Dark Queen Waiting

by Paul Doherty

  Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, sat in the high-back chair in her bedchamber which stood on the first gallery of her elegant riverside mansion. The room, like everything in the house, was exquisitely refined, be it the blue and gold arras hanging against the pink-washed walls or the thick, deep scarlet turkey rugs which almost covered the highly polished elm-wood floor. The gold-edged four-poster bed, tables, aumbries and small cabinets, caskets and coffers were a dark oaken-brown, their polished wood gleaming in the fluttering light of a host of beeswax candles placed on spigots around the room. The fragrance of the pure melting wax mingled with the perfumed smoke curling from the small herb pots and braziers, their glowing charcoal sprinkled with the dust of crushed flowers plucked and prepared the previous summer. Margaret, garbed in grey like a nun, her thin, expressive face framed by a snow-white wimple, slowly threaded amber ave beads. She stared intently at the two men seated before her; these were her council, the only men she could really trust. Christopher Urswicke, dressed in dark jerkin and hose, the collar of his cambric shirt pulled high under his clean-shaven chin. A good-looking, almost beautiful young man, Urswicke had an open, smooth, boyish face, blue-eyed and sweet lipped. He looked much younger than his twenty-six years, an impression heightened by his tousled auburn hair. Urswicke sat languidly, his cloak and warbelt laid over a coffer, his spurred riding boots placed in the tiled window embrasure next to those of his companion, Reginald Bray. The latter was close faced with deep hooded eyes. Bray was swarthy, even sallow, his beard and moustache closely trimmed, his hair, black as a raven’s wing, tied neatly in a queue behind him.

  Margaret continued to sit and stare as she let her sharp mind turn over the business in hand. She was confident that this chamber was sealed. No eavesdropper could lurk. No Judas man hungry for reward could slink close, hungry for any juicy tit-bit to pass on to his masters. God knows there was enough for them to feast on: as Margaret had conceded to these two confidants, she was steeped in treason and the danger of discovery and punishment hung over her like the executioner’s axe. But that did not deter Margaret. She recognised the times and the place. This was not the hour or the occasion for sharp sword-play and blood-soaked conflict. No, this was the time for intrigue, plot and counterplot, deceit and deception. She must wear masks and move cautiously as she threaded her way through a murderous maze to celebrate her vision, her dream of a Tudor, her son, enthroned at Westminster wearing the Confessor’s crown as his right.

  ‘Mistress,’ Urswicke cleared his throat, ‘Mistress we are here …’

  ‘Yes, yes, we are here, my friends, in close and secret council.’ Margaret drew a deep breath. ‘Christopher, Reginald, what we say here, what we will discuss is high treason which could incur all the dire and dreadful penalties of the law. Of course,’ Margaret smiled thinly, ‘if what we plot is successful, then it will not be treason. So let us begin. Today is the eighteenth of October, the year of our Lord 1471, the Feast of St Luke the Evangelist. Autumn has come and the horrors of last summer are past. Here in this kingdom the House of York reigns supreme. Edward the warrior King is supported by his Woodville wife and a host of henchmen, be it his wife’s wolf pack or the likes of Hastings, Howard of Norfolk and the rest. Edward so far has kept the support of the city and the kingdom and, above all, Holy Mother Church, who views Edward as sitting on the right hand of the power, God’s anointed, vindicated by battle. In the meantime,’ Margaret tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, her raging anger against what was, when it should be so different, ‘we of the House of Lancaster now eat the hard bread of disgrace and sip the bitter wine of exile. Lancaster has been depleted. My kinsmen, Beaufort of Somerset and the rest are no more. The bloody defeat at Tewkesbury saw to that. The same is true of possible allies, such as Neville Earl of Warwick, the self-styled Kingmaker, killed outright at Barnet. The true King, my son Henry, now shelters in Brittany, the guest of Duke Francis who will keep him safe. What I say is true – yes?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, mistress,’ Bray replied. ‘Our enemies wax powerful.’

  ‘But York is not so strong,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘True, Edward is supported by his henchmen, in particular Richard of Gloucester. But the other brother,’ Urswicke smiled bleakly, ‘George of Clarence is as treacherous as they come. He sees himself as the rightful King of England, France,’ Urswicke flailed a hand, ‘and whatever.’

  ‘We shall come to him in a while,’ Margaret murmured, sifting through the documents piled on the small chancery table to her right. ‘In the meantime, we shall plot. My son Henry is in exile with his uncle Jasper. He has few friends and even fewer allies. The rest, well they have gone into the dark.’ Margaret lifted her ave beads. ‘God rest them.’

  ‘And God bless us.’

  ‘Yes, Reginald, but let’s give God a little help. Now, as you may know, a cohort of Welsh horsemen joined our array just before Tewkesbury, a battle group which assumed the name of the Red Dragon. A logical choice,’ she shrugged, ‘as they all came from Wales. They were about twenty in number. All mailed clerks, young men who had studied in the halls of Oxford or Cambridge. Many of them were secretly patronised by me. I provided money and purveyance. They are totally loyal to the Tudor cause.’

  ‘I have heard of these, fierce fighters but …’

  ‘Listen, Christopher, they joined Somerset’s army and, before the Battle of Tewkesbury, they gathered in a local church where they took a solemn oath to fight as a battle group under the standard of the Red Dragon. They also swore to seek out and destroy Edward of York and his two brothers Richard and George. Especially the latter who, as you well know, joined the House of Lancaster and then just as blithely betrayed us to return to the bosom of his family.’

  ‘They failed …’

  ‘Christopher, I assure you, it wasn’t through lack of trying and, because of that, they are specially hated by York. Now some of the battle group were killed in the slaughter. A few fled the kingdom whilst the rest went into hiding. Recently, with my support, they emerged from the shadows and took sanctuary in a number of churches across London.’

  ‘Some, however, have been caught and slain, including those two men stabbed and hanged at Walton.’

  ‘Yes, Reginald. One of my son’s most trusted allies, De Vere of Oxford brought them from La Rochelle in Brittany to land in Essex.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘You know this and the outcome. Two of them were taken and killed.’

  ‘I wonder how,’ Urswicke interjected tapping the hilt of his dagger, ‘I really do. And, why my father, Recorder of London and one of York’s most loyal henchmen in the city, should be involved. My father the guildsman,’ Christopher added bitterly, ‘locksmith, cabinet-maker, councillor, alderman. Oh my father has climbed the greasy pole and never once slipped. What was he doing there?’ Christopher paused, rocking gently backwards and forwards. Bray watched him from the corner of his eye. Christopher Urswicke had never forgotten or forgiven how his dissolute father, with his ever so handsome face, ready smile and sweet tongue, had driven his wife, Christopher’s mother, to an early grave. Or that is what Christopher passionately believed, as he did that Margaret Beaufort had done all in her power to assist Christopher’s mother, especially during those last mournful days of sickness.

  ‘Father against son,’ Bray murmured, ‘son against father: that’s what this kingdom has come to.’

  ‘No my friend,’ Urswicke replied sharply, ‘my father and I would be daggers drawn even if we met, though I doubt if we ever will,’ he added dryly, ‘on the streets of Paradise.’

  ‘Does he know the truth of this situation?’ Bray demanded. ‘I mean …’

  ‘No, no.’ Urswicke shook his head. ‘Only our mistress and your good self know the truth. You see Father thinks I am like him. I have created my own God in my own heart, namely myself. Consequently, I have no loyalty, no real allegiance, no firm commitment except to my own advancement, be it at his expense or anybody else’s, including yours, mistress.’

  ‘Now,�
� Margaret smiled, ‘I know the truth, Christopher, and that, my friends, is what we are now pursuing.’

  ‘My father,’ Urswicke declared, ‘is Recorder of London, one of the Crown’s most important justices, yet he led a comitatus from London across the wilds of Essex to seize four men.’

  ‘Because York trusts him,’ Bray countered. ‘Edward and his ilk realise Essex is not as warm in its support for them as it should be, that’s one of the reasons De Vere chose Walton as a landing place.’

  ‘And so did I.’ Margaret moved the ave beads from one hand to another. ‘You saw those two men die barbarously. Your father, Christopher, realised how important those four men were and their loss is a grievous blow. But, that’s not enough. Somebody betrayed us, even though I kept such information to myself until the last moment. I did not even share it with you until I had to.’

  ‘You told us to be at a certain place on a certain night,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘And so we were. You informed us that four retainers of your beloved son would come ashore at Walton-on-the-Naze. We were to meet them and bring them to London.’

  ‘And of course you must now wonder why?’

  ‘Certainly, since our return yesterday.’

  ‘You encountered no trouble Reginald, I mean on your journey back?’

  ‘None, mistress. So tell us what that was all about?’

  ‘The battle group – the banner of the Red Dragon, were a cohort of friends. A few of these escaped to join my son in Brittany. They became close, loyal guards of my beloved son. Now the leader of the cohort was a Welshman, Gareth Morgan, a mailed clerk trained in the law, a former member of the Middle Temple. Morgan was born and bred in the House of Tudor. A good friend of my beloved husband.’ Margaret swiftly crossed herself. ‘Morgan left a family in Wales, I believe his mother and daughter still live there. Anyway, Morgan joined Lancaster’s retinue and was caught up in our disastrous defeat at Townton some ten years ago. Morgan was taken prisoner by a cohort of mercenaries fighting for York. These were led by a truly nightmare soul, a freebooter known as Zeigler who’d soon won a hideous reputation for his ill-treatment and abuse of prisoners. Zeigler loved nothing better than to comb the battlefield for enemy wounded and, when he did, God help those poor souls. Zeigler was a man to be truly feared.’

  ‘Yes, yes I have heard that name,’ Bray murmured. ‘Tales and stories from old soldiers. Apparently Zeigler was a true blood-drinker with a deep hunger, a sharp appetite for deaths, other people’s.’

  ‘And Morgan?’ Urswicke demanded.

  ‘During the battle of Townton, some ten years ago, Morgan was captured by Zeigler who thrust him into a bear pit. The beast was not one of those placid, trained creatures that dance to the reedy tune of a pipe. No, no! This was a huge, ferocious animal. Morgan was severely mauled. He was only saved by a priest visiting the tavern where Zeigler had set up court. The priest intervened. He was no ordinary cleric but a royal chaplain patronised by the House of York. Austin Richards.’ Margaret pulled a face. ‘We will meet that name again. Richards carried York’s seal and used his power so Morgan was pulled out of the bear pit. He had suffered multiple wounds, particularly to his face, where some of the flesh had been clawed away. A local wise woman, a leech worked a miracle. Morgan survived. He recovered, though ever since then he wears a specially woven mask over his face.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now, Christopher, Morgan has taken the title Pembroke after the lands we Tudors hold and where his family farmed. Pembroke is now both his home and his title. He is a most fervent adherent to the House of Tudor. A soul, kinsman Jasper trusts implicitly.’

  ‘And he and the other three were sent with messages to you?’

  ‘No, Christopher, they were despatched to help extricate their comrades from England. Pembroke led the Red Dragon Battle Group. After his cohort was shattered at Tewkesbury, its members, including Pembroke, fled for their lives. He and others reached safety but the rest, about six in number, went into hiding until the furore of the recent conflict subsided. A few days ago, at my insistence while you were away at Walton, the remaining members of the battle group broke cover and, as I said, took sanctuary in different London churches.’ Margaret paused to sip from a goblet on the table beside her. ‘I have told you this already but it is important. I am using what influence I can to arrange that all five sanctuary men …’

  ‘I thought you said six?’

  ‘Ah, I shall come to that, Christopher,’ she replied brusquely. ‘I have petitioned the Bishop of London that all five, being sanctuary men, are under the protection of Holy Mother Church. Accordingly, they and any more of the battle group who take sanctuary should be allowed to leave England safely and securely on the understanding that they never return on pain of death. Of course,’ she breathed, ‘they will return, not by themselves but in an army led by my son.’

  ‘And, if all goes well,’ Bray demanded, ‘where will all these sanctuary men muster?’

  ‘In four days’ time, in the courtyard of All Hallows Church near the Tower. They will then be escorted out of the city, across Essex, to the same place you recently visited, Walton-on-the-Naze.’

  ‘And who will be their escort?’ Christopher smiled bleakly. ‘My father and a cohort of his bully boys from the Guildhall?’

  ‘In a word, yes. The sanctuary men, as we should now call them, will be escorted through Cripplegate, along Mile End to Bow Church, then take the trackways across the fringes of Epping Forest towards Colchester: their destination is the disused and derelict royal manor of Thorpe. After that, it’s a short walk to Walton which provides a natural inlet, good clear water and is fairly safe whatever the tides. On the Feast of St Simon and Jude which, as you know falls at the end of the month, the Breton merchantman The Galicia, under its master Savereaux, will appear and despatch a boat to take them on board.’ Margaret heaved a sigh. ‘I have negotiated all this with the Bishop of London’s principal henchman Archdeacon Blackthorne.’ Margaret held up her ave beads so they could see the crucifix attached to the end of the chain. ‘Thank God Holy Mother Church so jealously and zealously guards its privileges, and that includes the right to sanctuary. Moreover, not only are these survivors of the battle group sanctuary men, but three of them are tonsured clerks having received minor orders and, as such, are subject to church courts rather than those of the Crown.’

  ‘Yet they are not truly safe?’ Urswicke’s question hung like a noose in the air and the countess’s face betrayed her own agitation. She just sat back in her chair, as if listening to the faint sounds of her mansion bounded on the south by the busy river and to the north by a tangle of narrow runnels leading into the city.

  ‘They are not safe,’ Urswicke repeated. ‘Their departure will be regulated by the most stringent ordinances. If any, or all of them, try to leave their designated route, clerks or not, they can be killed on sight.’

  ‘True, true.’ The countess sighed.

  ‘Why are these men so important?’ Bray demanded.

  ‘Oh, for many reasons. They are mailed clerks, skilled in both the chancery and the tourney yard; they support my son without reservation. They hail from families in Wales who foster and cherish loyalty to the House of Tudor.’ Margaret sat, head down, then glanced up. ‘Surely, gentlemen, in this dark vale of bitter tears, such experience, such loyalty must be treasured? All of them have been declared “utlegati” – beyond the law, wolfsheads worthy of immediate death.’ She shrugged. ‘They live deep in the shadows, not even you are acquainted with all of them. Some you have met, others come and go as quietly as a watch in the night. They are more Lord Jasper’s people than mine. However, what we all hold in common trust are the God-given rights of my son Henry. We need to get such men safely back to him.’

  ‘And you can do all this,’ Christopher asked, ‘despatch these men out of the kingdom and not incur York’s displeasure?’

  ‘I’ve already incurred that for being who I am and what I do. But, in essence, I am doing noth
ing wrong except petitioning Holy Mother Church to protect certain retainers who have legitimately invoked its protection. Oh, York may fume and threaten but so what? They would love to kill the retainers of the Red Dragon, annihilate a battle group which threatened their King. They will undoubtedly strive to seize any opportunity for mischief. However, if they cannot do this, they will at least rid the kingdom of such an enemy, and that is where you, Christopher, will play such an important role. I want you to accompany these sanctuary men to Thorpe Manor. I want you, as much as you can, to protect and sustain them. I may well accompany you. I have yet to decide that. Finally, and most importantly, I want you to keep a sharp eye on your father Sir Thomas; I do believe he will lead this sorry procession out of London.’

  Urswicke nodded in agreement: his father was cringingly loyal to York. Sir Thomas would love to take the credit for ridding the kingdom, one way or the other, of men so valued by the House of Tudor. He would adorn himself in his fur-lined woollen robes and lead this procession out of the city, but to what? Oh yes, Urswicke reflected, his father would seek any opportunity to settle scores with the Countess Margaret.

  ‘You do realise,’ Bray spoke up, ‘and I am sure Christopher thinks the same, that this will not flow smoothly?’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ Margaret murmured. ‘I don’t believe Sir Thomas will travel through the autumn countryside just to say farewell. Something will happen. Some mischief is being plotted: some bloody conclusion to all this. But, for the life of me, I cannot decide what.’

  ‘I should go too.’

  ‘No Reginald, I need you in London on other business that’s come upon us. Christopher, you will need your sharp mind and keen wits but you will be helped. Two men escaped the ambuscade at Walton. Pembroke and Guido Vavasour. They became separated. God knows where Guido is hiding but Pembroke made his way to London and now hides deep in the city. Naturally Pembroke’s despair has deepened. There is no doubt that the disaster at Walton was plotted. Pembroke, like Vavasour, has little confidence in anyone. Now,’ Margaret pointed to the hour candle flaring under its copper-topped glass case, ‘Pembroke will soon be here. So let me continue. I mentioned six of the Red Dragon Battle Group but there are now only five. Last night Jacob Cromart, a leading member of that cohort, a mailed clerk highly skilled in the use of secret ciphers, was found murdered, killed by a crossbow bolt to his heart. This murder occurred in a church, St Michael’s near the Thames, where Cromart had claimed sanctuary.