by Paul Doherty
He looked at his brother, who nodded at him to continue.
‘We questioned this person and that. We know Warwick wore the pendant in battle even as his troops broke and fled. However, by the time he had been cut down, the Eye of God was gone. To make a long story short, Master Murtagh’ – Gloucester spread his hands – ‘the solution is quite simple. Warwick must have given the pendant to someone else.’ Gloucester stopped and stared up at the hammer-beamed roof.
Kathryn studied Gloucester carefully. The Prince was small in stature but exuded a strength, a fiery determination not even the King possessed. Gloucester’s eyes were red-rimmed and he kept toying with a ring on his finger or the hilt of his small dagger. A hasty, excitable man, Kathryn concluded, much given to fretting and impatience, but still a dangerous one with his sharp, shrewd face and darting green eyes. She thought the Prince was slightly misshapen, even a little hunchbacked, but this was the way Gloucester moved, with short, sharp gestures followed by long periods of silence, as he stood – almost – still as a statue. His head came up and he caught Kathryn’s glance.
‘The House of York,’ he whispered, ‘the King and myself want the Eye of God returned.’ He tapped his boot on the marble floor. ‘Brandon has it,’ he declared.
Colum looked quizzically at him.
‘Brandon,’ the King repeated, getting to his feet and stretching until every muscle in his body cracked. He padded softly down the steps, his fingers tapping the stiffened brocade over his stomach. ‘Brandon was one of Warwick’s principal squires. He fled Barnet after the battle but was later captured just outside Canterbury. Like others of Warwick’s army, he was thrown into the nearest gaol, which happened to be Canterbury Castle. Now’ – the King began to walk up and down, reminding Kathryn of a schoolmaster delivering an important lesson – ‘at first Brandon was dismissed as one among many prisoners. In normal circumstances, he would have kicked his heels for months and then been released. However, my brother Gloucester discovered that Brandon was probably the last man to see Warwick alive. If he didn’t have the pendant, he would at least know where it was.’ The King laughed drily. ‘Now Fortune has given her fickle wheel another twist. We made enquiries at Canterbury Castle, only to find Brandon is dead from gaol fever, gone into the darkness, taking the secret of the Eye of God with him.’ The King stared at his younger brother. ‘But we don’t believe that, do we, Richard?’
Gloucester shook his head, his eyes never leaving those of his brother. The King came over and tapped Colum on the chest.
‘Now you can see why we need you, Colum. You must go to Canterbury Castle and find out the circumstances surrounding Brandon’s rather mysterious death.’
‘Mysterious, sire?’
‘Yes: why should a sturdy young man of robust health die so quickly?’
‘You suspect someone at the castle, Your Grace?’
‘Oh, no, not necessarily, but Brandon may have chattered. He must have revealed something of the whereabouts of the Eye of God.’
Colum glanced at Kathryn.
‘Oh, I know what you are thinking,’ the King continued. ‘Brandon may have had it on his person when he was taken.’
‘Who did capture him, Your Grace?’
‘Robard Fletcher, deputy constable of the castle, a dyed-in-the-wool King’s man, a soldier of the old school. He has been before our King’s Bench and has sworn an oath on our sacred relics that Brandon carried nothing.’
‘And the Constable, William Webster?’ Colum asked.
‘He knows nothing, as does our mutual friend, the master-at-arms, Simon Gabele.’
Colum’s eyes fell away and the King laughed softly.
‘Oh, yes, Colum, your old friend Simon with his raven-haired beauty of a daughter, Margotta.’
The King walked back to his chair, sat down and stared up at the ceiling.
‘I want that pendant back,’ he muttered. ‘It belongs to the House of York.’ His eyes swivelled to Kathryn. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you have questions?’
Kathryn wanted to ask about Margotta but she thought that this was hardly the time or place.
‘Your Grace,’ she said softly, ‘I think you know my question.’
The King leaned forward. ‘Yes, let me guess. Why should His Grace the King, his queen, princes of the blood require the services of Mistress Kathryn Swinbrooke, physician, leech; widow, perhaps, of Alexander Wyville, a Lancastrian?’ The King paused. ‘Well, let me answer, my pretty, and so spare your blushes.’ Edward’s voice became hard as he ticked the points off on thick, stubby fingers. ‘First, Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury, and that ubiquitous little clerk of his, Simon Luberon, swear you are honest, as does my commissioner here, Colum Murtagh. Secondly, you did the Crown and the Church good service in trapping that poisoner who was killing the pilgrims to Becket’s tomb. Thirdly, we need information about Brandon’s death. You can use your skills on our behalf.’ The King spread his hands. ‘What more can I say? Bring back the Eye of God, Colum. Place it in my hands and I will never forget you.’
The King turned and whispered to his queen. Colum took that as a signal of dismissal. He and Kathryn bowed and walked down the small nave of the church to the door. Kathryn would always remember the scene as some royal tableau. Edward in his silks, bluff and hearty, yet his blue eyes cold and menacing. The icy snow queen, Elizabeth. Gloucester, as taut as a greyhound in the slips. And Clarence, why did he look so subdued? Kathryn pressed Colum’s hand.
‘Did you tell them,’ she teased softly, ‘I was beautiful and wise?’
Colum blushed.
‘And did you believe all the rest?’ she whispered.
‘If I did,’ he replied, ‘pigs might fly!’
‘In which case,’ she retorted softly, ‘we’ll find pork in the trees round Canterbury!’
Chapter 2
They left the chapel and collected a garrulous Thomasina. She had spent the entire time they had been with the King giving the guards the rough edge of her tongue. Behind the broad nose-guards of their helmets both men were grinning broadly.
‘Goodbye, sweet Thomasina!’ one of them called.
At the top of the steps, Thomasina turned.
‘“Sweet Thomasina”!’ she mimicked: ‘I’d take both of you lads together and crush the life out of you!’
And with the soldiers’ laughter ringing in her ears, Thomasina followed her mistress and Colum down and out onto Tower Green. She now turned her attention on Kathryn with a furious spate of questions.
‘What did the King look like, Mistress? Was he as tall as they say? Was he handsome? Did he have strong legs? Men good in bed always have strong legs. And the Queen? Was she so beautiful? And what did they say? Is the Irishman in trouble?’ Thomasina concluded hopefully.
Colum and Kathryn just walked on.
‘And why wasn’t I admitted?’ Thomasina demanded. ‘Why wouldn’t the King see a good Englishwoman when he shows such favour to ragged-arsed Irishmen?’
Colum stopped and turned, his face grave.
‘As Chaucer’s clerk would say, “Oh flower of wifely patience,” hold your tongue!’
‘If I’d held yours I’d need a basket,’ Thomasina snapped back. ‘My father said, “Never trust an Irishman: tongues like daggers and the Devil’s own liars!”’
Colum grinned. ‘“She was a worthy woman all her life,”’ he quoted again from Chaucer. ‘“And husbands at the church door she had good five.”’
‘Three!’ Thomasina shouted back, puffing herself up beside Kathryn, who was still lost in her own thoughts, trying to ignore the usual banter between Colum and her maid.
Kathryn was about to intervene when she heard her and Colum’s names being called. They turned to see Gloucester, a feathered cap upon his head, hurrying across the grass towards them.
‘Not so hasty, Irishman!’ Gloucester doffed his hat and caught his breath. ‘His Grace my brother is well pleased with you.’ His green, cunning eyes studied Colum and Kathryn. ‘Did y
ou believe all that?’ he whispered.
‘The King spoke the truth,’ Kathryn answered.
‘But . . .?’ Gloucester added.
‘The truth can be as long as a piece of string,’ Kathryn replied. ‘There is more, my lord?’
‘Yes,’ Gloucester sighed. ‘However, once the Eye of God is back with us, then it is our concern. But come, I’ll tell you a little more.’
He beckoned with his hand and, hurrying ahead, led them across the Tower grounds through a postern gate and into the narrow alleyways of Petty Wales. Kathryn looked at Colum but the Irishman shook his head, raising a finger silently to his lips and indicating backwards with his head. Kathryn turned. She nearly screamed at the four hooded figures, cowls pulled well over their heads, who padded like ghosts behind them.
‘Gloucester’s dogs,’ Colum whispered. ‘Where he goes, they follow. He trusts no man.’
They went through Poor Jewry, where the houses were shabby, their paint flaking, and the streets were piled with dirt, across Mark Lane and down past Dunstan-in-the-East where Gloucester stopped before a large four-storied timbered house. Its timbers and plaster were painted a gleaming black, the windows tinted so people could look out but not stare in. The huge front door was of pure oak reinforced with iron bands and metal studs. Gloucester paused, one hand on the metal clapper shaped in the form of a gauntlet.
‘Have you ever been here before?’ he asked Colum.
The Irishman shook his head.
‘Then welcome to the House of Secrets.’ Gloucester grasped the gauntleted hand and rapped three times.
A small grille high in the door opened.
‘By what name?’ a low voice asked.
‘By the Sun in Splendour,’ Gloucester replied.
Bolts were thrust back and the door swung open. They entered a dark passageway where the light was so poor, candles fixed to the wall glowed eerily in the gloom. The passageway smelt sweet, the floor was polished, the walls covered with dark wooden panelling. Kathryn shivered; soldiers dressed like monks stood on guard in small recesses along the passageway. She wouldn’t have seen them if it hadn’t been for the candlelight glinting on their drawn swords. Gloucester walked on, the shadowy figure who had let them in trailing like a ghost behind. They crossed a small entrance hall. Purple-gold cloths draped the walls and candles flickered, shedding pools of light up the high, sweeping staircase which disappeared into the darkness above them.
‘What is this place?’ Kathryn whispered. Her words echoed like a bell through that sombre place.
Colum’s hand fell to his dagger. Thomasina, usually so garrulous, peered about her like a frightened girl. Gloucester must have heard Kathryn’s words. He came back, his sallow features even more sinister in the dancing candle-light.
‘This is the House of Secrets,’ he whispered. ‘Here, the King’s clerks work in different chanceries. Each chamber is a chancery. One chancery for the Papacy, another for the Low Countries, the Empire, France, the kingdoms of Castille and Aragon, Burgundy. The clerks collect information, sift the gossip of courts and merchants. We have enemies, Mistress Kathryn, both at home and abroad, and they must be rooted out!’ His eyes became fanatical. ‘Francis of Brittany keeps Henry Tudor, the Earl of Oxford and other Lancastrian malcontents happy at his court. Others, close to our king, play a double game. It is my duty, Mistress, to root out the weeds without disturbing the flowers. But come.’
He led them up the great staircase onto the second gallery and knocked gently on a door. A cheery-faced clerk, a quill stuck behind his ear, opened it, bowed and ushered them in.
Kathryn glanced round. The chamber was a hive of activity. Against the whitewashed walls stood high desks and stools, each occupied by a clerk busily scribbling, their quills squeaking against newly scrubbed parchment. On each desk were fastened two huge candles in iron clasps, whilst the large table down the centre of the room was covered with scrolls of vellum.
‘This is the chancery for England,’ Gloucester declared. ‘Or at least those shires south of the Trent.’ He pushed a small stool over. ‘I do you a favour, Mistress. Please sit.’
With Thomasina and Colum standing behind her, Kathryn gingerly sat down whilst Gloucester rested against the table beside her, his face now smiling, as solicitously and as caring as an elder brother. He touched her lightly on the cheek. His fingers were as cold as ice, but Kathryn remained impassive.
‘You are the widow of Alexander Wyville,’ Gloucester began. ‘A young man who lived in the parish of Saint Mildred. An apothecary by trade, who linked his fortunes to the House of Lancaster. He probably left Canterbury in the spring of 1471 with the rebel mayor, Nicholas Faunte. Am I correct?’
Kathryn nodded.
‘Am I correct?’ he repeated.
‘We do not know,’ she confessed slowly. ‘Alexander’ – she paused – ‘Alexander in his cups could become wild.’ Kathryn lowered her head and picked at a thread in the hem of her cloak. ‘There is a rumour,’ she continued flatly, ‘that he may have committed suicide by throwing himself into the river Stour. His cloak was found on the bank but . . .’ Kathryn’s voice trailed off.
‘But you don’t know whether he’s alive or dead?’ Gloucester continued.
Kathryn nodded, aware of the clerks around her busily scribbling. She daren’t tell anyone the real truth. How Alexander was a drunken wife-beater. How her father, on his deathbed, had confessed that he was so sickened by his degenerate son-in-law, he had tried to poison him. Kathryn had been left to face the uncertainties of whether Alexander had fled, been poisoned or truly committed suicide. Yet no corpse had been found and Kathryn had heard nothing of Alexander’s whereabouts.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke is right.’ Colum spoke softly. ‘Wyville may be dead or in hiding.’
‘Is it true, Mistress,’ Gloucester asked, ignoring Colum’s intervention, ‘is it true, Mistress, that someone accused you of murdering him and sent letters blackmailing you over the matter?’
Kathryn froze. Such letters had been sent, but then, just as mysteriously, stopped, so she had let the matter rest. Sometimes Kathryn wondered if Colum or Thomasina knew more than they’d told her. She looked over her shoulder, but her nurse was stony-faced. Thomasina had recovered from her shock of entering the House of Secrets; she was now staring protectively at her mistress, vowing, on one of those rare occasions in her life, to keep a still tongue in her head, even though she knew the full truth. Alexander Wyville had been a degenerate hiding beneath the veneer of courtly etiquette and good manners. A drunken wife-beater, Wyville had vomited the poison physician Swinbrooke had given him and fled to his former paramour, the plump, lecherous Widow Gumple, who provided him with fresh clothes and some silver to leave Canterbury. Oh, Thomasina knew the truth, but she just wanted this powerful, sinister prince to leave her mistress alone.
Gloucester got to his feet. ‘Mistress, I don’t mean to pry but to help. The King is pleased by your services and one of the reasons I brought you here’ – he smiled thinly – ‘is to give you further news of your long-lost husband.’
Kathryn went cold, her stomach lurched.
‘Where?’ she gasped.
Gloucester clicked his fingers. ‘Walter!’ he called to the clerk who had let them in. ‘The memorandum on Alexander Wyville?’
The merry-faced clerk smiled and, finger to his lips, looked at the rolls of parchment stacked on shelves which stretched from floor to ceiling.
‘Ah!’ He plucked a small scroll out, undid the red cord and handed it to Gloucester. ‘This is the news, my lord, of all the traitors who followed Faunte.’
Gloucester ordered the clerk to bring a candle and unrolled the parchment.
‘A few entries,’ he murmured. ‘According to this, Alexander Wyville was at Leamington when Warwick mustered his troops. He was with the traitor when they passed through Hertfordshire towards Barnet, but he has not been seen since.’
Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t know whether to
be happy or sad but took cold comfort from the evidence her father had not murdered Alexander.
‘My lord,’ she murmured. ‘Accept my thanks. If you ever have further news?’
Gloucester gave that strange shrug. He sat back on the table, the parchment on his knees.
‘Thank your good friend, Master Murtagh. He asked me to search it out.’
Kathryn bit her lip. The Irishman should stay out of her business though, deep in her heart, Kathryn knew Colum meant well.
‘If we have further news,’ Gloucester continued lightly, ‘we shall send it to you. But if Wyville is alive and returns, what then, Mistress?’ He held up a hand. ‘If I may be so bold as to ask?’
‘I shall give you the same answer as I have given others.’ Kathryn answered bluntly. ‘When I married Alexander Wyville, I thought he was one man; he proved himself to be another. Father Cuthbert, warden of the Poor Priests’ Hospital in Canterbury and my confessor, has said that if Alexander returns I should apply to the Church courts for an annulment.’ She drew her breath in. ‘He says, my lord, that if I had known what Alexander was really like I would not have married him. I will swear before the courts how that is the truth!’
‘So,’ Gloucester intervened. ‘You’d ask for a ruling from Holy Mother Church that your marriage should not have taken place and the bond be annulled?’
Kathryn nodded and plucked at the loose thread in her cloak.
‘These are matters of the heart and conscience,’ she murmured. ‘My lord, I have said enough.’
‘True, true.’ Gloucester got to his feet briskly. ‘But who knows, perhaps your husband met his death at Barnet. Four thousand of the common soldiers were slain there and lie buried in a mass grave. Perhaps it’s best if he did die there.’
Kathryn caught the menace in his voice and quietly vowed to have close speech with the Irishman. She wanted no sinister lord to act as an assassin on her behalf.
‘There are other matters.’ Gloucester clapped Murtagh on the shoulder and smiled dazzlingly at Thomasina. ‘You, Mistress, don’t look so stern. I mean to help your lady.’
