by Paul Doherty
Margaret was still engrossed in such details when her chamberlain knocked on the door and burst in, all flustered, to announce that Richard, Duke of Gloucester, together with his henchman Francis Lovel had arrived determined to speak to her. Margaret raised her eyes heavenwards at Bray but agreed. They found Gloucester and Lovel ensconced in high-back chairs before the solar’s sculptured hearth. Both men had taken off their cloaks and bonnets; a servant was laying these out across a table whilst another served white wine and sweetmeats. Gloucester rose to greet Margaret with all the courtesy of a court gallant, Lovel likewise. Margaret remained wary. Both men were dressed in the dark brown-green leather jerkins of a royal verderer, and Gloucester explained how they had been hare coursing north of the city walls.
Margaret sat down on a chair, moving it to face both men, using the fussing of the servants to study this precious pair. Richard of Gloucester’s narrow, long face looked paler than usual, his sharp, green eyes bright with excitement, his lower lip jutting out as if he was quietly rehearsing some speech. He carried gauntlets which he kept slapping against his thigh as he greeted Bray, turning to the blond-haired, bland-faced Lovel to confirm a certain point about the recent hunt. At last the courtly courtesies ran their course. Margaret could tell from Gloucester’s peaked, pale face and the way he kept playing with the silver medallion around his neck, displaying the Fetlock and Portcullis of York, that he was impatient to begin. Gloucester glanced at Bray, who had ushered the servants out and came to stand beside the countess.
‘Where’s Urswicke?’ Lovel, his bright blue eyes devoid of any kindness, leaned forward, jabbing a finger at the countess. ‘Where is your dagger man?’
‘Standing beside me,’ Margaret retorted.
‘No,’ Lovel smirked, ‘the one with the angel’s face, even though he crawls through the shadows.’
‘Is that where he met you?’ Margaret retorted.
‘Come now,’ Gloucester intervened. ‘Let us be honest, Mistress, Urswicke lurks in the twilight. I believe he is a man who serves more than one master.’
‘My Lord, who doesn’t?’
Gloucester took a deep breath as if to calm himself. ‘Let us cut to the quick,’ he snapped. ‘I know, we know, you know. Indeed, we all know that George of Clarence is involved, and has been ever since he could think, in some devilish mischief. We also know he fears and hates you and your son.’ Gloucester paused, eyes blinking. ‘I have dreams,’ he murmured, ‘about your boy. My brother, the King, believes young Henry is a real threat to the House of York. What say you, Mistress?’
‘His Grace has nothing to fear from either me or mine.’ Margaret quietly wondered where this conversation was leading. Gloucester fell silent, rocking himself gently in his chair.
‘Clarence certainly fears you,’ he declared abruptly. ‘My beloved brother had spies in your household: two Welsh brats, Owain and Oswina.’ He paused. ‘I have their corpses outside.’
Margaret felt Bray stiffen beside her. She held up a hand. ‘Corpses?’
‘Yes, Mistress, corpses drawn from the Thames by the Harrower, a city official paid to pluck corpses out of the Thames and give them Christian burial.’ Gloucester’s face was now wreathed in mock concern. ‘I mourn your loss, Mistress, but the matter deeply puzzles me. Oh …’ He rose to his feet, Lovel also. ‘You must want to view their corpses?’
And, without waiting, both he and Lovel left the solar. Margaret stared at Bray, lifting a finger to her lips as she followed the Yorkists out. She was tempted to protest heatedly against being summoned in such a fashion here in her own house, but decided that discretion was the better path to follow.
Gloucester swept down the stairs to the hallway where more of his henchmen gathered, gesturing at the door to be opened, leading Margaret and Bray onto the broad sweep of Fetter Lane. A cart pulled by two dray horses stood there. Gloucester clambered onto the side of the cart and pulled back the canvas sheeting. He then stepped down, gesturing at Margaret to stand on the footrest. Helped by Bray, she did so, grasping the side of the cart as she stared at the two corpses. Margaret tried to remain calm at this gruesome sight. The two cadavers displayed savage death wounds; their flesh was all puffy, bloated and discoloured from the river, the soft flesh pecked by the carrion birds. Margaret crossed herself and climbed down, Bray taking her place. He glanced at the corpses, cursed and stepped off the footrest.
‘Mistress,’ Bray totally ignored Gloucester and Lovel as he grasped Margaret by the arm, ‘Mistress, it’s best if you return.’ And he gently led Margaret, who acted as if she was about to faint, back up into the solar. Once there, Margaret acted the lady in distress. Bray scurried about, ordering the servants to bring a hot posset for their mistress and a footstool for her feet, warm mittens for her hands which, she claimed, had become so cold. During these ministrations, Margaret kept a sharp, sly eye on Gloucester and Lovel. Her two unwelcome visitors had sauntered back into the solar and now slouched in their chairs, legs crossed, coolly picking at spots on their hose.
‘Well, Mistress?’ Lovel preened himself, his high-pitched voice harsh on the ear.
‘I do not think,’ Margaret retorted, ‘that was at all necessary.’
‘Oh, we think it is,’ Lovel sniffed. ‘My master here also has spies, and of course the corpses were searched by the Harrower. He found copies of your wax seal on both cadavers. Anyway, the Harrower was visited by one of my master’s men, a skilled searcher – so experienced, he’s called “The Lurcher”. Now he recognised both the seals and the gruesome remains. You see, The Lurcher had been watching; he’d set up post close to the water-gate of this splendid mansion. He saw you, Master Bray, together with Urswicke, row these two unfortunates across the Thames. He watched you return but, of course, not with Oswina and Owain. They were gone; they’d disappeared until the Harrower found them. Apparently the rocks used to weigh the dead bodies fell out and, of course, the Thames always gives up its dead, including two corpses with crossbow quarrels which had been loosed so close they were embedded deep in the flesh. So …’
‘All your spy saw, my Lord,’ Margaret measured her words carefully, ‘is this. Oswina and Owain left here in a boat rowed by my two principal henchmen.’ She turned slightly in her chair. ‘Yes, Reginald?’
‘We took them on a special errand to Minehost at The Golden Hoop. You should know it, a splendid tavern close to the priory of St Mary Ovary in Southwark. On my mistress’s instruction, the taverner was to give both Oswina and Owain good purveyance, food, horses and other necessities for their long journey to Woking and then on into Wales.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Gloucester murmured. ‘And I am sure Minehost of The Golden Hoop, along with a packed choir of witnesses, will swear that Oswina and Owain were seen in his tavern, hale and hearty, very much alive and busy on their mistress’s business. How they left but then disappeared until their corpses were found. Those unfortunate young things were attacked by wolfsheads who murdered them, plundered their possessions and then threw their corpses into the Thames.’
‘You are very perceptive,’ Margaret retorted, ‘I think you have described what truly happened. I shall mourn for them, I shall pray for them, and I will petition your brother the King to take more rigorous steps to clear his highways and byways of such malefactors.’ She held Gloucester’s gaze. In truth, she didn’t really care what he knew. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’ she demanded archly.
‘I certainly do.’ Gloucester’s pale, narrow face broke into an infectious grin, making him more youth-like, the sinister threat he conveyed being replaced with a gentle, merry mockery. ‘Margaret, Margaret Beaufort.’ Gloucester dropped his gauntlets to the floor and leaned forward, hands outstretched. ‘Margaret, let us ignore all this nonsense. The corpses outside will be swiftly and quietly buried in God’s Acre at St Botolph’s. Let us concern ourselves with the living. You know and I know this. Brother George has a manuscript, the “Titulus Regius”, the work of the Three Kings and Oudenarde who now lie slaughtered in
some Godforsaken death house.’ Gloucester smiled again. ‘Brother George is furious at their deaths, even more so because he does not know where the the “Titulus Regius” is.’
‘What?’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘But all four worked for Lord Clarence, that is common knowledge. They were—’
‘Not stupid.’ Gloucester finished the sentence. ‘Seemingly, they composed the manuscript, but kept its actual whereabouts a close secret amongst themselves, a guarantee for my good brother’s faith – if he has any. Clarence is a turncoat. He betrayed his own family, joined the Lancastrians and, when they failed to show him what he considered to be his due, turned coat again to be welcomed back into the bosom of his loving family. The Three Kings wanted to finish the manuscript, then hand it over and be suitably rewarded, not just to be dismissed, or worse, at my perjured brother’s whim.’
Margaret shifted in her chair, staring up at the pink-plastered ceiling. What Gloucester had told her was logical, given Clarence’s talent for treachery. In the beginning the Three Kings would have been given the outline of what Clarence wanted and they, together with Oudenarde, had searched for the proof, creating a chronicle which they would only hand over when finished. By then they would know all the scandalous secrets about the House of York. Clarence would be in their debt and dare not move against them. Margaret wondered if the Three Kings had also created a copy. But where were these manuscripts which could do so much damage to Edward and his brothers? She herself would love to seize such evidence. Was Urswicke making any headway in discovering the true whereabouts of the ‘Titulus Regius’?
‘My Lady?’
Margaret smiled across at Gloucester. ‘Just reflecting, my Lord, on what a tangled web is being spun here.’
‘Even more tangled,’ Lovel declared, ‘are the murders at The Sunne in Splendour: the Three Kings and Oudenarde the book-seller?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied, ‘in the city, news flies faster than swallows. I do wonder,’ she added, ‘who could carry out such savage executions?’
‘Perhaps someone else,’ Gloucester declared, ‘who is hunting for the “Titulus Regius”.’
‘Such as who?’
‘My brother my King.’
‘And what has this to do with us?’ Bray demanded.
‘Because everyone, especially my brother George, searches for the “Titulus Regius”, and its authors the Three Kings, along with their fellow conspirator Oudenarde, have been murdered. It would seem they took their secrets to the grave. Let us be frank and honest. We all search for that document, as do you my Lady.’ Gloucester swallowed hard and licked his lips. ‘So here’s my offer. If you find the “Titulus Regius” and hand it over to me, I shall personally guarantee that your son, who must now be sheltering in Brittany, will remain untroubled.’ Gloucester paused.
‘And secondly?’ Margaret asked. ‘There is always a second.’
‘Your husband Sir Humphrey, Lady Margaret, is a very sickly man, greatly weakened by wounds inflicted at Barnet. I am not being malicious but, God bless him, Sir Humphrey might not survive the summer.’ He held up a be-ringed hand. ‘As I said, there’s no malice intended. No insult being offered. I am speaking the truth, being as practical as possible. If Sir Humphrey dies, Lady Margaret, you become a widow, but you are also a Beaufort. The last of that name. You will be alone,’ Gloucester waved a hand at Bray, ‘except for your faithful henchman. In time you will become vulnerable to your enemies. Entire families like the Woodvilles detest your name and, if they can, will inflict great damage on you.’
‘And we must not forget your brother, George of Clarence?’
‘No my Lady, we must not.’
‘So you are offering me protection?’
‘I have already mentioned your son and, as for you, marriage to Lord William Stanley, a powerful baron, a bachelor, well-favoured by the King, with extensive estates and power in the north. A member of the royal council; in his own way a man of integrity, shrewd and redoubtable.’
‘I have met and know of Sir William Stanley.’
‘A good match, my Lady. He would prove a strong protector against the malice of your enemies. Anyway,’ Gloucester rose to his feet. Margaret remained seated and stretched out her hand so Gloucester and Lovel had to bow to kiss it.
‘We have an agreement?’ Lovel demanded.
‘We shall reflect,’ Margaret replied. ‘Now sirs,’ she stood up, ‘we have other matters to attend to. Master Bray will see you out.’ She bowed and turned away, though listening intently as Bray deferentially led Gloucester and Lovel out of the solar and down the stairs to their waiting escort. Once they’d gone Bray returned, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘Dangerous,’ he murmured, as he poured both himself and his mistress goblets of chilled wine, ‘a very dangerous man.’
‘He offers some protection, Reginald and, at this moment of time, we need all we can get. As the poet says, peril presses on every side. Urswicke informed me about the slaughter at The Sunne in Splendour, as well as the execution of Spysin in the jakes of a riverside tavern. All a great mystery, eh Reginald?’ She laughed, fingers fluttering to her lips. ‘The work of a skilled craftsman, eh Master Bray? Do you not agree?’
‘Talking of skill, I am thinking about those two corpses! We made a hideous mistake, we hurried their deaths. We should have taken more care. But, at the end of the day, we could not allow those two to live as daggers pointed at our hearts. They deserved to die.’ He added morosely: ‘They all deserved to die, didn’t they?’
He broke off at a knock at the door and Urswicke slipped into the chamber. He crossed the room, bowed and kissed hands with Lady Margaret, who studied him from head to toe as he turned to greet Bray. She caught her breath and tried to remain composed. Christopher looked weary to the point of exhaustion. He had not shaved, whilst his doublet and hose were greatly stained, his boots scuffed and his cloak laced with mud from the streets. At her bidding, Urswicke took off his cloak and warbelt. Margaret made him sit down, serving him wine and a platter of honey-coated comfits a servant brought in. Urswicke just sat, watching the retainer gather the empty goblets and platters and, once the door closed behind him, Urswicke toasted both the countess and Bray with his cup.
‘Let me tell you,’ he began, ‘how it is. First,’ Urswicke held up a hand, ‘no one really knows what the the “Titulus Regius” truly is, where it’s hidden, or what form it takes. Such secrets died with the four men in that chancery chamber. Secondly, how the Three Kings and Oudenarde were murdered remains a complete mystery.’ Urswicke sipped gratefully from the goblet. ‘Four strong men, their throats slashed yet, apart from the blood and the fact they had drawn their weapons, no other sign of violence. Spysin died the same way, murdered while sitting on a jake’s pot in a tavern garderobe. An almost impossible feat. A street-fighting man, Spysin’s throat was cut from the front yet with no shred of evidence that the victim, who must have seen his attacker, resisted or retaliated.’
‘Mauclerc and his master must be furious?’ Bray could hardly conceal his glee as he glanced slyly at Margaret.
‘Oh, and deeply apprehensive. From the little I have gathered, the “Titulus Regius” may never be found.’
‘But,’ Bray interrupted, ‘Clarence and Mauclerc must have been apprised about what the Three Kings and Oudenarde were collecting? Be it a newsletter, a chronicle, or that’s what we should think. However, we must remember that the “Titulus Regius” is not Clarence’s work but the creation of those Three Kings, brothers, friars from the Rhineland. I believe they brought something to Clarence which he seized upon. A poisonous plant which they could nourish and nurse to full bloom. Mauclerc patronised those brothers and their assistant, Oudenarde. They insisted on working secretly in that chancery room at The Sunne in Splendour.’
‘Yes, yes I see,’ Margaret murmured, shaking her head. She reflected on what she had learnt about the ‘Titulus Regius’. Clarence had saved those three brothers from the law. They must have responded by
discovering something which Clarence seized on as a weapon to carve his own name in pride and so advance his ambitious schemes. In the end, Clarence didn’t care about whom he hurt. On this issue the House of York and that of Lancaster were no different: they were simply obstacles Clarence had to remove. Margaret closed her eyes.
‘Mistress?’
She glanced swiftly at Bray before turning back to Urswicke. ‘But surely,’ Margaret measured her words, ‘once the Three Kings were dead, Mauclerc must have seized all the manuscripts in that chancery?’
‘Of course, my Lady. But I don’t think they found the “Titulus Regius”. If they had, I am sure I would not be investigating that murderous mystery on their behalf. I play the part as I have told you, an ambitious clerk who will serve any master for profit. But on this, my service is not too good, for I am mystified about what really happened in that tavern. As God is my witness, I have made no progress at all.’
‘Are you sure, none at all?’ Margaret held her breath as she glanced quickly at Bray.
‘None,’ Urswicke agreed, ‘except,’ he lifted his head and grinned impishly at both the countess and Bray, ‘the Barnabites.’
‘Who?’ Bray asked.
‘Oh, I know about the Barnabites,’ Margaret declared. ‘I now recall them, a group of rather eccentric friars. A minor order with very few members. Their friary, if you can call it that, is a rather gloomy, shabby priest’s house close to the ancient church of St Vedast; it stands between Hounds Ditch and the Moor. In fact, if I remember correctly, the Barnabites do not enjoy the most savoury reputation.’ Margaret paused, staring at Urswicke.
‘Mistress?’
‘They have been in London for about two years. They come from the Rhineland, Germany, not far from Cologne.’
‘The same place as the Three Kings?’