by Paul Doherty
‘Why do you offer that?’
‘For what you know. Why are you here, Joachim? Why does the Bishop of Bath and Wells protect and cherish you here in such comfortable quarters?’
‘Aye, and he has promised to take me to more suitable accommodation.’
‘But why should he do that?’
The Barnabite’s head went down.
‘Cheese,’ Urswicke whispered, ‘the richest you have ever eaten?’
The Barnabite swiftly crossed himself and glanced up.
‘Because I saw it.’ Joachim was almost gabbling. ‘I was there, about five summers ago in the chapel of Shrewsbury Castle. Bishop Stillington summoned me. At the time I was a wandering friar, a hedge priest begging for alms on behalf of my brothers, despatched by Cuthbert, our Father Guardian. I sheltered in the castle. Bishop Stillington got to know I was there. Oh yes, I was sitting in the refectory. The cook had cut me some cheese. The bishop’s retainers arrived. They had made enquiries amongst those flocking into the castle. Anyway, they called my name and I was taken up to the chapel.’
‘In Shrewsbury Castle?’
‘That’s what I said. I will be given the cheese?’
‘Of course, but you must fulfil your part of the bargain.’
‘I was taken to the castle chapel, the King was there.’
‘Henry of Lancaster?’
‘No, no not him. The young blond-haired sprig of York. I’ve seen him as he has passed through the city.’
‘King Edward?’
‘The same. He was in the chapel with the young woman, standing at the foot of the steps leading up into the sanctuary.’
‘And who else was there?’
‘King Edward and Bishop Stillington and, of course, the young woman. Fair she was, fresh and wholesome, like the dawn. Edward pledged his troth to her and she to him.’
‘Surely,’ Urswicke urged, though he already suspected the truth, ‘that must have been Elizabeth Woodville: there are stories that Edward of York met her secretly?’
‘No, no. This was Eleanor Butler. You see, I had to ask her name. Bishop Stillington made me officiate at the troth pledge. Oh yes he did. Can I have the cheese?’
‘Soon.’ Urswicke picked up the coin and twirled it through his fingers. ‘You blessed both the King and this woman, then sanctified the troth pledge? Were there any records kept? Did you have to sign a document?’
‘Yes, yes there was, on a green baize-coloured table to the right of the King. I am not too sure what it said but I scrawled my mark. Bishop Stillington wrote in the rest.’
‘And?’ Urswicke insisted.
‘I was dismissed.’ Joachim’s face went slack, lips gaping, eyelids fluttering.
‘And what happened then?’
‘I returned to my wandering. I fell sick and Cuthbert looked after me. Strange, you see, I felt guilty about the troth pledge.’
‘Did the King say anything to you?’
‘No, both he and the lady acted as if they could not even see me. Master, I am one of the little ones. To the great lords I am nothing but a speck of dust, yet I know what I witnessed. I later realised that Edward of York did not honour his vow, becoming hand-fast with the Woodville woman, as Cuthbert calls her.’ Joachim paused, eyes half closed. ‘I wonder when Cuthbert will visit me again. I am not too sure whether he will be pleased at me being taken to fresh lodgings.’
‘Ah yes, Cuthbert – does he often visit you here?’
‘Of course. I confessed to Cuthbert all that I had seen in Shrewsbury Castle. Cuthbert is a good father to me. True, he could be violent, but he was the only person who cared for me. He was astonished at what I told him. He insisted that we travel to Bishop Stillington’s manor outside Wells. Cuthbert told him what I had witnessed. The bishop was angry and surprised but Cuthbert said he would lodge this mystery elsewhere in case anything happened to him or to me. He insisted that the bishop look after me. He repeated that if any harm befell him or me, he would publish what he knew. The good bishop agreed. I was sent here and Cuthbert rejoined his other brothers, Rhinelanders like himself. I was the only English-born amongst them. I later learnt that Cuthbert was assisting others in some great enterprise. He talked of clerks and a book-seller.’
‘The Three Kings and their associate Oudenarde?’
‘Yes, yes that’s it but,’ Joachim’s voice turned to a whine, ‘I know nothing of their business.’ He held out a hand. ‘Master, the coin …’
Urswicke rose and went across. ‘You can tell me nothing else?’
‘No, Master, and I am becoming confused.’ Joachim stared fearfully around. ‘I would like to buy some cheese, I need wine.’
Urswicke pressed the coin into Joachim’s hand. He then leaned down and gently kissed the Barnabite on the brow. ‘God save you,’ he whispered, ‘God bless you on your journey.’
‘And you be safe on yours. Be wary of the Watchers.’
Urswicke spun round and came back. Joachim held up the coin. ‘You are so kind,’ he murmured, ‘you gave poor Joachim this for creamy cheese …’
‘The Watchers?’ Urswicke declared.
‘Two brothers,’ Joachim half smiled, ‘fellow Barnabites, Rhinelanders, Odo and Bruno. Two of Cuthbert’s most trusted henchmen. He informed me how they would keep close guard on St Mary’s Bethlehem. They would keep sharp watch over those who came to see me, if anyone did. They are what they appear to be, begging friars, well known to those who live here. They do occasional work as lay brothers, gardeners, cleaning latrines and other such tasks.’ Joachim pulled a face and stared greedily at the coin which he balanced in the palm of his hand. ‘So God keep you safe, Master.’
Urswicke left St Mary’s to make his way back to The Sunne in Splendour. He moved purposefully through the gathering dark, aware of the shadow-dwellers and night-walkers who clustered in the narrow doorways either side. Urswicke drew his sword and the sinister figures melted away. Now and again Urswicke would pause and stare back. He would linger in the entrances of shadowy alehouses. At first he could detect nothing amiss but, on one occasion, he glimpsed a darting figure, a shape of a man who moved swiftly back into the darkness. Urswicke walked on. He paused at the mouth of an alleyway, a thin ribbon of blackness with only one lanternhorn further down, glinting through the murk. Urswicke turned into this and ran as fast as he could before darting into a narrow enclave where he stood, sword and dagger at the ready. He heard footsteps, muttered curses. He tensed, sword and dagger at the ready. Two shadows passed the enclave. Urswicke slipped out, tapping his sword against the ground.
‘Good evening, gentlemen, can I help you?’
His pursuers turned; one carried a club, the other a sword and dagger. One assailant didn’t wait but lunged forward. Urswicke sidestepped, his assailant was no skilled street fighter but a lumbering oaf who paid for his mistake as Urswicke pierced his throat. The man fell to his knees, gargling. Urswicke kicked him over as he turned, dancing towards his second attacker, moving sword and dagger which caught the light of the distant lanternhorn, a shimmer of glittering steel in the darkness. Urswicke drove his opponent back. The man stumbled, dropped his club and held up his hands.
‘Mercy,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Mercy indeed. I do not know who you are. Odo and I,’ he gestured at the man who now lay sprawled in a pool of his own heart’s blood, ‘we worked at St Mary’s as labourers, gardeners, we earned a penny and were given a crust. No one was interested in us. We heard you had visited Joachim, so we followed: that’s what Cuthbert ordered us to do.’ Again he flapped his hands. ‘I ask for mercy; we were only following orders, even though Cuthbert is dead. Were you involved in that?’
Urswicke lowered both sword and dagger then sheathed his weapons. ‘Your name is Bruno?’
‘It is. I am a Barnabite. Will you not show me mercy, sir?’
Urswicke stepped closer, peering through the murk. ‘I will grant you mercy,’ he said, ‘on two conditions. First, you return to St Mary’s. Tell Prior Augustine
I sent you.’ Urswicke felt in his purse, took out two coins and handed them over. ‘Take this and whatever you can find on your fallen comrade here. Fetch Joachim out of St Mary’s and flee the kingdom. I am certain you are skilled enough in that already.’
‘We have monies hidden away.’
‘I am sure you have. However, for your sake and that of Joachim, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and this city. Be especially wary of anyone sent by the Bishop of Bath and Wells. Repeat that title.’ The Barnabite did so. ‘If you linger,’ Urswicke warned, ‘both you and Joachim will surely die. Now be gone. So,’ Urswicke gestured at the fallen man, ‘take what you need.’
The Barnabite hastily complied and, muttering his thanks, fled back down the runnel. Urswicke watched him go. He knew Prior Augustine would help both Barnabites. Bruno would take Joachim into his care and immediately secure passage on some cog across the Narrow Seas. Sooner or later, he reasoned, Joachim, in a period of lucidity, would tell Bruno the same he learnt earlier that day. Urswicke didn’t care. He hadn’t the heart to kill such an unfortunate, whilst Bruno and Joachim would eventually sell what they knew to someone abroad and, if scandal about the House of York began to seep through the courts of Europe, then all to the good.
Urswicke returned to The Wyvern’s Nest, making sure he wasn’t followed. He ate and drank, washed, shaved and changed into fresh linen, constantly reflecting on what he should do. He had scrutinised both copies of the book of hours so he decided he would carry out a thorough transcription of the secret chronicle concealed within its lines. In the end, it took him four days, during which Countess Margaret and Bray sent him cryptic messages. Urswicke ignored these until he had finished completely; he then replied, inviting the countess and Bray to the solar in the house opposite The Wyvern’s Nest. He also issued instructions that Hempen make ready to bring Minehost Tiptree across when Urswicke asked for him. Hempen was mystified by what was happening; however he was also very aware of Urswicke’s standing with the countess, not to mention the clerk’s largesse with the few remaining coins taken from the Barnabites, so he heartily agreed.
Once Countess Margaret and Bray arrived and were ensconced in comfortable chairs, Urswicke poured pots of light ale and joined them around the table. For a while the conversation was desultory, until there was a knock on the door and Hempen, who’d received Urswicke’s instruction, brought Tiptree into the chamber. The former landlord, pale-faced and trembling, took the other chair; he sat down, hands on knees, staring at the floor. He then looked beseechingly up at Urswicke.
‘Master Hempen,’ he murmured, ‘told me all about the abduction at my tavern …’
‘Yes, yes. I asked him to.’
Urswicke glanced swiftly at Countess Margaret; she continued to act composed, a slight smile on her face, her eyes holding that mischievous look which made her seem so much younger. Bray, however, was clearly discomforted, staring into his tankard as he tried to avoid Urswicke’s gaze. The silence deepened until Urswicke believed he had the full attention of everyone sitting around that table.
‘Master Thomas Tiptree,’ Urswicke began, ‘taverner, landlord, mine generous host, formerly of Lord Clarence’s household, a man of deep and wide experience in the bakery, brewery, buttery and kitchen of that so-called nobleman. Master Tiptree, you eventually left Clarence’s service and, with the monies you’d earned and lodged with a Cheapside merchant, you bought The Sunne in Splendour. The tavern sign is a sop to the House of York which has the sun amongst its many family emblems and insignia. You began with high expectations but times were very hard. The unrest in the shires spread into London. Foreigners decided to stay away. Domestic merchants did not regard lodgings in the city as safe. In brief, you did not make the profits you hoped for and you swiftly sank into a quagmire of debt. Your creditors, the powerful city merchants, forced closure and you were placed into the debtors’ side of the Fleet Prison. Your tavern was sealed shut, no Tiptree, no servants, nothing. God knows what happened to your poor family.’
‘Relations,’ Tiptree murmured, ‘my wife has kin in the shires.’
‘Wretched people,’ Urswicke continued, ‘certainly no one to help debt-stricken Tiptree languishing along the filthy corridors and cells of the Fleet. A place of deep darkness, brutality and the most hideous conditions. Imprisoned there, you spent precious pennies writing letters begging for help, redress to the Guildhall. I have seen such documentation. You pleaded for your petition to be forwarded to your former lord and master, George of Clarence. No one replied, at least nobody I could discover. Clarence certainly didn’t. He never came to your help; he ignored you, didn’t he? Didn’t he?’ Urswicke repeated. ‘True or false?’
‘True.’
‘Hapless Tiptree, deserted by all, forsaken by your former lord. You then petitioned Sir Humphrey Stafford, my Lady’s husband, a man noted for his dedication to the poor, the leader of a group of city notables committed to helping those in debt – yes, my Lady?’ Margaret just smiled, a look of pride, as if Urswicke was proving the trust and confidence she had placed in him. ‘You, Mistress, took up Tiptree’s cause. You saw him as a possible path into the councils of your sworn enemy Clarence. Tiptree’s debts were paid and cancelled. More followed. Grants of money to reopen, refurbish and replenish The Sunne in Splendour, all quietly done. I have personally seen the evidence for this in your accounts, Master Bray, and you know the reason why. Due to our mistress’s help, Tiptree emerged as a prosperous landlord, the owner of a magnificent hostelry at the very heart of the city. He offered its services to you, my Lady, but you quietly insisted that Tiptree show such generosity to his former master Clarence.’
Urswicke sipped at his ale. ‘Now that lord is as arrogant as Lucifer. He would forget his former neglect of you and take such an offer as if it was his birthright, his God-given due. He would use such a place as yours as his own personal hostelry. Of course, he would never offer even a farthing in return. Yes?’ Tiptree nodded mournfully. ‘But you, my Lady,’ Urswicke turned to Margaret, ‘continued to secretly subsidise The Sunne in Splendour. You saw it as a squint-hold, a gap in the defences of your mortal enemy. Tiptree here would pour the wine and ale, have the tables groaning under platters of delicious food. Of course, when the drink flows, so does the conversation. Hence the well-known saying “in vino veritas – wine always brings out the truth”. Tiptree, of course, would faithfully report whatever he saw or heard. He would have to do it discreetly. Clarence may be arrogant, but Mauclerc is as cunning and as vicious as a weasel.’
‘I didn’t learn very much,’ Tiptree broke in. He gestured at Lady Margaret. ‘You know, indeed we all do, how secretive Mauclerc is, whilst those other demons the Three Kings were no better. I tried to discover why they were so close, so mysterious in all their comings and goings. Those strangers who visited them wrapped like friars in cloaks and cowls. I wanted to eavesdrop but, Master Christopher, you have seen my tavern, the doors are thick wedges of wood. One time I did listen when the door was off the latch but, of course, they were speaking in their native tongue which, I suspect, they did all the time.’
‘I agree,’ Urswicke declared. ‘You made little progress, which is why you were drawn into a much more devious and dangerous plot. The complete destruction of the Three Kings and Oudenarde, their associate. You were partial to that weren’t you? You took up the drugged wine and you set the stage for the bloody masque which followed. You carefully plotted so that the chancery chamber become a murder room – not that you were actively involved in their deaths, only in their preparation. You see,’ Urswicke shifted in his chair and held Tiptree’s gaze, ignoring Lady Margaret’s smile, ‘the chief perpetrator was no less a person than my good friend and colleague, Master Reginald Bray: a man who acts as a clerk, a steward, a quiet household man. However, appearances can be deceptive. I began to recall Master Bray’s history, snatches of gossip and comments by himself and others. A true dagger man Master Bray.’ Urswicke paused.
�
�Christopher, Christopher,’ Countess Margaret stretched out a hand, ‘you are sharp and swift. I wagered you would plumb this mystery.’ She glanced at Bray who wanted to speak. ‘No, Reginald, let Christopher tell us how he reached his conclusions. We must know what they are and so judge if Clarence and Mauclerc, who also possess considerable cunning, have not reached a similar solution. I pray to God they have not. Christopher, continue.’
‘From the very start,’ Urswicke returned to his account, ‘I did wonder. The destruction of the Three Kings and Oudenarde was a most deadly body blow to Clarence and his schemes: his Secret Chancery was annihilated; it would take months, if not years, for him to reassemble it. If we regard Clarence as a wheel, the Three Kings were the hub. Consequently, I am also certain that the murder of the Three Kings at The Sunne in Splendour proved to be a source of great comfort to his brothers and, indeed, many members of the court who hate or resent Clarence. I doubt very much if anyone, apart from their master, will mourn their passing.’ Urswicke lifted his tankard and silently toasted Tiptree.
‘And so I turn to the actual circumstances of their deaths. First, I thought it was singular that the evening chosen for their execution was also the evening they were visited by the parchment-seller Oudenarde. Few people would know about such a guest, only Mauclerc, the Three Kings, and of course the tavern master, who would be informed as a matter of routine. In addition, Clarence and Mauclerc’s absence from the city meant there was no danger of their involvement, though I am certain that you would have ensured that any unexpected change could be managed. Nevertheless, while the cat’s away, the mice do play and, as I will demonstrate, there was a considerable gap in time between the fate of the Three Kings being known and that news being communicated to Clarence and Mauclerc, dancing attendance on their King at Westminster. So, we have the Three Kings and Oudenarde in one place at the one time. Clarence’s Secret Chancery was to be totally annihilated. No survivors, just bloody mayhem to create complete chaos, deepen the confusion, and so prevent Clarence from continuing to plot silently and smoothly. Secondly, the deaths themselves in that sealed chamber? Its door, the only possible entrance, was locked and bolted from the inside with no sign of disturbance, even though the four victims had drawn their daggers, nothing else.’ Urswicke gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Think of it, four men with their throats neatly slit in such a place in such a way? No, no, the only conclusion I could reach was that the truth behind this mystery play had been cleverly concealed. I don’t believe that the door’s locks and bolts were all ruptured when the chamber was broken into. Nor did those four men willingly offer their throats to be cut.’