The Woodville Connection

by K. E. Martin

  “‘We have little time,’ she whispered, ‘so you must listen to me and do exactly as I say.’ I gazed at her in astonishment. ‘But how come you to be here, sweeting?’ I enquired. ‘Did Plaincourt let you in?’ She hushed my words with an impatient gesture of her hands and tied a belt containing food and water around my waist. ‘There’s no time now for your foolish questions,’ she said, smiling up at me to lessen the sting of her words. ‘There is a horse waiting for you outside, you must be gone with all speed. Plaincourt has sent to Lincoln for the King’s justices, you’re to be tried and hanged as soon as they get here.’

  “‘But I did not harm Geoffrey, I swear it on my sacred love for you,’ I told her. ‘You must believe me.’

  “‘Muttonhead!’ she laughed then. ‘Of course I believe you, why else do you think I am here? Do you imagine I would aid the escape of dear Geoffrey’s murderer? Now come,’ she urged, ‘no more talking. You must flee forthwith.’

  “I followed her from the dismal cell into the blackness of the night outside. Blanche snuffed out her candle and we were eaten up by darkness. I could see nothing before or behind me but Blanche grasped my hand and led me unerringly across the grass to where the horse was saddled and waiting.

  “The speed of events had addled my wits and I floundered like a stricken fish against the shoals of her audacity. ‘Where am I to go?’ I asked her. ‘I have no friend in all England but for you.’ She paused for a moment, leaning her gorgeous silken head against my breast. ‘I have a thought,’ she said after a long moment. ‘If all you have told me of your past is true, there is one person who not only has the influence to help you now but will do so gladly in gratitude for your past services to him.’ As I said, my brain was working slowly and I gaped at her most stupidly. ‘Sharpen your wits, Will,’ she hissed, ‘your life depends on them! You must ride with all haste to Richard of Gloucester and throw yourself on his mercy.’

  “I gaped at Blanche, gradually remembering how, one evening when I had been nestling in her sweet arms, I had related to her the old story of your flight to the Low Countries, my lord, and the part I had played in the adventure. She was the first living soul to whom I had confessed my true identity since my return to England. It had been, nay, still was, my intention to leave Will Fielding dead and buried but I knew I could not accept Blanche’s generous love whilst keeping such a secret from her. She agreed without hesitation that I should remain incognito and swore to speak to no one of the matter, although she ventured to suggest that Sir Stephen must have some knowledge of it since he had once mentioned in her hearing that the ruffian Will Yorke had friends in curiously high places.

  “At this I was much perplexed until I recalled that during my very first meeting with Plaincourt, when I had been hoping to win his favour, I had attempted to impress him by speaking of an old association with the Duke of Gloucester. I had given him no particulars and he had asked for none; in fact, he had seemed manifestly disinterested in the tale and had sneered at my shameless swaggering.

  “Now I realised that my dearest Blanche was right. I had never thought to see you again but my only hope of salvation lay in reaching you and putting my story before you. ‘Ride to Middleham,’ Blanche commanded me as I swung up onto the mount she had provided. ‘And ride fast.’

  “‘Aye loveday, that I will, for it makes more sense than aught else I can think of,’ I whispered back to her, ‘but what of you? How will you fare once I am gone? Will you not be blamed for my escape?’

  “I felt rather than saw the defiant shrug of her pretty shoulders as she made her brave reply. ‘What can they do to me, Will? If they guess I aided you, I shall tell them I know you to be innocent and see no crime in freeing you. I can take care of myself, Will, have no fear.’

  “I did fear for her, most dreadfully, but she would brook no further argument and after one last kiss laid a smack on the horse’s flank that started me on my way to Middleham. And so I stand before you, my lord Duke, a fugitive from those who would accuse me of young Geoffrey Plaincourt’s murder. Before Almighty God, I tell you that I am innocent and I beseech you to intercede and help me show the world that I am blameless.”

  Chapter 3

  Embarking on a Journey

  I scratched the last few words with frantic haste across the sheet of parchment and tossed my quill aside with undisguised relief. There was an intolerable ache in my right arm and the tender stretch of skin beneath my eyes felt as weighty as an ugly maiden’s dowry. I yawned noisily to fill the silence that had continued after Fielding’s final words. If I did not reach my bed within the next few minutes I feared for my reputation as the comeliest man at Middleham. My lord of Gloucester glanced at me and smiled, guessing correctly that I was eager for my bed.

  “You have given me much to muse on,” he said to Will “but now the hour grows late. I see you are a hair’s breadth from exhaustion. Get you some rest at once and we shall speak again on the morrow.

  “Francis,” he turned to me, “I would be obliged if you would stay with me awhile to discuss some other business.”

  My dear friend Dickon could be heedless of my comfort when the occasion called and it seemed that this was one such time. I knew full well there were no pressing matters to discuss and he knew how I longed for sleep but he wanted my opinion of Fielding’s account and would have it whether it suited me or no. The only person who could have rescued me then was the Duchess Anne and she, sensible lady, had long since retired to her bed. Since there was to be no escape, I revived myself with a draught of Gloucester’s finest Rhenish and focused all my attention on the task in hand.

  A sleepy page, hastily summoned, led Fielding away to his billet and when he had gone my lord fell at once to examining his story.

  “Well, Francis, do we believe this improbable history? That is to say, do we believe Fielding is innocent of the murder of this tragic child, for I see no reason to question the rest of his tale.”

  I moved my head in tired agreement.

  “The account of his supposed death in a tavern brawl fits well with what your lady mother was told. I find it passing strange that any sensible man would spurn the chance of a generous reward from the King’s own mother and yet there was undoubted sincerity in his voice as he described his feeling of unworthiness. I am inclined to agree with you, that part of his tale is true, my lord.”

  As I concluded, Gloucester shot me a glance of ill-concealed impatience.

  “How many times, Francis, must I ask you to call me Dickon when we are alone? Why must you make me ask it again on each successive occasion? All this my lording prevents us from speaking freely, friend to friend. Come, Francis, you are my equal tonight. Share your thoughts with me.”

  I was tempted to tell him then, as his equal, that I was in sore need of sleep and would share my thoughts on this other matter in the morning but my well-developed sense of self-preservation stayed my tongue. Besides, I was, in all honesty, as intrigued by the mystery as he. Flashing the Duke a look of injured innocence, I returned to my dissection of Fielding’s story.

  “I can credit it all up to his arrival at Plaincourt Manor. After that, the tale plunges deep into the realms of purest fancy. He avers that Sir Stephen hired him to torment the boy and drive him to despair but has not a shred of evidence to support the allegation.

  “Next, he introduces to his improbable yarn an earthly angel who is goodness and purity personified but who nonetheless fornicates with our unwholesome hero in the chamber of their tender charge while he is sleeping.

  “Then, on the morn that the boy is found dead, despite his protestations that he drinks but little our Pretty Will is discovered dead drunk on the chamber floor. When questioned he can recall nothing about the events of the preceding evening that will help explain the circumstances of the hapless lad’s death. Why, Dickon, ‘tis a tale that would stretch the credence of an addle-witted virgin. None but a fool would believe it.”

  This was audacious of me, I’ll admit, but som
etimes I found it diverting to bait my noble master, to test whether the ties of our boyhood friendship would stretch sufficiently to shield me from the famous Plantagenet temper. As I finished speaking I watched him closely to see if he would react as I had supposed. I was not to be disappointed. My lord of Gloucester flushed slightly and twisted one of the rings on his middle finger, then fixed me with that intense grey gaze of his.

  “But I believe him, Francis, as you well know. Am I then a fool?”

  It was a reasonable question and the obvious answer was yes, if you accept Fielding’s story, then yes my lord, you are a fool. Only, I had known Richard of Gloucester intimately all my life. He was a stubborn man and was not to be shifted once he had determined on a course of action. Swift and decisive in matters of justice, generous and considerate towards his retainers, nevertheless on the field of battle his enemies knew him as a fierce and relentless opponent. For his family he felt a burning devotion and loyalty that manifested itself most strongly in the shining adoration he felt for his brother, King Edward. He was a kind and loving husband and the best friend a man could ever have. Above all, he was no fool.

  “Dickon,” said I, feeling somewhat chastened by the tone of mild reproach with which he had asked the question. “Dickon, if your instincts lead you to put your faith in the veracity of Fielding’s anecdote then I accept it also. You well know that there is no man in the land whose judgement I trust better than your own. But even supposing it is the truth, have you considered the greater implications of meddling in this affair? Fielding, or Yorke as he now styles himself, is wanted by the King’s men. If you give him succour you could be accused of committing an act of treason against your royal brother. Think how your enemies would feast on that!”

  I paused for a moment to draw breath and Gloucester leapt into the breach. Dolt that I was, I was blissfully unaware of the trap he was smoothly setting before me.

  “You speak wisely, Francis, as ever. Were it put about that Pretty Will was my guest here at Middleham, it would not look well for me. And yet, I think it safe enough, for who is to know that he is here? Only the Mistress Blanche and she, having affected his escape in the first place, is unlikely to betray his whereabouts. No, I am quite decided on the matter. Will remains at Middleham until his innocence is proven.”

  Quick as a beggar falling on scattered alms, I pounced on the obvious flaw in his reasoning and thus tripped headlong into his snare.

  “Ah, but Fielding is known to have links with you!” I crowed, delighted to have out-thought the Duke for once. “By his own admission, the fool once bragged to Plaincourt of his close connection to you. He is not known to have any other connections in all of England. For sure, his pursuers may suppose he will head for the coast and take ship to the Low Countries but I’ll warrant they’ll also send men here. And what then, Dickon? What then?”

  So delighted was I with my cleverness that I did not at once notice the sly smile adorning my lord’s face.

  “Quite right, Francis,” he grinned, “I should have thought of that. How lucky I am to have you to protect me from myself.”

  There were times, and this was one of them, when I could have cuffed my sardonic lord and master clean between his princely eyes and not known a second’s remorse.

  “So it seems I may not keep Will with me,” he continued, graciously ignoring my embarrassment. “Therefore, I must send him into hiding somewhere else, a place not too far from Middleham, to be sure, for I may wish to send messages to him from time to time. As it happens, I have the very place in mind.”

  Well, that is a surprise, I thought, but wisely kept the words unspoken.

  “Of course, I can hardly take him there myself, Francis,” he concluded, trying to look at me with a guileless expression on his face and failing damnably.

  “You want me to escort him to this handy bolt-hole?” I suggested, and was rewarded by the full radiance of the ducal smile.

  “This man saved my life once,” he told me seriously, “and though in truth I can conceive of no viler offence than the callous murder of a helpless child, yet I owe it to him to do all that is possible to prove his innocence. Besides, I know full well the soft heart that beats inside that toughened carcase. He is no murderer, I’ll stake my soul on it.”

  I confess I was moved, in spite of the prejudicial feelings I harboured towards the bothersome oaf.

  “If we are to avoid prying eyes, it’s best we make an early start,” I said rather gruffly, “so with your leave, I think it best that we retire now.”

  Side by side we made our way to the doorway and then Gloucester stopped me.

  “We must talk some more before you set out, Francis, for I confess there is another boon I’d ask of you.”

  Another earnest, almost pleading glance was directed towards me but I was ready for him this time. My friend would spring no further surprises on me this night.

  “When do I set out for Plaincourt?” I enquired.

  Gloucester’s laughter accompanied me along the narrow passage of the Northwest Tower and up the winding staircase to my chamber.

  ***

  I slept sound that night, much sounder than I would have done had I known where Gloucester intended me to journey on the morrow. Where my lord thought to hide Will Fielding I knew not, except that it would be no more than a hard day’s ride from Middleham. My curiosity on this point was negligible; what really tugged at my fancy was the prospect of the journey into Lincolnshire to meet Sir Stephen Plaincourt. As Gloucester had never encountered the fellow it seemed probable that he rarely visited Court although I realised that since the Woodville clan had risen to prominence, the same could well be said of my lord. There was no reason why Plaincourt and Dickon’s paths should have crossed but I regretted that they had not, since it would have been useful to have had an unbiased opinion of the man.

  Plaincourt interested me. Fielding had described him as comely and elegant, a smooth and plausible liar. It occurred to me that much the same description could be applied to myself, certainly by those who were envious of my good looks and easy charm. Could it be possible that Fielding disliked Plaincourt for no better reason than that the one was irredeemably ugly and the other was not? Judging by the fellow’s hostility to me earlier that evening, the supposition was entirely plausible.

  I was also intrigued by the notion of Mistress Blanche. A virtuous and handsome woman, so far gone in love with the loathsome Fielding that she coupled with him in a stench-ridden sick chamber, the very idea was beyond belief. Even King Edward’s capering fool could not have concocted a more ridiculous suggestion had his worthless skin depended on it. Blanche, I felt sure, must be a boot-faced hag who had succeeded in blinding Fielding to her imperfections by granting him sexual favours. Either that, or she was a diseased harlot in need of a protector after contracting the pox. My flesh crawled at the very thought. Sweet Jesu! If that was the case, even Pretty Will was too good for such a one. I fell asleep pondering the horrors of the French pox, appreciating more than ever the blunt advice once given me by the late Earl of Warwick.

  “There’ll be times, my boy,” he had said, “when you’ll be tempted to plunge your meaty sword into any tasty pudding you find on the street. You must resist these urges, lad, and take care to besport yourself only with virtuous maidens. Wanton trulls oft leave a more lasting memory than the pleasure of the brief tumble you take with them. Be sure to have a care.”

  It was sound advice which I had always followed, having made myself a solemn pledge to frolic with ladies of none but the most unblemished reputation. Surprisingly enough, the resolution proved much easier to accomplish than I had supposed and over the last three or four years several seemingly virtuous maidens had shown themselves more than willing to learn the rites of passion from me before settling down to respectable domesticity with old and flatulent spouses.

  In the morning, I dressed myself for the coming adventure with a little more than my customary care. Over a linen shirt I donned my
new blue velvet doublet, cut in the Burgundian fashion with long, tight sleeves and flattering high neck. Over this I placed my favourite crimson jerkin, fastening it about the hips with the handsome jewelled girdle my lord had presented to me on the occasion of his marriage. With black hose, a fur-lined cloak of midnight blue and tall buckled travelling boots completing the outfit, I knew I cut a magnificent figure.

  I dallied for a moment over my choice of hat but settled at last for the simple black felt, removing with some regret the silver and ruby brooch that customarily adorned the upturned brim. No point in making myself a target for every scurvy villain on the road, I told myself, as I placed the bauble into the folds of an embroidered kerchief and tucked this for safekeeping into the pointed toe of an old pair of shoes. Vastly pleased with my appearance, I fairly swaggered down the winding staircase and entered the great hall with a mighty flourish.

  “By all the saints!” the Duke exclaimed as he caught sight of me in the doorway.

  “Look, Anne,” he called to the Duchess seated by his side, “here’s a pretty fellow come to visit us! Who can he be, I wonder? For sure, when I heard the footsteps I had expected to see the musician Francis Cranley walk through that door but this gentleman is so grand and fancy, ‘tis plain he is no humble minstrel.

  “Sir, are you by chance related to my royal brother’s kin by marriage, the worthy Woodville clan? By the Blessed Virgin, if your hair was fairer you could be Earl Rivers himself for I’ll swear his tailor turns him out in nothing finer than your garb.”

  This morning Gloucester’s humour was as heavy as a prior’s breakfast but all the same the loyal Duchess smiled faintly at his words.