Dark Queen Rising

by Paul Doherty

‘The Duke of Clarence caused the girl Anne to be concealed so his brother would not know where she was.’

  Crowland Chronicle

  Christopher Urswicke gently dug in his heels and his horse, snorting at the pungent smell of burning, picked its way across the blackened, crumbling remains of the priest’s house at St Vedast, on that stretch of desolate moorlands north of the city wall. Urswicke stared around. From the information he had learnt in his father’s chancery at the Guildhall, the fire which started here had been devastating. Wafted by a stiff breeze, the flames had moved to catch and consume the church, reducing it to a tangle of scorched stone and timber. Urswicke peered through the dark. Somewhere nearby lay the blackened remains of the Barnabites he had killed. Urswicke crossed himself, even as he promised the spirits, who must be crowding around him, that he would have a chantry priest sing three requiems for the repose of their souls – wherever they might be.

  He gently urged his horse out of the ruined house and across through a huge rent in the crumbling walls of the ancient church of St Vedast. He guided his mount up along the remains of the gloomy, ghostly nave. Wisps of smoke still swirled. Tendrils of river mist gathered and mingled before drifting apart. Urswicke’s horse made its way up into the fire-blighted sanctuary where the clerk dismounted and stood listening. Outside the sun was setting, a burst of dying light still strong against the gathering night. Urswicke hobbled his horse and went into the apse behind the ruined high altar. He sat in the alcove reserved for servers and listened keenly. He heard a sound, the clip of high-heeled boots and the jingle of spurs. A figure emerged out of the murk and Urswicke rose to clasp hands with George of Clarence before leading him into the enclave, gesturing that he sit on the ledge opposite. Clarence, ever watchful, sat down.

  Urswicke opened the saddlebag he had brought across, took out four squat candles and, using his tinder, lit them, watching their flame leap fiercely. He then drew out the book of hours he had brought and laid this on the floor beside the candles. Clarence watched carefully before he rose, unstrapping his warbelt, placing it on the ledge beside him as he retook his seat.

  ‘You are well, my Lord?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You came alone?’

  ‘As you asked and as I promised.’

  Urswicke nodded understandingly. It had been a week since his conversation with the countess, when they had discussed the secrets contained in the ‘Titulus Regius’. Since then, he and Bray had been busy plotting, doing what they could to agitate the city fathers by demonstrating that the Lancastrian cause was not dead. Notices proclaiming this as a truth had been pinned to the cross in St Paul’s churchyard and the Standard at Cheapside. All such declarations had warned about a coming time of deep distress and agitation. How fresh storms were brewing and how the House of York would not survive them. In the main, this had been Bray’s work on behalf of Countess Margaret, who had urged them to stir the pot even if it was just for the sake of the stink.

  ‘Well, Master Urswicke,’ Clarence made himself more comfortable, flicking at the ash on his cloak, ‘as you asked, I came alone.’

  ‘Though you have men hidden away who could be with you if you wanted?’

  ‘Of course, but your message was stark and clear. I was to come alone to this devastated church.’ Clarence tapped his cloak. ‘Of course, beneath this I carry a hunting horn.’ He leaned forward, smiling through the gloom, so close Urswicke could smell his wine-drenched breath.

  ‘And you carry that, my Lord, just in case matters do not proceed as smoothly as they should?’

  ‘Master Urswicke, you are an enigma. I wonder, as do the whisperers, whom you really serve? Do you know, Master Christopher, we have a lot in common, don’t we? You serve yourself and what do you hope to gain?’

  ‘My Lord, I don’t know, but when I find it I shall tell you.’

  ‘And so matters will run smoothly?’

  ‘Oh they will, they will,’ Urswicke soothed, picking up the book of hours and handing it to Clarence. ‘For you, my Lord, a gift, a pledge of my commitment to the way things should be. Now listen,’ Urswicke, tapping the book of hours Clarence now held, repeated what he had told Countess Margaret and Master Bray. How the Three Kings and Oudenarde had written and concealed a chronicle narrating a series of devastating scandals about the House of York. How they had used the Barnabites who had sheltered here, to bring witnesses and other evidence to their chamber at The Sunne in Splendour. Urswicke, however, was careful. He made no reference to either Stillington or Joachim’s involvement in the secret betrothal ceremony between Edward of York and Eleanor Butler. He also explained how he had found the identity of this woman. Amongst other things, her first name had been included in a prayer for former queens of England, whilst the surname Butler had also had been mentioned in a prayer for officials of the royal household. As for the Woodville woman, Urswicke explained how that was easy to guess, pointing out the references including a prayer for the royal family and, here again, Elizabeth Woodville’s name had been cleverly delineated in a different-coloured ink.

  Urswicke secretly congratulated himself for discovering further information over the last week, and he still believed he had not fully unearthed all the evidence that the ‘Titulus’ contained. Clarence, who had sat with that constant cynical smirk on his face, changed dramatically. He leaned forward, mouth slack, eyes blinking, lips moving soundlessly as he listened to Urswicke’s revelations and the precise details he described. Urswicke, who had rehearsed his speech time and again during the preceding day, was almost word perfect, explaining how the Three Kings used their ink and styles of writing both to communicate as well as conceal their secret chronicle. Once he had finished, Clarence sat shaking his head, his face a mask of disbelief.

  ‘By all the saints,’ he breathed, ‘of course I know some of this rumour, hearsay, tittle-tattle. I asked the Three Kings to investigate and they became as busy as ferrets searching out this person or that. They assured Mauclerc that they were gathering evidence, but nothing like this, the detail, the precision. According to this,’ Clarence opened the book of hours Urswicke had handed him, ‘my brother Edward has no claim to the throne, whilst his marriage to the Woodville bitch is nothing more than a pretence. The chronicle gives dates and times for this and that.’

  ‘My Lord, I agree. In fact,’ Urswicke decided to tell the truth, ‘I suspect there is more hidden away here which I haven’t found. Perhaps some other secret pattern but, for the moment, you have enough.’

  ‘But why didn’t the Three Kings inform me? Surely Mauclerc must have suspected?’

  ‘My Lord, I shall come to that by and by. You do recognise what the “Titulus Regius” contains? It is called that,’ Urswicke pressed on, ‘because the secret chronicles, as I shall call them, mount a serious challenge about who in the House of York should wear the Confessor’s crown.’

  ‘Which is myself,’ Clarence snapped.

  ‘Of course, my Lord. Perhaps the Three Kings and Oudenarde were simply waiting for the correct moment to present you with the finished task. I think they were close to that, although,’ Urswicke held up a hand, ‘for all I know, there may have been fresh revelations about the duchess, your esteemed mother, or the true status of Elizabeth Woodville.’ Urswicke pulled a face trying to conceal his elation at leading a man the countess hated along the path to judgement.

  ‘What?’ Clarence demanded.

  ‘My Lord, I just wonder …’ Urswicke, now thoroughly enjoying himself, pointed at the psalter. ‘Your brother Edward, if he gave his troth plight to Eleanor Butler, did he do so to another woman? Think, my Lord, how the King has laid siege to many a noble lady who acted like the damsel in the tower, refusing to open their door until certain promises and assurances were made. Think, my Lord, reflect and remember. Refurbish your Secret Chancery. Use your trusted clerks to dig out fresh nuggets of gold, priceless information. My Lord you know the hymn,’ Urswicke waved a hand, ‘and I am sure you can sing it better than I.’ Urs
wicke let his words trail away.

  Clarence sat, licking his lips. He opened the book of hours and hungrily leafed through its pages. Urswicke watched even as he strained his ears for any strange sound. The evening was drawing on. Urswicke felt satisfied with the way matters were progressing. He had prepared his lure, set his snare and he was confident that this arrogant lord would blunder deeper into the traps awaiting him.

  ‘So.’ Clarence put the book of hours down, though he continued to stare at it. ‘We have the evidence about what happened in that chancery chamber but not the names of those responsible for killing my faithful retainers.’

  ‘Faithful?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘As I have said, let’s leave that for a while. However, my Lord, you know who is responsible for those deaths? From what I have learnt, it must be the work of your own brother, Richard of Gloucester, assisted by the taverner Tiptree. As for him, I suspect he’s either dead or been spirited away to some remote part of this kingdom. Gloucester’s name was certainly mentioned during the pretended abduction of Tiptree and his kin. I say “pretended”, because Gloucester wanted to save that taverner from falling into your hands.’

  Clarence nodded, rocking himself backwards and forwards. ‘Little Dickon,’ Clarence rasped. ‘I shall deal with him soon enough. The Three Kings were correct: Anne Neville must disappear and that can be arranged.’ He edged forward on the stone seat of the enclave, jabbing his finger in Urswicke’s face. ‘But come now. You talked of matters that you’d return to by and by. Well?’ Clarence jibed. ‘We have reached by and by. What is it? What do you have to tell me?’

  ‘The Three Kings.’ Urswicke chose his words carefully. ‘They may have seriously considered that the chronicles they had collected could be passed on to others who would pay lavishly to be given such invaluable information.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘As I have said, Richard of Gloucester, the King himself, the Woodvilles, foreign powers hostile to this kingdom. After all,’ Urswicke shrugged, ‘successive kings of England have made great play of how the inheritance to the Crown of France, by due law and process, rightfully belongs to the Plantagenets, kings of this realm and their successors. Can you imagine the damage such opponents could inflict upon your house and its claims with this information? They would argue that the House of York has little or no right to the Confessor’s crown, let alone that of France kept in its tabernacle at St Denis.’

  ‘Do you think Gloucester’s men seized a copy of the “Titulus Regius” when they murdered the Three Kings?’

  ‘No. They may have hastily searched but they had little time and, as you can now see, the “Titulus Regius” is cleverly concealed.’

  ‘And Mauclerc? You begged me to come alone and not inform him. Why?’

  ‘I am very wary.’ Urswicke pulled a face and shook his head to show he was uncertain about what he was about to say.

  ‘Master Urswicke, tell me what you think.’

  ‘Well, shouldn’t the Three Kings have been better guarded? After all, Mauclerc – perhaps more than you and me – realised the importance of what the Three Kings were doing and yet, on reflection, your Secret Chancery had very little protection. Shouldn’t Mauclerc have been more aware of Tiptree’s treacherous nature? Didn’t Mauclerc notice anything untoward in the days before those murders at The Sunne in Splendour? Or even afterwards? And the Barnabites who sheltered here or poor Spysin? Couldn’t they have all been better guided and guarded? I concede that this is just petty suspicion, yet how many times, my Lord?’ Urswicke fought to keep his face solemn, his voice low and sombre like that of any prophet of doom. ‘How often do men play the Judas even to a most gracious lord such as yourself?’ Clarence, who drank praise as if it was part of his birthright, nodded in agreement, his face so serious and knowing that Urswicke had to curb the laughter bubbling inside him.

  ‘I am not,’ Urswicke spoke slowly, ‘saying Mauclerc cannot be trusted. However, my Lord, you asked me to investigate these mysteries. I simply put forward possible solutions as well as further questions which must be answered, sooner or later, now or in the future.’

  Clarence, however, was lost in his own thoughts. He seized the book of hours and rose, pulling his cloak about him before imperiously extending his ring hand. Urswicke knelt and kissed the sharp diamonds which Clarence pushed against his lips.

  ‘You,’ Clarence whispered, ‘have done me great service, Master Urswicke. Continue to keep a sharp eye on Mauclerc and, as for that little Beaufort bitch, the one you pretend to serve so faithfully, our enmity is to the death. You agree, Christopher?’

  Urswicke clasped the proffered hand. ‘My Lord,’ he declared loudly, ‘you have my solemn word on that.’

  ‘You will be rewarded.’ Clarence waggled his fingers. ‘Until then.’ And, spinning on his heel, Clarence left the sanctuary. Urswicke watched him go, listening intently. Once he was certain Clarence had left, he crossed to his hobbled horse, took the small wineskin and linen food parcel out of his saddlebags and returned to the enclave. Urswicke made himself comfortable and stared at the sack he’d also taken from his panniers containing the second copy of the ‘Titulus Regius’. He and Bray had begged Countess Margaret to let them use this as bait, adding that on no account could it be found in their possession as it might prove to be their death warrants. Moreover, Urswicke had insisted, he had copied his own memoranda in a special cipher which summarised the secrets of the ‘Titulus Regius’. Urswicke chewed his food, comforting himself that, when this business was done, he would dine on freshly caught salmon, grilled and sweetened with herbs, whilst both he and Bray would drink deep well past the chimes of midnight.

  Urswicke reflected on what was happening in London. Bray continued to disseminate stories about the sanctity of the murdered martyr King Henry. Lancastrian sympathisers were still active in the city, spreading stories of unrest, fictitious or otherwise; about risings in Wales, landings on this coast or that, disturbances in the north under this rebel leader or another. Countess Margaret was determined on brewing this mischief. However, she was also determined to leave London to tend to her sick husband, adding that her two henchmen should continue their work before joining her in Woking.

  Urswicke took a mouthful of wine, wondering what would happen to Sir Humphrey and whether Margaret would truly accept the hand and protection of Lord Stanley. Urswicke took another gulp of wine, heard a sound and stiffened. He put both food and wineskin away, got to his feet and walked to the edge of the sanctuary. A figure had appeared at the far end of the nave, carrying a shuttered lantern. Urswicke watched the three darts of light, one after the other. He returned, picked up one of the candles and turned, swaying it so the new arrival could clearly see the dancing flame. Again, the shuttered lantern replied with three sharp bursts of light. Satisfied, Urswicke walked back into the sanctuary. He placed the candle down and waited for the dark, shadowy figure to cross the sanctuary and join him.

  ‘Good evening, my Lord.’

  ‘And good evening to you, Master Urswicke.’ Richard of Gloucester pulled down his visor and pushed back the hood of his cloak. He and Urswicke clasped hands, Gloucester taking the seat in the enclave, Urswicke sitting opposite, as he had with Clarence. Urswicke picked up the sack, took out the book of hours, cradling it as Gloucester made himself comfortable.

  ‘I saw my brother Clarence leave. He had horsemen close by, hidden in a copse, you do know that?’

  ‘As your men wait?’

  Gloucester laughed softly. ‘Whom do you really serve, Urswicke?’ Gloucester beat his gauntlets against his thigh. ‘Whom do you really serve?’ He repeated. ‘Me? Clarence? The King? Your father? The Beaufort woman?’

  ‘All of them, because I serve myself, as do you.’

  Again Gloucester laughed softly.

  ‘You are wary, aren’t you?’ Urswicke pressed on. ‘You are suspicious and rightfully so. Clarence is dangerous, but you fear other demons, don’t you? Not your brot
her the King, but the Woodvilles who shelter behind Elizabeth the Queen, a greedy and ambitious horde of relatives led by the cunning Earl Rivers.’

  ‘True, true,’ Gloucester murmured. ‘But as long as my brother the King lives and thrives, I am safely protected.’ He laughed sharply. ‘Which is more than can be said for my brother George. The King, Hastings and others are determined on that. I betray no secret as it must be obvious to everyone except George, that if he returns to his perjuring, his Judas ways, like a dog to its vomit, he will not be spared. So?’

  Urswicke stared down at the ground. He was aware of the shadows of those who haunted this derelict place, those dark clouds of souls, gathering to watch. Something about Gloucester’s words started an idea, like a hare that abruptly bursts out of a field of long grass. Something he must follow and pursue to its logical conclusion.

  ‘Well, Master Urswicke? You have brought me to the ring, so dance we shall.’

  ‘My Lord, we certainly shall.’ Urswicke picked up the second copy of the book of hours and pressed it into Gloucester’s hands. The prince glanced sharply at him. ‘My Lord, hold that and let me tell you the tale it contains. For this is the “Titulus Regius”, as well as evidence of your brother Clarence’s malevolent mischief towards you, your brother, indeed his entire family. Now listen and listen well.’

  Urswicke then described what he had already told to the countess, though, as with Clarence, he omitted any reference to Bishop Stillington and Brother Joachim. The Barnabites were simply described as couriers and messengers of the Three Kings and their accomplice Oudenarde. More starkly, he described the murders at The Sunne in Splendour as the work of Clarence, who was also responsible for the killing of Spysin. At that Gloucester held up a hand.

  ‘Master Urswicke, I understand why Brother George should use my name to conceal his wickedness. But why would he kill five trusted henchmen?’

  ‘Very easy,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘Your brother George is like a cock on a weather vane. He turns, he changes, according to whatever favourable wind is blowing. Yes?’ Gloucester just nodded. ‘I suspect,’ Urswicke spread his hands, ‘though I have very little evidence for this, that Clarence decided that the creators of this chronicle, the Three Kings and Oudenarde, as well as their courier Spysin, were no longer needed. Your brother George simply decided to remove them.’ Gloucester, still holding Urswicke’s gaze, nodded; the clerk noticed how the duke’s fingers had fallen to the hilt of his dagger. ‘No need, no need my Lord,’ Urswicke soothed. ‘I speak the truth, you know I do. Clarence has acted the Judas before and he will do so again. The “Titulus Regius” is complete, or almost so. Study it yourself. The Three Kings, Oudenarde and, I suspect, Spysin had served both their time and purpose, so Clarence’s paid assassins, aided and abetted by his former retainer Tiptree, despatched them into the dark. For all I know, Tiptree followed them. Who else could be responsible for their deaths? You certainly weren’t. And who would use your name to conceal their act? Only Clarence, no one else.’