Dark Queen Rising

by Paul Doherty

  Urswicke had played a prominent part in that and, as Henry’s corpse lay bleeding in St Paul’s, he had watched in quiet amusement the public consternation of their enemies. Eventually, escorted by hobelars carrying glaives, and archers bearing lighted torches and accompanied by friars of all the major orders, the royal corpse had been moved with lavish pomp and ceremony. Psalms were chanted. Thuribles smoked. Candles fluttered as the royal cortège moved upriver to the great abbey of Chertsey, founded by St Erconwald so many centuries earlier.

  The funeral procession had been welcomed by Father Abbot. Once again the corpse lay exposed to public view and, to the fury of Clarence and Mauclerc, once again the corpse began to bleed from the mouth. The news, swifter than a swallow, swept through the abbey and beyond. A procession of monks appeared with cross, candle and thurifer to salute this new martyr in the heavenly court. Father Abbot was shrewd enough to realise he might receive little love from the King about what was happening, but he and his abbey could accrue great profit from the people by proclaiming how their church now housed a saint and martyr. Visions of Chertsey becoming a rival to Becket’s shrine at Canterbury lured the abbot and his community not only to proclaim the great event, but to encourage the faithful who followed the funeral cortège to seek miracles. Soon the nave of the abbey church became packed with the crippled and blind, the legion of beggars who moved in a swarm from one shrine to another in search of a cure. Clarence, urged on by the King, insisted the crisis be settled and that Henry be buried both physically and as a source of future trouble.

  Mauclerc demanded such matters move as swiftly as possible and he had his way. The late King’s requiem mass was celebrated in a cloud of incense, the ringing of bells and the chanting of psalms. Once these were over, Henry’s corpse, hidden in its lead coffin, was then placed in its elm-wood casket, to be buried with the minimum of fuss in the quiet of the church. The monastic community had been forced to agree. The royal remains were then moved down to the crypt. The Three Kings had taken Henry’s corpse out of its casing and laid it on a trestle table. All clothing, shrouds and sheets were removed and the Three Kings had searched the cadaver, affording it little dignity or respect.

  In the flickering candlelight, their shadows dancing against the wall, the three clerks reminded Urswicke of grey-hooded crows pecking at a corpse. During their examination, the Three Kings had been watched by a terrified Longspear, who had been summoned to accompany them from the Tower. The Keeper of the Dead had hoped that once the requiem was finished he could leave, but Mauclerc had detained him. Longspear had been hustled down here to be confronted with the evidence for the so-called miracle: miniature sponges soaked in blood had been cleverly inserted into the corpse’s mouth, tightly wedged between the dead King’s peg-like teeth. The sponges were of the highest quality and, due to the constant movement of the corpse from here to there, the blood would eventually drip, filling the mouth and trickling out through the lips.

  Urswicke knew all about this. The plot had been concocted by the countess and himself. Urswicke, visored and cowled, had met Longspear in a desolate place near the Tower water-gate. Urswicke had offered six pure, freshly minted coins if the Keeper of the Dead agreed to take the sponges and insert them in the mouth of the royal corpse before it was moved to St Paul’s. Longspear had agreed with alacrity, asserting it would cause no harm and simply proclaim the truth that the old King had been foully murdered. Longspear even offered, as official Keeper of the Corpse, to tend to Henry’s face on his journey here and there. He would intervene to maintain the position of the royal head whilst, at the same time, gently squeeze the flesh either side of the mouth to help the blood seep out. He had done this successfully, but now Longspear was to pay the price for his meddling.

  Henry’s corpse had been sheeted and returned to its coffin. The Three Kings and Mauclerc finished slaking their thirst and returned to question Longspear. The suspect sat bound in a high-backed chair, his hands tied to its arms, his ankles lashed by coarse rope and a noose placed around his forehead with a steel rod inserted in the knot; this could be turned so tightly, the flesh ruptured and the pain intensified. Longspear’s mouth was gagged with a filthy rag, the prisoner could only jerk in violent spasms, face all red, eyes bulging. Now and again the rag would be removed. Mauclerc would crouch before the prisoner, taunting him by slurping from a wine goblet before asking him the same question: ‘Who hired you to do this?’ Urswicke felt sorry for the Keeper of the Dead, but there was nothing he could do. Longspear could not answer except gabble that he had been enticed to a meeting with a shadowy figure, a man who hid in the darkness around the water-gate at the Tower. Mauclerc seized on this. If it was the Tower, he asked, then it must be somebody pretending to be of the House of York.

  ‘What was his tongue?’ Mauclerc demanded.

  ‘I believe he was Welsh,’ Longspear blurted out, ‘but I can tell you no more. Perhaps if you free me …’

  Mauclerc answered with a blow to the man’s face; the gag was pushed back and the questioning continued. At last Clarence, who stood lounging against a pillar, arms crossed, stamped a spurred boot, the jingle echoing through the cavernous place.

  ‘Finish it,’ he barked.

  Mauclerc slid behind Longspear; he jerked back the prisoner’s head by the hair and slit the prisoner’s throat from ear to ear, the razor-sharp blade glinting in the torchlight. Longspear shook, gargling on his own blood. He rocked violently in the chair as his lifeblood gushed out before him, then he hung still, head down. The sudden violence was followed by a deep, oppressive silence, broken only by the screech of a night bird hunting above God’s Acre outside. Bats flitted through the lancet window, many of them nested in the crypt, though Urswicke, recalling stories from his childhood, wondered if they were the souls of the damned.

  ‘It is done.’ Clarence gestured at Longspear. ‘Fetch a sack, some stones, bury him in the Thames. As for this …’

  Urswicke watched as Clarence and Mauclerc pulled back the coffin sheets over Henry’s corpse. They then fetched a shabby arrow chest and placed it alongside: lifting the royal corpse, they thrust it in, pushing down the lid.

  ‘That,’ Clarence declared, face all flushed, ‘can join the other bastard in the Thames. In the meantime …’ He snapped his fingers. The Three Kings, busy with Longspear’s cadaver, hastened into the shadows and brought back a second arrow chest. They put this down in the pool of light and lifted the lid. Urswicke caught the foul stench and gagged. One of the Three Kings, Melchior, handed out scented pomanders, beckoning Urswicke across. Urswicke did so and stared down at the mangled remains of some unfortunate: the back of the severed head was smashed in; the rest of the limbs nothing more than a tangled bloody midden heap of human flesh. Urswicke realised that these must be the remains of someone whose head had been severed and his limbs quartered: he had suffered the full, horrific punishment for high treason.

  ‘Edmund Quintain,’ Mauclerc declared. ‘One of Fauconberg’s captains out of Kent, hanged, disembowelled and quartered: his corpse will replace that of the saintly King.’

  And, without further ado, Urswicke was ordered to help him and the Three Kings lift the gruesome mess across to be tossed into the empty royal coffin, as if they were tipping some filthy lay stall into a city dung cart. Urswicke hid his revulsion at this blasphemous desecration, the vicious sacrilege being carried out. He concentrated on other matters. He recalled the precious Holland cloth, the pounds of spices, the pure beeswax used for the royal funeral. The pomp and liturgy surrounding Henry’s corpse, the vigil set up by knights and friars. It had all been brought down to this: squalid desecration in a desolate, dirty crypt. Henry VI had once been crowned King of England and France, the lord of a great Empire. He had assumed the personal insignia of the graceful Swan and Antelope but all of that had been pecked to death by these crows of York. Clarence, in particular, seemed to revel deeply in the degradation being heaped on the dead former King. Urswicke decided he could not sustain
this blasphemy and must bring it to an end. The mortal remains of Edmund Quintain were eventually sealed for burial in the royal casket: no one would even dream of the desecration being perpetrated.

  ‘Why?’ Urswicke demanded abruptly. ‘Why all this?’

  ‘So no miracles can be performed,’ Mauclerc smirked, ‘no special sign from heaven. Anyone who claims to have received such a grace must be an imposter, a rebel, a traitor. Think about it, Christopher. Some cripple who visits Chertsey here and throws away his crutches, dancing about like a fly on a hot plate screaming that he is cured. We’ll know the filthy remains of Edmund Quintain cannot be the cause of such a miraculous event. We will arrest the cripple, put him to the question and discover more about those who lurk in the shadows and encourage such treasonable mummery.’

  Urswicke nodded solemnly. He suspected that was the case and he would certainly inform the countess that this was not a path to follow: her agents in the city must not be drawn in and trapped.

  ‘And the old King’s corpse?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it will be sheeted in its shroud and buried in the Thames. Why?’

  ‘I would advise against that, just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’ Clarence retorted.

  ‘Think, my Lord. Once the corpse goes into the Thames, we have no further control over it. Why not compromise? Bury it quietly, secretly, in God’s Acre here at Chertsey. You never know when such information might be of use. Would you commit the sin of sacrilege? Let us honour the royal corpse and, if circumstances change, we can present ourselves as defenders of the old King’s dignity, when others,’ Urswicke waved a hand, ‘might have wished Henry VI’s mortal remains be scattered to the winds.’ Urswicke held Clarence’s gaze. He watched those cunning eyes, the full lips ever ready to pout in protest. Mauclerc whispered in Clarence’s ear, the Yorkist lord nodded, still staring at Urswicke.

  ‘I like that,’ he whispered. ‘On the one hand we create a false shrine and draw in our enemies like flies to a turd. On the other, if Fortune’s wheel spins, we can blame those on my brother’s council, who argued for the total destruction of Henry VI and all he represented. Christopher, you are within my love.’ Clarence stepped forward and embraced Urswicke in a tang of rich Bordeaux. ‘I accept you as my liege man, Christopher. Be assured of that.’ Clarence then stepped back; snapping his fingers, he pointed at the arrow chest. ‘Have that buried in some desolate part of God’s Acre. Mark the place well so, if we have to, we can return to it. Get rid of the rest, for we are finished here …’

  PART FOUR

  ‘I trust to God that the two dukes of Clarence and Gloucester shall be settled as one by the word of the King.’

  The Paston Letters

  Christopher Urswicke sat on the cushioned stool. He studied the gold-blue and silver tapestry from Arras which adorned the wall above the mantled hearth in the countess’s private chamber at her husband’s mansion overlooking the Thames. No fire had been lit as the weather had turned decisively warm, although outside the light was fading as a rainstorm swept up the Thames. Urswicke stared at the tapestry, which depicted a pelican standing on a gilt-edged chalice, stabbing its breast to draw blood and so feed its young nestling in the bowl beneath: a well-known parable representing Christ giving himself under the appearance of bread and wine in the Eucharist. The four corners of the tapestry were decorated with silver-gold swans, the personal insignia of the House of Stafford. Urswicke heard Countess Margaret sigh and watched his mistress dab her eyes with a small hand cloth, which she then folded neatly and placed on the table beside her.

  ‘Where is Reginald?’ she asked.

  ‘On some business or other,’ Urswicke replied evasively. He had asked Bray to take over his watch whilst he stayed with the old King’s corpse as it was moved from St Paul’s to Chertsey.

  ‘The Lord’s Anointed.’ Margaret pointed to the tapestry. ‘Just as sacred as that emblem, Henry VI was our King, sealed with the holy chrism. He wore the crown of the Confessor, and yet what degradation Clarence and Mauclerc inflicted on his royal corpse.’

  Urswicke nodded. He had reported what had happened at Chertsey, though he refused to divulge some of the more macabre details such as pig bones being mixed amongst the remains of Quintain. Apparently the Kentish captain had been hanged, drawn and quartered on the great cobbled expanse before Newgate, where the slaughterers plied their trade. At the end of the execution, some of the offal lying around must have been mingled with Quintain’s severed limbs.

  ‘They will be punished for that,’ Margaret murmured. ‘Mauclerc, the Three Kings and, of course, that demon in human flesh, George of Clarence.’ She paused. Urswicke was struck by the fierceness of her expression, which had transformed the countess’s usual pale, narrow face into that of some warrior woman intent on battle. Urswicke turned at a knock at the door and Bray slipped into the chamber.

  ‘Well?’ Margaret asked. ‘I know you have been busy on my behalf. You have hinted at that. You have been pursuing the traitor? Have we discovered the truth?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ Bray replied. ‘We have the truth and I have seen the evidence with my own eyes. You told us to hunt the Judas and we did. Mistress, you are confronted with a sea of woes, you pick your way carefully through a tangle of treason and deep deceit.’ Bray pulled a face. ‘All we are doing is making that less dangerous. We remove the lures, the traps and the snares primed to catch us all.’

  ‘True, true.’ Margaret crossed herself. ‘We wage a secret war. Very well.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘Take care of what you have to. If it’s to be done, then it is best done swiftly.’

  Within the hour, Bray and Urswicke led Owain and Oswina out of the water-gate of Lord Humphrey’s mansion. The evening was close and the threatened storm seemed imminent. The clouds hung dark and lowering whilst a stiff breeze chopped the water. They clambered into the stout, deep, well-tarred bum-boat tied to its post on the narrow jetty. They made themselves comfortable and cast off, Urswicke and Bray pulling at the oars. Owain and his sister, cloaked and cowled, sat next to each other in the stern. Urswicke glanced over his shoulder at the sack of rocks Bray had placed in the prow. They’d prepared everything before inviting both brother and sister to join what Urswicke called ‘a most crucial task for their mistress, a matter of great secrecy’. Both Owain and Oswina had been only too eager to obey but now, with the boat out on the river, its swollen current swirling fast and strong, their mood changed.

  ‘What is this task?’ Oswina asked plaintively.

  ‘Where in Southwark are we going?’ her brother demanded. ‘Who are we meeting at such a late hour?’

  Urswicke just glanced over his shoulder and almost welcomed the rolling bank of river mist which enveloped them. ‘Here,’ he whispered. Both he and Bray rested on their oars. Urswicke bent down; he picked up the leather sack and placed it carefully between his feet. ‘They are primed,’ Bray whispered, ‘all set, the bolts are ready.’

  ‘What is this?’ Owain would have sprung to his feet, but the boat rocked dangerously. The squire hurriedly sat down, staring fearfully at the arbalest, all primed, that Urswicke held ready to loose.

  ‘What is happening?’ Oswina pleaded, pulling back the hood of her gown. ‘What have we done?’

  ‘Treachery and treason towards a woman who took you in and mothered you better than any I know,’ Bray retorted. ‘You were granted a privileged place in her household by her late husband, Edmund Tudor of blessed memory. You were given dignity, high office and all the comforts of a good life. You rejected all that. You decided to act the Judas, crying all hail to the countess when you meant all harm. You were suborned, seduced by Clarence’s henchman Mauclerc.’

  ‘He probably informed you that Margaret of Richmond, the last of the Beauforts, would soon be for the dark.’ Urswicke wiped the mist water from his face. ‘He bribed you with good coin and even better prospects.’ Urswicke challenged. ‘He wanted to seize the countess’s young son. You realised your mi
stress was nursing some great secret. You suspected that her boy was not hiding behind the fortress at Pembroke but probably here in London waiting to escape across the Narrow Seas. We witnessed first-hand the effects of your treachery. You worked with that wretch in Tewkesbury, the one who threw fire down into the courtyard as our mistress returned. You sheltered that assassin. You kept sharp watch on the countess’s inevitable return. Who was it then? One of the Three Kings?’ He stared at these two traitors who just sat, mouths gaping. ‘What did you plot,’ he continued, ‘that our mistress might be hurt, killed? Certainly delayed in her return to London and, if she was, the hunt for her young son would be made all the easier. The attack failed but messages were despatched to the city. My father, the noble Recorder of London, pursued the countess like a hungry lurcher would a hare. You kept up your treasonable practices. One of you would slip out of Sir Humphrey’s mansion, the other would stay in your chamber pretending that both of you were there.’ Urswicke grasped the arbalest tighter. ‘We discovered that. We also found a way of pursuing you from afar. Master Bray, here, has a number of street people in his pay. To cut to the quick, you visited a shabby tavern in Queenhithe, The Crutched Friar. Mauclerc would be there as he was early today. Yes Owain …?’

  ‘The c-countess …’ Owain stuttered.

  ‘You betrayed her,’ Urswicke replied. ‘You know you did, both of you! We have seen you consort with her mortal enemies, men who would, at a spin of a coin, pay to see her die, her son murdered and those she trusts, such as ourselves, barbarously executed.’

  ‘But the countess?’ Oswina bleated.

  ‘She bids you farewell.’ Urswicke released the catch and the bolt sped out, smashing Owain’s face to a bloody pulp. His sister half rose. Bray handed Urswicke the second arbalest; he released the catch even as Oswina leaned forward then fell back, hanging out of the boat as the barbed quarrel shattered her chest. Urswicke gingerly rose and pulled the two corpses together. Bray handed him the sack of rocks, then grasped the oars, holding the boat as steady as he could. Urswicke pushed the rocks amongst the clothing of his two victims then tossed both corpses into the river.