Dark Queen Rising

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And the murders here.’ Urswicke schooled his features into a frown, though in truth he was hiding his jubilation. The game had changed: this most sinister of henchmen was no longer its master, and neither was the dark-souled Clarence.

  ‘I am sorry.’ Mauclerc, one hand on the belt of his sword, the other on Urswicke’s shoulder, almost dragged the clerk deeper into the taproom, away from the doorway and any eavesdropper, ‘You have a suspect?’ Mauclerc demanded.

  ‘Of course, my Lord of Clarence’s younger brother, it’s obvious.’

  Mauclerc let his hand fall away. ‘Are you saying that Gloucester is behind everything?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Urswicke restrained the laughter bubbling within him, the sheer jubilation, so reminiscent of the excitement at his keenest games of hazard or his sharp debating as a scholar in the halls of Oxford.

  ‘And you have proof of all this?’ Mauclerc asked.

  ‘Possibly, but I am gathering more as swiftly as I can.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Mauclerc patted Urswicke on the shoulder like some absent-minded magister would a not-so-bright scholar. ‘My Lord of Clarence,’ he continued, ‘has moved to the King’s palace at Sheen to discuss certain matters. Above all, the mischief being brewed by that holy dog the Lancastrian Archbishop Neville. There are also rumours of another traitor, De Vere of Oxford, leading a fleet of war cogs off the coast of Cornwall. So I must go there. To Sheen,’ he joked, ‘not Cornwall.’ His smile faded. ‘And you Christopher, you will resolve these mysteries?’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, until we meet again.’

  Mauclerc was now in a better mood. He patted Urswicke on the shoulder and left the tavern, shouting for his retainers. Urswicke stood and heard them go. He felt pleased, confident that Clarence’s henchman suspected nothing. He waited for a while then returned to The Wyvern’s Nest. Hempen assured him that Tiptree and his family were isolated, safe and seemingly contented enough. Urswicke went up to his own garret where he took out that strip of parchment he’d found in one of the Three Kings’ wallets. He sat down and studied this time and again. ‘And the captain of archers,’ Urswicke whispered to himself, ‘lay with the wife of Duke Uriah the Hittite and she conceived a son.’ Urswicke, who had studied the scriptures, recognised the reference was from the Old Testament. A story about King David wishing to seduce Bathsheba, the wife of one of his principal commanders, Uriah the Hittite. David became obsessed with the woman. She became pregnant so David decided to remove Uriah, instructing his general Joab to leave the Hittite exposed on the field of battle. ‘I know the story,’ Urswicke murmured, ‘but why has it now changed? What could it mean?’

  Urswicke returned to his scrutiny. He had graduated as a master of the chancery, being closely instructed by the Dominican Albric in secret ciphers and hidden writing. Albric had always insisted on two principles. First, conceal what you want in public view so clearly and precisely that people will never guess that what they are looking at contains a whole wealth of hidden treasures. Secondly, search for the pattern which should not really be a pattern. For example, sentences will always begin with a certain letter; their use is random depending on what’s being written. However, if certain letters are used to begin sentences time and again, ask yourself why? ‘So,’ Urswicke whispered, studying the script, ‘what is being concealed here in public view and what pattern can I detect?’ He took out the book of hours and opened it, turning the pages until his eyes grew heavy. He fell asleep for at least an hour according to the flame on the red-ringed time candle.

  Urswicke roused himself and went downstairs to ensure all was well. He took some food and drink and returned to his studies. He examined once again the script containing the quotation about Uriah. Holding it up to the light, the clerk noticed how the beginning of certain passages in the book of hours, be it psalms or prayers, had a different-coloured ink. For example, ‘Pater Noster – Our Father’ was written in red but the rest of the script was in black. It was the same on the strip of parchment where blue ink replaced black. Urswicke read the verse again but, this time, moving from words written in black to the next section written in black, so it read, ‘And the captain of the archers lay with the wife of the duke and she conceived a son.’ That made sense! Urswicke then applied the same technique to other passages in both copies of the book of hours. Urswicke eventually decided to write these out in his own abbreviated cipher. The more he transcribed, the more it made sense, and the secrets the Three Kings had disguised began to emerge. In a sense, it was very simple: the secrets were concealed in public view beneath a pattern of different-coloured inks. If certain sections were linked together, then the book of hours was no longer a psalter, a prayer book, but a treasury of scandalous stories about the House of York, King Edward in particular.

  Urswicke felt deeply elated that he had stumbled onto such valuable findings. He now knew what Clarence was plotting. How that sinister prince had collected all the gossip, scandal and whispered secrets about his own house and handed these over to the Three Kings, who investigated them and discovered the evidence for a range of scurrilous allegations. ‘Master Clarence,’ Urswicke murmured, ‘you have proven to be a foul son, a foul brother and a foul lord. A truly foulsome human being who will surely meet your death in a most violent way.’

  Urswicke returned to the book of hours and re-read what he had glimpsed on the inside of the front cover of each psalter: the same inscription. Simple enough. ‘Teste me, Roberto Episcopo Bathoniense – witnessed by me Robert, Bishop of Bath and Wells.’ Many psalters, prayer books and other devotional literature often contained such an inscription by the local bishop, which confirmed that the work in question contained no heresy or deviation from the liturgy of the church.

  ‘But why,’ Urswicke whispered, ‘why is the name of Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells, used here? According to canon law, such a declaration should be by the Ordinary, the bishop of the place where the book was created? In this case, the Bishop of London?’

  Urswicke sat back in his chair. He was sure that the Three Kings and Oudenarde had no intention of handing the book of hours over to any bishop. So why use Stillington’s name? Moreover, and Urswicke was sure of this, Stillington’s name had been used without his permission. No, Urswicke concluded, the reason for Stillington’s inclusion was that this bishop was connected to this mystery, Urswicke was certain of that. First, because of the location of Stillington’s diocese, which was close to Shrewsbury, the ancestral home of the Talbots, whose kinswoman, Eleanor Butler, played – according to the secrets contained in the book of hours – such a prominent role in all these mysteries. Urswicke shook his head, marvelling at how the twisting path of life could be dictated by a dead woman. How a former lover of the great Edward of York could stretch from beyond the grave to cause deep dissent and the most dangerous rent in the body politic. If the secrets Urswicke had just read in the book of hours were proclaimed to the world, it would rock the throne and nullify Edward of York’s recent triumph.

  Secondly, Urswicke returned to the question of Stillington. He had allowed the Barnabites to travel in and out of the country on their own whim. Why? What did the Barnabites know about Stillington? And this business of Brother Joachim, the Barnabite sheltering in St Mary’s Bethlehem? Why did Stillington agree to that, being prepared to pay all the expenses for such comfortable lodgings? Cuthbert must have threatened the good bishop. Urswicke wondered if he should use both his name and warrants to seek an interview with Stillington, but he concluded that would be too dangerous. God knows where Stillington’s true loyalty lay and, for his own secret purposes, the good bishop would only lie, deceive and mislead. Moreover, Stillington must be aware of the destruction and deaths at St Vedast. Brother Cuthbert was now dead. Would Stillington continue to pay for Brother Joachim to be lodged at St Mary’s? Stillington surely must have some idea, proof or evidence, that what Urswicke had discovered in the book of hours was true, hence the phrase ‘T
este me – witnessed by me.’ What form that evidence took would be difficult to establish. Urswicke made his decision. He must visit St Mary’s Bethlehem, and the sooner the better.

  Urswicke arrived before the main gate of St Mary’s Bethlehem late in the afternoon, when the bells of its church were ringing out the summons to early evening prayer. A lay brother, garbed in a cream-coloured robe and black mantle, the hospital colours, scrutinised Urswicke’s warrants and seals before admitting him through the postern gate. He led the clerk through the gardens and into the prior’s parlour, which stood within the entrance to the main building. A comfortable, well-furnished chamber with its polished oak work, turkey rugs and vivid wall frescoes depicting scenes of healing from the Scriptures.

  Urswicke sat down, savouring the pleasant smells after the stench of the busy city streets, where the air hung heavy with human sweat, ordure and all the reek of the middens. This was such a contrast, a veritable paradise; sweet cooking smells mingling with the fragrance of incense and beeswax. Urswicke closed his eyes and relaxed, only to be abruptly startled as the parlour door opened and closed with a slam. Urswicke rose to greet Prior Augustine; a tall, forbidding figure garbed in cream and black robes, his long, thin neck and sharp, bony face gave the impression of a bird; a likeness enhanced by his rather jerky movements as he allowed Urswicke to kiss his ring of office before sketching a hasty benediction above Urswicke’s bowed head. He waved the clerk back to his chair as he sat down in the one opposite. Urswicke handed over his warrants and seals. The prior studied these, gave a half-smile and handed them back.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ the prior raised his head, ‘no lesser person than the son of the great Recorder of London, the hero of the hour, a veritable Horatius who stood in the breach and defended the city against hordes of rebels.’ Urswicke smiled at the gentle sarcasm in the prior’s voice. ‘You are also, apparently, a favoured henchman of my Lord of Clarence. Well,’ the prior rubbed his hands together, ‘you want my help and I am willing to assist. So what is your business, sir?’

  ‘Joachim the Barnabite lodged here at the request, and probable expense, of Robert Stillington, Bishop of Bath and Wells and our present Lord Chancellor …’

  The change in Prior Augustine’s demeanour was startling. He leaned forward, mouth gaping, face full of fear. ‘How do you know …?’ He paused. ‘That fire, those deaths out at St Vedast on the moor. You …’

  ‘I know of them,’ Urswicke retorted, ‘but I was not involved. I was informed about Joachim from another source which will remain nameless. After all, as you say,’ he bluffed, ‘my redoubtable father is a Lord High Recorder of the city, whilst I am the Duke of Clarence’s most trusted henchman.’

  ‘And that of the Countess Margaret Beaufort?’ Prior Augustine quickly recovered his poise, staring curiously at Urswicke. ‘I have heard of you, and about you, Master Christopher. You live in a very dangerous world.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Urswicke quipped, ‘as the poet says, in the midst of life we are in death.’

  ‘True, true,’ Prior Augustine agreed.

  ‘Joachim?’ Urswicke pointed to the hour candle under its cap on a stand in the corner of the chamber. ‘The hours are passing, darkness will soon be here.’

  ‘If it’s not already,’ the prior murmured. He took a deep breath. ‘Joachim was lodged here some time ago at the personal request and expense of Bishop Robert, who demanded that I keep the lodging confidential. He even asked me to take a vow promising I would.’ The prior sniffed noisily. ‘I refused. We lodge many unfortunates who suffer a collapse of the humours in both mind and soul. Men and women who are deeply disturbed. I informed the bishop that St Mary’s was not a prison or a hiding place but a hospice for the sick. I accepted Brother Joachim because he was religious, a sick man and, I will be honest, the full expense of his stay here was to be met by Bishop Robert.’

  ‘I need to meet Brother Joachim. I must speak to him. My visit here and my conversation must be kept confidential under the seal, yes?’ Urswicke stretched out his hand, Prior Augustine clasped it and nodded. ‘Is he lucid?’

  ‘At times, but at others he becomes witless. He rambles, mumbling one nonsense after another. On a few occasions he claims to know great secrets, about the King and his court. He chatters about furtive alliances and illicit affiances. But,’ Prior Augustine shrugged, ‘we have patients who declare they really are the Holy Father or the great Cham of Tartary. Some of our inmates maintain that every night they fly to the far side of the moon and see the Hosts of Hell gather for a feast. Others confess to have seen battle fleets of demons cluster to the north of Bishopsgate. Indeed, Brother Joachim is, perhaps, one of the more lucid amongst our congregation.’

  ‘Do you know why Bishop Stillington should care for a poor Barnabite?’

  ‘Of course not, but I can speculate. Stillington is a shepherd who cares more for the fleece than his flock. A man of power, of wealth and status. He claimed that Brother Joachim was a very distant relative, I doubt that. So, to answer your question, Master Christopher, logic dictates that our poor Barnabite knows something highly embarrassing and possibly very dangerous to our good bishop. He has been lodged here not because of any compassion but due to the insistence of Joachim’s superior, or so he calls himself, Brother Cuthbert. Master Christopher,’ Prior Augustine pulled a face, ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what is behind all this and, to be honest, I don’t really care. Such knowledge can be highly perilous. I do not wish to become involved in the filthy politics of the court or the city.’

  ‘Does Joachim have many visitors?’

  ‘Very few. Bishop Stillington rarely, a fleeting visit to ensure all is well.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Brother Cuthbert, of course, the self-styled leader of the Barnabites.’ Prior Augustine swallowed hard. ‘Cuthbert was a Rhinelander. I suspect that he was a former mercenary who served on the Eastern March, the antechamber of Hell. He would come here with his hard-faced companions. He would leave these in our guesthouse so he could converse in confidence with his old friend and comrade Brother Joachim. I did not like Cuthbert at all. He had an aura of fear about him, a midnight soul; dark, sinister and secretive. All a great mystery then?’

  ‘Aye and at the heart of it, Prior, is this question. Why should Bishop Stillington dance attendance on a poor Barnabite? After all, our good bishop has the power and the means to arrange some sort of mishap, an accident. Prior Augustine, this is London. Corpses float in the Thames, cadavers are to be found in lay stalls or at the mouth of some stinking alleyway. I would wager at least a dozen have been killed today in some sort of accident.’

  ‘The answer to your question is simple,’ Prior Augustine retorted. ‘Joachim may hold secrets but he undoubtedly shared these with Brother Cuthbert who, in turn, has made it very clear to Bishop Stillington that he is also privy to highly contentious information which will remain secret as long as our bishop cares for Brother Joachim, Cuthbert and his ilk.’

  Urswicke nodded in agreement. He had to be more prudent: he had almost stumbled into mentioning the licences and bulging purses he’d found out at St Vedast. He now knew the source of these: Cuthbert was a blackmailer and Stillington was his victim.

  ‘As I said, Master Christopher,’ the prior spoke up, ‘it’s a dangerous world. The psalmist is correct, nothing lasts under the sun. Life changes. The great fire at St Vedast is well known throughout the city and Fickle Fortune has given her wheel another spin. Yesterday evening the bishop’s courier arrived to announce that tomorrow the bishop intends to return to his diocese. He has decided to take Brother Joachim with him to what he called “even more comfortable lodgings”. In a sense, the courier was speaking the truth. You and I, Master Christopher, know that Joachim is being taken away to be silenced and swiftly despatched to the mansions of eternity.’ The prior rose to his feet. ‘I doubt very much whether our poor Barnabite will live to welcome midsummer.’ The prior stared down at Urswicke. ‘You may talk to him. Oh,
by the way, Joachim has a passion for the creamiest cheese. Remember that.’ He extended his hand for Christopher to kiss his ring. Again the prior blessed him. ‘Brother Joachim,’ he murmured, ‘will also need all the prayers we can say for him. Two lay brothers will bring him here and stand on guard outside. Speak, have your words and then be gone.’

  Urswicke was surprised at the appearance of Brother Joachim, who strode manfully into the parlour and jerked a bow at Urswicke before thanking the two lay brothers who had escorted him in. Once they’d left, Joachim, all bustling and friendly, sat down on the chair that Prior Augustine had vacated and beamed at Urswicke.

  ‘Very rare to have visitors,’ the Barnabite whispered. ‘Prior Augustine told me who you are.’ He extended a hand for Urswicke to clasp. The clerk did so, feeling the calluses on the Barnabite’s coarse skin. ‘I was a ploughboy once,’ Joachim exclaimed, ‘I could dig the straightest furrow and harrow the coarsest ground.’ He withdrew his hand and stared at it. ‘Came from south Yorkshire I did. A village close to Pontefract. Served as a soldier beyond the Narrow Seas where I met Cuthbert and the rest. We grew tired of fighting, so we followed Cuthbert into the Barnabite order.’ Joachim tapped the cream robe and black mantle. ‘These are the colours of St Mary’s. I really should be wearing brown and blue.’

  Urswicke nodded smilingly, studying Joachim, his thin, greying hair neatly tonsured, his ploughboy features, round and red-cheeked, his pointed chin unshaven. The Barnabite seemed clear-eyed enough, though Urswicke noticed how Joachim’s face grew momentarily slack, mouth gaping, eyes fluttering, as if he was confused by where he was. He sat, hands on knees, smiling at Urswicke before glancing around the parlour. He pointed to a triptych celebrating the life of St Martin. ‘That’s beautiful!’ he exclaimed. He was about to point at another painting but paused and turned to Urswicke. ‘You want to see me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes I do.’ Urswicke dug into his wallet and took out a silver coin, pleased at Joachim’s reaction. The Barnabite leaned forward, hands extended, but Urswicke shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I could leave this with Prior Augustine. I could ask him to buy you the creamiest cheese, freshly baked manchet thickly buttered and a deep-bowled goblet of Bordeaux.’ Joachim licked his lips, one hand going out towards the coin which Urswicke placed on the table beside him.