by Paul Doherty
Urswicke paused. ‘This is what really happened. Master Bray and you, Tiptree, plotted to kill all four. You chose an evening when Oudenarde would be with the Three Kings, and their masters some distance away. Minehost, here, took up a jug of his best claret and four goblets. He wanted to give his guests something special to drink, the finest Bordeaux, albeit heavily laced with a powerful sleeping potion.’
‘And how was that done?’ the countess demanded.
‘Master Bray entered the tavern kitchens and buttery in disguise, dressed as a scullion, hired cheaply to perform menial tasks around the hostelry. A common enough occurrence. In your busy kitchens and buttery, Master Tiptree, Bray would hardly be given a second thought or glance. Anyway, to return to the chancery chamber. You poured the claret and invited all four to sip and taste. Hungry and thirsty, they do so, looking forward to the delicacies you promised to bring up. You leave and your victims sup deeply on the rich, red wine. You hurry down to the kitchen and fill a platter with the remains of bread and chicken, a jug of ordinary Bordeaux and four fresh goblets into which you pour some of the wine from the jug. You and the disguised Master Bray now return to the chancery chamber. All four men have fallen into a deep, drugged sleep. You exchange both the goblets and jug, leaving the fresh wine and scraps of food so it would appear that the Three Kings and their visitor had eaten and drank but nothing to provoke any suspicion. Am I not correct, Master Tiptree?’
‘Oh you are so right,’ the taverner blurted back; anger had now replaced his mournful look. ‘Believe me, Master Christopher, I rejoiced in their deaths. I served Clarence for a year and many a day. I was a faithful retainer. I created delicacies for his table and did my very best to ensure all was good. I saved my monies, lodged them with a goldsmith. I left Clarence’s household with high hopes. But, as you said, times were hard.’ Tiptree shook off Bray’s restraining hand. ‘No, it’s important. I want to tell the truth because they deserved to die. I did petition Clarence for help and assistance. He did not reply. He did not help. Later I found out that the Three Kings used to mock my letters as if they were mummery, the stories of a jester.’ He shook his head. ‘Rest assured, Master Christopher, it was no mummery. I was lodged in the debtors’ side of the Fleet where you daren’t even sleep. The rats are as large as cats, filthy food, rancid meat, brackish water. Violence and terror stalk you on every side. Master Urswicke, I am a cook not a felon. But there was worse. My wife and children were terrified, forced to beg for help from flint-hearted relatives. My wife was big with child. We lost it. The fear and hardship tipped her wits for a while.’ He crossed himself and gestured at Countess Margaret. ‘She saved me. In fact she redeemed us all. I tried to perform good service for her but the Three Kings proved to be a quarry impossible to pursue. Do you know, now and again, they would rub salt in the wounds, make sarcastic references about my letters begging for help from their master? So when Master Bray asked to meet me in some lonely tavern down by the quayside, I accepted. And, when he told me what he plotted, I heartily agreed. It was I who discovered the best day for our vengeance. Mauclerc and Clarence were at Westminster and Oudenarde was about to visit The Sunne in Splendour. I served the food and the drink as you say.’ Tiptree paused, lips still moving, as if still talking to himself.
‘You served the drugged wine,’ Urswicke agreed. ‘Master Bray then carried out what you,’ he pointed at the steward, ‘and our mistress,’ Urswicke emphasised the last words, ‘regarded as lawful execution. To deepen the mystery and widen the confusion, you, Master Bray, drew the daggers of all four men and slit their throats as swiftly and as soundlessly as Master Tiptree would a chicken breast. Once completed, you surveyed the room. You are looking for anything suspicious. You hoped to find the “Titulus Regius”, but of course you didn’t. You scrutinised the documents on the chancery table. You did not discover anything of real importance, except for that licence issued to Spysin, authorising him on behalf of Clarence to travel to Duke Francis of Brittany. You realise what mischief was brewing. Clarence was determined to suborn Duke Francis and arrange for the forced return of Henry Tudor, the claimant to the Crown. You, Master Reginald, realised what was being plotted. You and Tiptree then left that chamber, but not before buckling and rupturing the lock as well as the bolts at the top and bottom of the door so it would look as if they had been forced. Any further work on them could take place on the morrow when you, Master Tiptree, returned ostensibly to discover what was wrong. On that evening, however, you simply locked the door from the outside and went down to the taproom. During the night, you’d keep a sharp eye on those stairs, as well as tell your porter to alert you if any unexpected visitors arrive. Nothing alarming occurred. The next morning – well, you know what happened. The doorway was forced, the key slipped back into the lock, the corpses were viewed and urgent messages despatched to Clarence and Mauclerc. Of course, you’d realise it would take time for such news to reach them and for them to return.’ Urswicke smiled. ‘Very clever. You were given fresh opportunity to deepen the mystery and cloud the truth. True?’
‘True,’ Tiptree agreed. ‘I advised Master Bray to stay well away from the tavern. When we did force the chamber, I ushered those who had helped me out and studied the room most carefully. There was nothing amiss; nothing which would point the finger of suspicion at either me or mine. Before Master Bray left, he asked about Spysin and I provided him with a clear description of Clarence’s courier.’
‘Of course you did,’ Urswicke exclaimed. ‘Master Bray, you had Spysin marked down for death. He was a bully boy, puffed up with arrogance, walking about all buckled and prepared for his so-called important mission. Reginald, you followed Spysin down to that dingy tavern on the quayside. You approached him and poured a potion into his drink. God knows how you did, but you are skilled enough, right? Spysin felt unwell. He hurried out to the jake’s cupboard and slumped on the latrine. He was weak, perhaps even asleep, but he could offer no defence when you opened the latrine door, cut his throat and took whatever he carried in his wallet. Spysin would not be boarding any ship to carry out a Yorkist enterprise against Henry Tudor. In a sense, a good day’s work. Clarence’s Secret Chancery utterly destroyed and the mischief he intended in Brittany brought to nothing. Am I correct, Mistress?’
‘Christopher, you are. You have spoken the truth but it must be put within the context of my world. First.’ Margaret folded back the cuffs of her gown, a mannerism she always adopted when describing something important. ‘First, I, we, are dedicated to opposing this usurpation of the Crown by the House of York and, in particular, the personal malice of Clarence. We will weaken them by each and every way possible. There are no exceptions. You personally witnessed the bloodshed after Tewkesbury. Edward of York intends to annihilate all opposition and we must defend ourselves as well as weaken our opponents by any means. This is not just a matter of a cause. Edward and his brothers are a direct threat to me as well as the life and legitimate ambitions of my darling son.’ Margaret’s face grew tight with anger. ‘We all know Clarence, if given the slightest opportunity, will kill my Henry.’ Margaret’s head went down. She drew out a set of ave beads from her belt purse, lacing them around her fingers. ‘Secondly, I was horrified to hear how the so-called Three Kings treated the sacred corpse of a truly anointed, saintly monarch, as if he was nothing more than offal on a flesher’s stall outside Newgate. They committed the most heinous treason and abominable sacrilege. They deserved to die, as do Clarence and Mauclerc. Judgement against them has only been postponed, not cancelled. They perpetrated the most sordid sacrilege.’ Margaret paused and used the small napkin Bray offered to wipe the spittle from the corner of her mouth.
‘You are correct, my friend.’ Bray had now broken from his reverie; he got to his feet and extended his hand. Urswicke rose to clasp it. Bray beat his breast in mock contrition. ‘I was responsible. Spysin entered that tavern. I managed to slip a potion into his wine. He felt unwell and stumbled out to the jakes. I followed and pull
ed open the door. Spysin was fast asleep. He hardly moved as I slit his throat. I took his warrants, licences, money, and left. Clarence will be wary of sending further messages to Brittany.’
‘The cracks in the Yorkist supremacy are beginning to widen.’ Margaret spoke up. ‘I have news for you, Christopher, on this very issue. Gloucester has promised that if we help him with the “Titulus Regius”, he will use his influence with Edward so that my beloved son will be allowed to reside safely in exile in Brittany. Now,’ Margaret crossed herself, ‘my poor husband, Sir Humphrey, lies ill. I must leave soon to visit him as the messages I have received indicate he will not recover.’ She shook her head. ‘I know it sounds cold and unloving, but that is the truth. I have tried to be a good, faithful and supportive wife to Sir Humphrey. I have tended to all his ailments and done my very best to make him as comfortable as possible.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘God bless him and me, but I married Sir Humphrey not just because of any feeling for him but because of the world I live in. To put it bluntly, I married Sir Humphrey Stafford for protection. When he dies, I will be bereft of that protection. I shall be regarded as the widowed Beaufort woman. I have to defend myself,’ she gestured around, ‘and those I love, especially my son.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And so I come to the second part of Gloucester’s proposal. If we succeed in handing over the “Titulus Regius” to him, after Sir Humphrey dies, Gloucester will press his brother the King that I be allowed to marry Lord William Stanley, a powerful northern lord who would certainly provide protection against Clarence’s malice.’ She paused as Urswicke whistled softly.
‘That fits well,’ he murmured, ‘with the tapestry we weave.’
‘Now, back to the present matters. What else, Christopher?’
‘You,’ Urswicke pointed at Tiptree, ‘will have to disappear, along with your family.’
‘I will help.’ Margaret stretched out and grasped Tiptree’s hand. ‘I shall, through merchant friends in the city, arrange for The Sunne in Splendour to be sold back to the Guild of Vintners.’
‘Wouldn’t the Yorkist lords discover that?’ Bray demanded.
‘No, no. Sir Humphrey Stafford’s people will make all the arrangements. It’s well known that Sir Humphrey helped Master Tiptree here.’
‘And if he’s questioned on this?’
‘Why Reginald, Sir Humphrey is a member of the Vintners’ Guild, it’s not the first time he has bought property in the city. The Guild will take the deeds of the tavern and offer that hostelry on the open market. Clarence may well suspect that Tiptree was involved in the destruction of the Three Kings and Oudenarde, but he can’t really prove it and he knows that Tiptree will flee well beyond his reach. You, my friend,’ Margaret pointed at the taverner, ‘and your family will change your name and, with my help, buy a hostelry on my estates at Woking.’
‘But, but …’ Tiptree stammered. ‘Clarence will see my disappearance as complicity in the murder of his henchmen. He will send Mauclerc and his ruffians to hunt me down.’
‘No, no,’ Urswicke intervened. ‘Remember the night you were abducted, my men made it very clear that they were the retainers of Richard of Gloucester. I peddle the same nonsense to Clarence and Mauclerc. How I believe, Master Tiptree, that you’re part of Gloucester’s plot, and assisted those assassins to enter that chancery chamber. I will explain my reasoning as I have done here, except I will blame assassins, their names unknown, despatched by Duke Richard. You helped them and I shall hint that you, together with your family, have been despatched, God knows where! To some desolate part of the north, perhaps abroad – or even,’ he grinned, ‘to life eternal. Clarence has a large pot to stir. He will not waste time, energy and good coin hunting you down. Nor will he, at this moment in time, having seen the destruction of his Secret Chancery, be willing to deepen the rift with his powerful younger brother. Master Tiptree, do not worry. Clarence will be busy enough.’
‘You will leave in a covered cart tonight,’ Margaret declared. ‘You have brought from The Sunne in Splendour all your moveables?’ Tiptree nodded in agreement. Bray then left and fetched Hempen, who promised to keep strict watch over his fellow taverner until nightfall. Under the cover of dark and, furnished with letters from the countess, Hempen would take Tiptree, his household and all his treasure out of the city.
Once the taverners had left, Margaret beckoned her two henchmen to draw their seats close.
‘Before you continue, Christopher.’
‘You can read my mind, my Lady. I have a question.’
‘And I know what it is,’ Margaret exclaimed. ‘Yes, Reginald?’ Bray just nodded, fingers tapping the table. ‘Why did we not tell you from the start?’
‘Of course, but now I suspect the truth.’
‘Of course you do.’ Margaret rose and gently kissed Urswicke on each cheek before sitting down again. ‘You are, Christopher,’ she continued, ‘a most cunning clerk who, on my behalf, can perpetrate the most subtle deceits. If you had been brought into this game from the start, you might have been exposed to great danger. Mauclerc is no fool. If you made a mistake, a slip of the tongue, of knowing something you really should not, that would have placed you, indeed all of us, in the greatest danger. Keeping you in the dark preserved you. At the same time, we realised that with your keen wit and sharp mind you would eventually discover the truth. Even though you might not find any evidence to corroborate it. Of course you proved us wrong. You reached the only logical conclusion possible and produced the evidence for it. The assassins, whoever they were, must have had some inside help, and the only real source for that was Master Tiptree. You very successfully proved that he was involved and why. You discovered the evidence in my accounts as well as documents at the Guildhall. Once you’d pieced that together, you realised that Master Bray and I were the true architects of the devious plot carried out in that chancery chamber. You then established my motives, clear enough in the circumstances. I wanted them to die. I believed they should. The Three Kings committed the most appalling sacrilege against Henry’s corpse and you realised the full extent of Clarence’s malice towards me. And now,’ she stretched out a hand to caress Urswicke’s cheek, ‘you have not only discovered the truth but refashioned it so cleverly that the blame for all of it can be placed at Gloucester’s door.’
‘On another matter,’ Urswicke responded, conscious of Bray staring curiously at him, ‘you claim that Mauclerc is deserving of judgement; now that is a twist in the game I must deal with piece by piece, moving the figures across the board so that Mauclerc’s day of retribution, and that of his master, crawls like some monster out of the dark to devour them. Mistress, that is what you wish, isn’t it?’
‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘I want the total destruction of Clarence and his creature Mauclerc. Seek a path forward on this and we will follow it.’
‘And so we come to “Titulus Regius”?’ Bray demanded. ‘When I was in that chancery chamber, I searched, albeit hastily, and could find nothing of interest except Spysin’s letter giving him licence to go abroad.’
‘Oh it was there Reginald, before your very eyes – and mine,’ Urswicke added hastily. ‘How true,’ he exclaimed, ‘is the saying of a certain cunning man who argued that the best concealment is most effective when it is conspicuous.’
‘Meaning?’ Bray snapped. ‘Christopher, we are not involved in some Twelfth Night game, merry dancing around the maypole, or bobbing the apple on the village green or tethering the donkey against the door of the village church.’
Urswicke spread his hands. ‘Reginald, I apologise, but let me show you what I mean. The Three Kings were very, very cunning.’
The clerk placed his chancery bag on the table, opened it and took out the two copies of the book of hours he had picked up in the chancery room and from the arca at St Vedast. He opened the pages of one of the psalters and gently tapped them. ‘This, my Lady, is the “Titulus Regius”, the Title of the King – what Clarence dreams of. It’s a creation of the Three Ki
ngs and Oudenarde. All four searched out stories about Clarence’s parents as well as the emergence of the Woodvilles. They wanted to create a chronicle or indictment which Clarence could use to bolster his claim to be the legitimate King of England. The Titulus lies here and can be divided into two parts. The first is about the origins of his eldest brother Edward the King, the first begotten son of Richard Duke of York and his wife the Duchess Cecily Neville, the so-called Rose of Raby. So let us begin there. Edward was born in Rouen on 28 April 1442. To cut to the quick, rumour has it that Duke Richard was not his true father but a certain captain of archers called Blackburn, Blackybourne or some such name. The rumours are persistent, pointing out that Edward’s appearance, his extraordinary handsome looks and height, being well over two yards high, are very different from the physical appearance of both his father and his brothers, especially Gloucester. Now, of course, relations between the arrogant Duke of York and the passionate, vain, hot-tempered Rose of Raby could be extremely tempestuous. They clashed in the bedchamber and were quite happy to continue their arguments in the hall in full view of everyone. Moreover, Duke Richard was often absent from court, whilst his wife was very fond of dalliance with attractive young men, aping the tales of Arthur, Lancelot and Guinevere, of Tristan and Isolde. My Lady, you’ve seen this often enough, some great lady of the court playing cat’s cradle with a handsome young fop or arrogant knight, be it in a window embrasure or flower-shrouded arbour.’