by Paul Doherty
He paused as Thomas Urswicke drew his dagger and pressed the tip under Ragwort’s chin. ‘If you are lying,’ he grated, ‘you will suffer the consequences.’
‘Let us find out.’ Mauclerc strode swiftly to the door and shouted orders to his retainers thronging outside. He turned. ‘Master Thomas, you are with us?’
‘As always.’
The Recorder beckoned at Christopher and ordered two men-at-arms, standing guard just within the doorway, to take Ragwort and Henbane into custody. ‘You,’ the Recorder pointed at the two beggars, ‘will come with us.’
Mauclerc came hurrying back. ‘I have sent urgent messages,’ he declared, ‘to the royal cog of war, The Morning Star, moored in port, to sail down to Queenhithe. It is to keep The Galicia under strict scrutiny and, if necessary, make sure it does not slip its moorings. We also have men-at-arms and hobelars assembling. Come, Come.’ Mauclerc snapped his fingers. ‘We will seize and search the Breton ship.’
A short while later Mauclerc led the Urswickes, the two beggars and a phalanx of armed men, both retainers and city liveries, out of the Guildhall gates. They pushed their way through the morning crowd, the soldiers clearing the path in front of them with spears, halberds and drawn swords. The air was cool, a faint river mist still curled around the stalls being set up for a new day’s trading. Chapel bells clanged their summons to morning mass. Trumpets, horns and bagpipes wailed as bailiffs led the captive roisterers, night-walkers and other violaters of the King’s peace down to the stocks, thews and pillories. Every one scattered at their approach. The streets, alleys and runnels leading down to the river swiftly emptied as the dark-dwellers slunk back into their dens and mumpers’ castles. A deathly stillness greeted Mauclerc’s war band. The Yorkist victories, as well as the abrupt and humiliating retreat of Fauconberg along with other rebels, had imposed a watchful peace over the city. The Guildhall had issued proclamation after proclamation how any disturbance would be regarded as treason against both Crown and city.
They eventually reached Queenhithe; the quayside was awash with the guts and heads of fish netted earlier in the day. These turned the ground underfoot greasy and slippery, whilst the air reeked of fire, brine and other more fetid odours. A sharp breeze tugged at their cloaks. Mauclerc shouted and pointed to the great war cog, The Morning Star, making its way out to mid-river before it turned and drew closer to the quayside. The Galicia had already cleared its berth and was ready to sail when Mauclerc ordered one of his soldiers to blow three blasts on a powerful hunting horn. Saveraux, now aware of the armed cohort on the quayside, as well as The Morning Star bearing down fast, immediately hove to. Sails were quickly reefed and the Breton brought his cog back along the quayside. The royal warship followed, drawing so close that The Galicia could only leave with its permission. A great deal of shouting ensued. The Recorder lifted his warrants to display their seals whilst a herald shouted that Saveraux’s ship could only sail with permission of both Crown and city.
At last the Breton cog was fully berthed. A section of side rails were moved and a gangplank lowered. Christopher Urswicke led the charge across this, the soldiers spilling out and, following Mauclerc’s orders, immediately broke into the small captain’s cabin beneath the stern whilst the Recorder demanded to see the cog’s licences, warrants and manifests. Screaming and gesticulating how, despite the fact that he was in an English harbour, Saveraux protested that he was a Breton and that both he and his ship were under the direct protection of Duke Francis of Brittany. He shouted how he would, as soon as he reached Nantes or La Rochelle, lodge the most serious complaint. Saveraux gabbled on, only to fall silent as Mauclerc lifted the point of his sword to only a few inches from the Breton’s face.
‘We need to see your muster rolls and other documentation,’ Mauclerc insisted. ‘What is your cargo, what does your manifest say? And I want them now. Come on, come on.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Give me the muster roll. Better still, I want the entire ship’s company here on the main deck. Christopher,’ Mauclerc gestured at Saveraux, ‘show him the reason for our visit.’
Urswicke sheathed his sword and dragged Ragwort and Henbane across the deck, holding each by the arm. He pushed these towards the Breton who just turned and neatly spat on the deck between them. He was about to turn away.
‘This precious pair,’ Urswicke declared, ‘could lead to your arrest whilst your cog and all it holds would be impounded.’
Saveraux walked forward.
‘Tell him!’ Urswicke yelled, shaking both beggars vigorously. ‘Tell him what you saw.’
Ragwort repeated their story. Saveraux would have lunged at him if Christopher and one of the men-at-arms had not intervened, pushing the two beggars out of the way. Saveraux just shook his head, spitting dangerously close to Urswicke’s boots.
‘I know of no such visitors,’ he protested. ‘No well-garbed young man has been brought onto this cog.’ Again he spat. ‘I carry bales of English wool to Dordrecht in Hainault and more for the Staple at Calais. Now search my ship, question my crew. I tell the truth.’
Christopher shoved the beggars away and watched his father and Mauclerc organise a most thorough search of the hold, its supplies, cargo and weapon store. Nothing was found. The ship’s crew was mustered. Each man declared his name and origin, which the Recorder carefully compared with what was entered on the muster roll. At last the search and questioning drew to a close. Saveraux, now protesting his innocence, and quoting the trade treaties between Duke Francis and the English Crown, shouted that he would lodge the most serious complaint. He and his ship were Bretons. If this violation of their rights continued, Duke Francis would surely retaliate against English ships and merchants. Mauclerc and the Recorder had no choice but to agree. A trumpeter blew a blast whilst the herald shouted across the water to the captain of The Morning Star that The Galicia now had permission to sail.
‘And what about these,’ Saveraux pointed to Ragwort and Henbane, ‘the source of all this nonsense?’
‘Oh yes,’ Christopher retorted swiftly, drawing a leather club out of his warbelt. He strode across the deck and began to beat both beggars until they fell to their knees, hands out, crying for mercy. Christopher ended his tirade by giving both unfortunates a vigorous kick and throwing the leather club down at Saveraux’s feet.
‘Take these two nithings down river, as far as you can. Leave them on a sandbank. The water there is shallow enough and, if they want, they can clamber ashore and walk back to whatever midden heap they crawled from.’
Saveraux needed no second bidding. He grasped both beggars, throwing them roughly down into the black, stinking hold, shouting how they would receive further beatings before they left his ship. Both Mauclerc and Urswicke’s father had now lost interest in the proceedings and led their cohort back down the gangplank. Christopher followed and, without a backward glance, strode across the cobbles and into the tangle of alleyways which ran from Queenhithe up into the city.
Later that day, when the Vesper bells clanged across the city and the beacon lights flared in the church steeples, Christopher Urswicke sat in a flower arbour at The Lamb of God, a spacious, stately tavern overlooking Cheapside. Christopher watched the shadows of the massive oak trees creep across the well-tended grass, the first fingers of darkness beginning to curl around the flower beds and herb pots. A small fountain, carved in the shape of a pelican striking its breast, tinkled and glittered. Somewhere in the tavern a casement window hung open and the soft, sweet sound of a lutist playing a lullaby drifted out into the velvet darkness. Urswicke half closed his eyes as he stared into the gathering dark. He pretended he was in his father’s garden and his mother, bright faced and busy, would come out through the kitchen door, humming some soft song, hurrying to sit by him on the turf seat. She would put an arm around him and talk about the little people, magical creatures who lived in a small cave at the far end of the garden. Urswicke blinked away the tears as he let himself go gently back into the past, well away from the
terrors of the day with all its ever-present dangers. Tomorrow would be different. He must sleep well tonight and prepare. The news was all over the city. Edward of York was advancing in full splendour on London.
‘Christopher, Christopher?’ Urswicke startled, immediately stretching out for the warbelt on the bench beside him. ‘Christopher, it’s me.’ Urswicke peered through the gathering murk at the Countess Margaret with her constant shadow Reginald Bray.
‘Christopher?’
Bray gestured towards the tavern. ‘You hired a chamber?’
‘Aye.’ Urswicke got to his feet. ‘A well-sealed room furnished with all we need.’
‘Good, good.’ Margaret looked up at the sky. ‘Thanks to you, Christopher, my son and my kinsman Jasper are now safely on the Narrow Seas.’
Christopher mockingly bowed.
‘My Lady, they will be bruised and hurt after the beating I gave them. But those who hunted your son now believe that The Galicia simply carried away two beggars to be punished even further. I must admit,’ Urswicke grinned, ‘I prepared them well, blotched and stained, clad in ragged clothes. Lord Jasper is skilled in accents whilst young Henry simply had to act the sharp-eyed mute.’
‘It was a risk,’ Bray countered.
‘A calculated one, I agree, but neither Mauclerc nor my father has ever seen Jasper Tudor or the young Henry. No accurate description of either of them is available. I set a trap and my father walked into it without a second thought. No one doubted my story, as I have been a constant source of good intelligence. Why should I be wrong about those two?’ He paused, chewing the corner of his lip. ‘Ah well, now they are out of harm’s way. Saveraux will see they are safely delivered. Ours was a most cunning and subtle device. I have seen it used before to hide someone or something in full view. One day, not now but in the future, when Fickle Fortune gives her wheel another spin, I would love to tell my father the full truth behind what happened.’
‘In the meantime,’ Margaret declared, ‘Edward of York is about to enter London and we must prepare, plot and plan. We must also use the old King’s writ to move around this city – soon, I suspect, such a writ will be worth nothing!’
The Yorkist lords swept into London on the morning of 24 May. Edward met the mayor and leading citizens of the city in the meadowlands between Islington and Shoreditch. He received their assurances that his leading city was completely free of all rebels whilst those captured were now no more, their severed heads and steaming quarters being despatched to hang above the city gates or along the railings of London Bridge. The Yorkist King responded to such loyalty by knighting from horseback his fervent supporters in the city, including Thomas Urswicke. Once the ceremony was completed, the royal herald proclaimed they would now advance into London, processing to St Paul’s, where His Grace the King could view the naked corpses of his enemies, Warwick and the others. Trumpets and clarions blew. Standards and banners were unfurled. Shouted proclamations issued as the cortège, including three dukes and all the leading barons of the kingdom, solemnly wound their way into the city. Marshalled behind the royal party were others, including Countess Margaret, since she was a Beaufort as well as the wife of a Yorkist lord. She had been summoned to trail behind the King’s cortège, along with other leading ladies of the court.
During the initial ceremonies Margaret simply sat patiently on a palfrey. She had done her best to honour the occasion, being garbed in a gown of blue and gold and wearing a wimpled headdress of the same colour and texture. She had been informed that the procession would take hours so she wore elegant leather riding boots and grasped the reins of her gentle-eyed mount, her hands protected by the softest, doeskin gloves. All around her were others, including Bray and Urswicke, suitably apparelled and well horsed. Margaret did her best to steel herself against this show of Yorkist glory and triumph. She had to accept this was harvest time, the sowing had been bloody and so would the reaping. She had to remain impassive and act the part. As the royal procession was organised, the countess became more intrigued by Edward’s principal captive, the fallen Queen Margaret of Anjou. The Angevin, dressed in a simple red gown which covered her from neck to bare, soiled feet, sat on the bench of a prison cart pulled by two huge dray horses, their hogged manes and plaited tails garlanded with purple ribbons. The Angevin sat, hands on her knees, staring dully into the main distance, her lips moving soundlessly. Margaret couldn’t decide if the fallen Queen was praying, talking to herself or humming a tune: she looked a pathetic sight, her once-golden hair faded and streaked with white; the former Queen seemed like some felon being taken from Newgate to the gibbet over Tyburn Stream. The prison cart stood alongside the royal cortège. Few gave the former Queen a second glance, even the crowds who swirled in a sea of colour and a mixture of smells, ignored this pathetic relic of former glory. Margaret studied the Angevin and decided to make good use of her presence in London.
The rest of that day Margaret played out the role assigned to her. The royal procession swept through the city to be greeted ecstatically. The citizens, encouraged by Edward of York’s agents and gang-leaders, welcomed the victor of Tewkesbury back into London. White silk and linen cloths hung from the open casement windows of the mansions along Cheapside. Carpets, cloths of gold, sheets of Rennes linen, coverlets and counterpanes of the richest material were draped over the various city crosses and statues. Fountains and conduits disgorged free wine, ale, beer and different kinds of fruit drinks. The stalls of Cheapside groaned under great platters of food piled high. City bailiffs, armed with clubs, stood on guard against the legion of beggars who watched all this with glittering eyes and empty bellies. At last the royal procession wound its way back into the Tower, preceded by the fallen Queen who had acted stoically throughout this long and public humiliation. At the Lion Gate, the yawning, hollowed entrance to the fortress, the procession broke up. Most of the courtiers streamed back into the city to participate in the festivities, feasting and frivolities which would last into the early hours.
Countess Margaret noticed how the King and his two brothers ignored this; they seemed unwilling to leave immediately but rode up the dark, sinister gullies which cut through that formidable fortress into the great bailey before the soaring White Tower, freshly painted to welcome York’s return. Countess Margaret and her henchmen followed Edward and his brothers. Eventually the royal party, together with chosen henchmen such as Mauclerc, Hastings and others, adjourned to the King’s apartments, close to the chapel of St John on the second gallery of the White Tower. The Angevin Queen was handed over to the constable, the grim-faced John Dudley. He ignored her cry that once he had fought for Lancaster, and ordered her to be taken across to be lodged in the Wakefield, the same tower which housed her husband.
Countess Margaret decided to bide her time. The evening was warm and balmy. The setting sun, still strong, bathed the bailey in a welcoming light. Margaret sat down on a stone bench close to the Chapel of St Peter in Chains, watching the Tower people streaming backwards and forwards, though she noticed they were kept well away from the steps of the White Tower, closely guarded by a phalanx of archers, men-at-arms and knight bannerets. Margaret posed, all composed, listening to the cattle lowing and the pigs screeching as they were herded up to slaughter pens. She caught the tang of cooking from the Tower kitchens, which mixed with the different smells from the stables and outhouses around the bailey. She watched a group of women busy at the wells, washing clothes as well as pots and pans from the buttery. Margaret glanced over her shoulder at Bray and Urswicke who stood deep in conversation. She invited them over to sit either side of her.
‘What now, Mistress?’ Bray demanded.
‘What now, sir?’ She mocked back. ‘What were you discussing?’
‘The traitor, Mistress, we have a traitor in the household,’ Bray insisted. ‘As you know, I suspected Christopher, I even began to suspect myself. Had I made some hideous mistake? But now,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I have reflected and so has my friend here. Looki
ng back at what has happened, reflecting on past events, there is no doubt that our enemies, although they did not know for certain, suspected something very important, crucial to our cause, was happening. Our visits to The Wyvern’s Nest were necessary but our secret, even furtive movements in going backwards and forwards from there deeply agitated our opponents. Christopher and I believe that someone in our household knew that we were fervently involved in a matter vital to the Lancastrian house. Such a traitor did not know the details but they conveyed their suspicions to the Recorder and the likes of Mauclerc.’ Bray paused. ‘In a word, Mistress, we suspect Owain and Oswina, it must be them …’
‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ Margaret leaned forward, peering through the gathering murk. ‘Surely not, surely not,’ she half whispered. ‘I too had my suspicions, I too have reflected, yet Owain and Oswina are like kin. We have the blood-tie between us. Surely they would not play the Judas? No, no,’ she shook her head, ‘no,’ she whispered, ‘not with me, surely?’ Margaret held up her hands, forefingers entwined. ‘Owain and Oswina are twins; they are like that, bound together. If the sister goes out of our house, the brother always accompanies her. Yet when I made my own enquiries, I understand the twins never left Sir Humphrey’s mansion, whilst no strangers were seen approaching them or, indeed, any of my household. So …’ She paused as Sir John Dudley came down the steps out of the White Tower. Margaret rose and walked swiftly towards him.