by Paul Doherty
‘I surely shall,’ the countess retorted.
Christopher glanced quickly at his mistress as he detected a hint of mockery in her reply.
‘In which case,’ Clarence declared, ‘this present business is finished and we have reached an accord. Dear brother,’ Clarence extended his hand for Gloucester to grasp, which he did, albeit reluctantly, ‘I swear dear brother,’ Clarence intoned, ‘I swear by all that’s holy that I have no knowledge of the whereabouts of Lady Anne Neville.’
Gloucester nodded in agreement and Edward extended both hands to cup those of his two brothers. Urswicke watched this drama intently. He wished Bray was present, to study and assess what was happening, but the countess’s steward had been ordered to stay with other lackeys in the atrium below. Urswicke turned to the countess but she made no sign, lost in her own deep thoughts. Urswicke was genuinely mystified. Anne Neville had disappeared. Most of the gossip would point an accusing finger at Clarence who had so much to gain from that young woman’s disappearance. Nevertheless, Urswicke was not too sure, watching that perverse prince, Urswicke was certain that Clarence, probably for the first time in his life, was actually telling the truth.
The meeting ended, the royal brothers deep in conversation with the Recorder. Straining his ears, Christopher was certain he heard something about what was happening below outside the White Tower.
‘Come.’ Margaret rose, proffering her hand for Christopher to take. ‘My friend,’ she whispered, ‘this masque, this mummery is not yet over. Whilst we have been here, they have been preparing something for us. I wager it is not pleasant. Some threat, some warning, some menace …’
They followed the others out of the chamber and down the great, sweeping steps into the bailey, which stretched around the soaring White Tower. Bray joined them, slipping beside the countess as silently as a shadow, nodding at Christopher but then looking away, face impassive to watch the drama unfolding around them. The day was drawing on. A biting breeze blew rain into their faces. The royal party had moved to stand at the foot of the great execution platform erected between the Tower and the grey-stoned, grim-looking Chapel of St Peter in Chains. Sir Thomas caught sight of them. He raised a hand, smiled and strolled across, as if welcoming them to Yuletide festivities. Christopher realised that this stage had been set on their behalf. The soaring, three-branched scaffold, the noose dangling from one of its arms, the gibbet ladder resting against the main beam and the red-masked executioners. The hangmen, garbed in bottle-green leather, waited patiently at the foot of the ladder, holding wrist cords in their gauntleted hands.
‘Vavasour,’ Sir Thomas breezed, ‘Vavasour the traitor is to be hanged, swiftly condemned by the justiciars. His Grace and his brothers wish to witness the well-deserved execution of a traitor who committed himself to the destruction and extermination of the entire House of York.’
‘Tried and found guilty before the Guildhall justices.’ Mauclerc, who’d followed Sir Thomas across, declared gleefully, rubbing his hands and gazing malevolently at the countess.
‘God rest the poor man,’ she whispered.
‘Sympathy for a traitor, madam?’ Mauclerc taunted.
‘No sir. Compassion for another human being. But you wouldn’t know what that was, would you?’
Mauclerc took a step forward, his hand falling to the warbelt he had just strapped on. Any further conversation was stilled by the braying of war horns and the ominous beat of a drum from the dark caverns beneath the White Tower. A door was flung open. The horn blowers, with the drummer between them, all garbed like the Figure of Death, came up the steps. This macabre cortege was followed by two of the hangmen’s apprentices dragging a prisoner with ropes tied tightly about him. The man’s hair and beard were dirt-clogged. As he came into the fading light, the prisoner raised his head, mouth gaping to reveal a bloody mess where his tongue and teeth had been. Urswicke grabbed the countess’s elbow and steadied her as she whispered a prayer. Urswicke quietly cursed. Bray kept silent, just gently rubbing his mistress’s arm as if this would dispel all these terrors. The countess called out. ‘Guido.’ The prisoner turned towards the countess; he opened his mouth to speak but could only make a chilling, rasping sound.
‘Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy,’ Margaret murmured, staring at the pathetic relic of what had once been Guido Vavasour, a jovial, dashing young man with quick wit, a prodigious memory and courtly ways. Guido, despite the pain of his shattered mouth, recognised the countess. He broke free of his guards and, before they could seize him, he knelt at the countess’s feet, straining at the ropes around his chest. He raised his hands, bound at the wrist, fingers splayed to cover his face. He then repeated that chilling, rasping sound of a voice which could not be understood, of words that could never be formed. His captors pulled at the ropes but Vavasour still persisted, hands raised, fingers splayed, as if he wished to hide his ravished face, eyes gleaming frenetically between the gaps. Vavasour was eventually dragged away to the foot of the steps and pushed up onto the execution platform. Here the hangman freed the prisoner’s wrists to bind his hands behind his back. Vavasour no longer resisted. He was thrust up the ladder, the executioner clambering alongside him to drape the thick noose over his head and tighten it fast around his throat.
Sir Thomas Urswicke had also climbed onto the platform and in a loud carrying voice proclaimed how ‘Guido Vavasour, a self-condemned, malignant traitor, a malefactor, an outlaw who had fought under the treasonable banner of the Red Dragon and so committed himself to the destruction of our noble King Edward …’ The Recorder spoke swiftly and, once he had finished, gestured at the drummer who began to slowly beat his tambour. The drumming rose to a crescendo and stopped. The hangman swiftly descended the gibbet ladder then gave it a twist, so Vavasour was left dangling and kicking in the air. The countess did not watch: she bowed her head reciting the ‘De Profundis’, whilst Urswicke watched Vavasour kick and twist until at last he hung still.
‘So die all traitors,’ the Recorder proclaimed, staring down at the countess. ‘Such will be the fate of all who plot against our noble King …’
Christopher Urswicke stared into the dancing flames leaping so fiercely in the hearth of his mistress’s bedchamber. He watched the logs split in the heat and the fire burn the small leather pouches of dried herbs so puffs of fragrant smoke curled out to sweeten the air. Urswicke eased his feet, now free of the boots which, with his cloak and warbelt, stood on a coffer behind him. He glanced to his right. Countess Margaret was still deeply withdrawn after that brutal execution, as well as the news Urswicke had related about the murderous attack upon them in The Rose and Crown, followed by their visit to St Michael’s. They had left the Tower soon after Vavasour’s death, openly ignored by the Yorkist warlords: these clustered around the Recorder, offering their congratulations whilst toasting Vavasour’s corpse with goblets of hot, spiced wine. Margaret and her henchmen had hastened down to the quayside and hired a barge to take them along the riverbank. They disembarked at the water-gate of the countess’s mansion and hurried up here, silent and very subdued. During their journey, Bray had hardly uttered a word, sitting in the barge, his sallow face laced with sweat, lost in his own thoughts. Only then did Urswicke recall a story that Bray had once been half hanged, the cord mark around his throat remained hidden though the bungled execution had seared his soul.
‘Lord have mercy on his soul,’ Urswicke prayed, wanting to break the ominous silence.
‘Why did they remove his tongue?’ Bray abruptly asked. ‘Poor Vavasour. He must have been tortured in the dungeons beneath the White Tower, a true hell-hole. I understand the walls are decorated with pincers, pliers, hand-clasps and other instruments of torture. They must have used those to shatter Vavasour’s mouth. But why remove his tongue?’
‘A fitting punishment, or so they think, for the messages Vavasour used to carry, as well as a filthy mockery making him unable to plead. But,’ Margaret crossed herself, ‘now he’s gone, p
ast all pain. God rest his soul. So …’
The countess leaned forward, once again welcoming Pembroke, who’d arrived only a short while earlier. The fugitive had slipped like a ghost through the water-gate. He’d been ushered up to the countess’s chamber where, with his boots and dung collector’s mask off, he now relaxed, stretching his hands towards the hearth or, now and again, touching the delicately crafted mask hiding his face.
‘My good friend Pembroke,’ Margaret declared, ‘you now know the fate of poor Guido. So, where is his brother Robert?’
‘God knows, madam.’ Pembroke straightened in his chair. ‘He and I move like will-o’-the-wisps; indeed it’s the best way, the only way.’
‘Who do you think betrayed Guido?’ Urswicke demanded. ‘Who knew where he was hiding?’
‘No one did,’ Pembroke replied. ‘Nobody in this room knew where Guido lurked, or indeed, where I lie hidden, that’s the way we arranged it. Vavasour and I would meet at a certain time in St Paul’s graveyard near the Cross. If one of us didn’t come, then fine, we would wait for the next time. Yet, despite all this,’ Pembroke drew a deep breath, ‘I concede York seems to know more than he should. There are whispers, Christopher, that your father the Recorder heads a secret chancery council, authorised under the King’s privy seal, to receive and deal with all information about their enemies both within and without. Madam, they are hunting us. They have already inflicted great damage on the Red Dragon Battle Group. Only I and five others remain.’
‘I agree,’ Margaret sighed, drawing a set of ave beads from her belt pouch, ‘and I have deepening suspicions about what might happen on our journey to Thorpe. The Recorder calls it “a cortege” and I wonder if it really will be a funeral for our sanctuary men. As for those others joining us, I am sure, as God lives, that at least two of them will be Yorkist spies. Our future certainly looks bleak.’
‘Mistress, you may be correct.’ Pembroke shuffled his feet.
‘Speak,’ Margaret declared.
‘I went down amongst the dead men,’ Pembroke referred to those denizens of the twilight who prowl by night and hide by day, ‘I have drunk ale with the Vagabond king and his princes including the Vicar of Hell, the Parson of Purgatory and the Keeper of the Gates. You know who these are?’
‘Lords of the underworld,’ Christopher retorted. ‘They rule the slums, the mumpers’ castle, stinking cellars, and all the other havens of Hell where the city mob lurk like a ravenous pack waiting to break free.’
‘They are all of one mind,’ Pembroke declared, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Lancaster is finished. Those of our persuasion who once hid now sue for pardon. Men are ripe for betrayal and treachery. York’s spies cluster like flies over a turd. We cannot be sure of those we deal with.’ Pembroke shook his head. ‘You know that Parson Austin Richards once served in York’s retinue and was well rewarded for it?’
‘We have learnt that,’ Bray replied.
‘Ah yes, but did you know that Ratstail, that cowering, frightened felon, is deeply suspected of not only being a sneak thief but an informant, well paid and protected by the Guildhall?’
‘Sweet heavens,’ Bray whispered. ‘So Ratstail could have had a hand in Cromart’s death.’
‘Yes, yes I agree,’ Urswicke declared. ‘Hence the mystery. How could Cromart be murdered behind closed doors? Ratstail might have allowed the assassin to slip in and out. Who knows, Parson Austin may have also been involved.’
‘Whatever,’ Pembroke warned, ‘I suggest both men cannot be trusted. Perhaps I will discover more when I take sanctuary in St Michael’s. But, until I am ready, I will go back into hiding. Robert Vavasour said he would contact me when we met this morning. I told him that I would be here until the Vesper bell tolled. I believe it has. I thought I would receive some message from him but it would seem otherwise. It’s best if I go.’
‘You are still going to watch Zeigler hang?’
‘Of course, Christopher.’
Urswicke stared at the eerily masked man and thought about what had happened since he’d landed in England. Urswicke recalled the beach at Walton-on-the-Naze, the moon-washed sea, the horsemen milling about, Pembroke and Vavasour fleeing for their lives, that’s where all this mystery had begun. Now Vavasour was dead whilst Pembroke was in mortal fear of his life. No wonder he brought such dire warnings! Lancaster’s cause had been grievously damaged.
Urswicke also understood the countess’s deepening despair. Her son was in exile, her war captains either dead, imprisoned or, like Oxford, forced into exile. York was hacking at the very roots of Lancaster’s tree. The countess had confided how the surviving members of the Red Dragon Battle Group were valuable retainers, men she could trust, yet they too had been reduced to nothing. York was hunting them like a ferret would a rabbit. Was it just the destruction of these retainers or something else? On their return from the Tower he had asked the countess if Vavasour and, more especially Cromart, might have carried the Dragon Cipher. But the countess had simply shaken her head. Urswicke wondered what was truly eating at his mistress’s soul. She had become taciturn and evasive, almost as if she did not trust the world and himself included. Of course, the horrors she had just witnessed would only sour her mood. Yet there was something about that macabre masque at the Tower which intrigued him. Urswicke could not forget the hideous vision of Vavasour, fingers splayed across his face, forcing those heart-chilling sounds from his wounded, bloodied mouth. Why did Vavasour do that? What was he trying to say? Was he begging pardon, or for something else? Why was he so desperate? Urswicke stared around. Bray sat silent. The countess had her eyes closed, threading the ave beads as if reciting the rosary. Pembroke coughed as he played with a clasp on his tarred jacket. He tapped his feet as if ready to speak but paused at a knock on the door. The countess’s new maid, Edith as Urswicke had learnt, opened the door and, timid as any mouse, stood rubbing her fat stomach which strained against the fustian gown she wore.
‘What is it, Edith?’
‘Mistress, a street swallow,’ Edith paused to pat at her night-black hair, ‘he left this for you.’ Edith held out a small scroll. The countess rose, snatched it from her hand and summarily dismissed the maid, locking the door behind her. The countess peered at the small, honey-coloured scroll.
‘The docket,’ she declared, ‘provides my name and dwelling, but this is for you.’ She walked over and handed it to Pembroke who tapped the parchment.
‘It’s from Vavasour,’ he murmured. ‘Robert deliberately mixes up my name. Now I am Gareth Pembroke.’ He broke the blob of sealing wax, read its contents and passed it to Urswicke. ‘Christopher, you may find this interesting.’
‘The Devil’s Cellar in Darklin Street,’ Urswicke declared. ‘Robert wants to meet you, something urgent to impart. You had best go.’ Pembroke rose to his feet. ‘Gentlemen, do you wish to accompany me? I would certainly appreciate your presence and protection.’
Both men agreed. They made their farewells of the countess and left her mansion. There was no sign of the street sparrow who’d delivered his message and promptly disappeared. Darkness had fallen and, as they made their way through the labyrinth of stinking streets and runnels, Urswicke sensed how the city had changed to greet the night. This was the hour of the knife, the garrotte and the club. London’s underworld had opened its gates to disgorge all the nightmare predators on to the city streets. An eerie silence had descended, shattered by the sounds of the night; dogs howled from their kennels, cats scratched and scrabbled at the steaming midden heaps in their frenetic hunt for the vermin who sloped dark and humped across their path.
Flashes of light illuminated dire scenes: a whore standing in a doorway, skirts all hitched; two urchins, skeletal and fearsome, one pushing an old man in a wheelbarrow whilst the other carried a clacking dish. A beggar fondling his dog and the watchers, silent as ghosts, men and women who waited, studying whoever passed. These hunters of the night were keen to seek a weakness yet wary less their prey turn pre
dator. Strange, eerie sounds carried. Voices called. A child screamed followed by the drunken roar of some oaf. They passed gibbets and scaffolds where corpses hung naked and blotched. Foul smells polluted the air. At times, the runnels they passed down became needle-thin, winding between houses so ancient they now leaned over to close off the alleyway below. Urswicke felt as if he was going down tunnels into even deeper darkness. Few lights burned. Doors and windows were firmly shuttered. Sinister forms emerged out of the darkness but three men, fully armed with weapons drawn, proved warning enough and the shapes receded.
They reached a small cobbled square; on the far side stood The Devil’s Cellar, a thin, narrow building tightly wedged between two derelict mansions. Nevertheless, despite its shabby appearance, crumbling masonry and flaking paintwork, the tavern’s taproom was genial enough. A fire roared in the hearth and minehost was merrily serving ale and platters of hot food from the buttery table. Pembroke approached him. The taverner didn’t seem at all perturbed by the mask. Urswicke glanced around and smiled. No wonder, he concluded, the customers who thronged there were all members of the Guild of Dung Collectors who now sat, masks removed, drinking and celebrating the end of a day’s work. Pembroke turned and beckoned at his two companions. He led them across into the corner of the taproom and up a sturdy set of stairs to the gallery above, a long, gloomy passageway where only one lanternhorn flickered. The place reeked of urine, despite the pots of crushed lavender which hung on the walls either side.
‘Robert’s chamber is at the far end,’ Pembroke whispered, ‘it overlooks the stable yard.’
They went down the gallery, Pembroke leading the way. He knocked on the heavy door and, when there was no response, drew his dagger, beating its pommel hard against the wood. Again, no reply. Pembroke then crouched down and inserted the point of the stiletto into the keyhole. He glanced up at his companions.
‘The key is turned. Something is very wrong.’ Pembroke became agitated. ‘If there is, God help us. We cannot stay long here.’
