhood, were paid by him to report anything suspicious.
‘And?’
Thomas Urswicke, summoning up all his authority as Recorder, stro
de round the table and advanced threateningly towards the two beggars, who fell to their knees, hands joined in supplication.
‘And?’ the Recorder repeated. ‘What?’ He crouched down before the beggars. ‘What did you see?’
‘We were collecting pieces of coal which a barge had brought up, Your Magnificence. It was after the present troubles.’ Ragwort was almost gabbling as he placed a hand on his son’s bony shoulder. ‘Henbane here glimpsed it – sharp he is,’ Ragwort continued in a sing-song voice, ‘keen as a knife, even though his hearing and tongue are not what God wants them to be. Anyway,’ Ragwort scratched his son’s balding skull and gently pushed him away, ‘sharp-eyed, he glimpsed two men, well garbed, faces and heads hidden. They were shepherding a youth whose hood fell back, tugged by the river breeze, before he pulled it up again. Perhaps a youth no older than Henbane himself, fourteen to fifteen summers. They pushed him swiftly up onto a Breton ship. We drew closer and watched. We learnt its captain was Saveraux and the cog is called The Galicia. We only saw them for a few heartbeats as they disappeared up the gangplank. We set up careful watch: those strangers, hooded, visored and in a hurry, never came off that ship. Nothing more than that.’ Ragwort sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of a dirty hand. ‘We heard about the proclamations,’ Ragwort’s whining voice stumbled over the words, ‘we glimpsed the watchers, the spies,’ the beggar licked his lips, ‘we’ve also heard of the great reward …’