by Paul Doherty
‘Christopher?’ Bray was shaking him. ‘Christopher, thank God we are here …’
The countess still seemed very subdued and withdrawn when she met her two henchmen in the chancery chamber next to her bedroom. She sat in front of the hearth, Bray and Urswicke either side, and listened to their report. Now and again she would interrupt with a question or a muted exclamation.
‘And here?’ Urswicke asked, ‘when we arrived your chamberlain and servants seemed cowed and frightened. I glimpsed Edith your new maid sitting at the buttery table all tearful?’
‘Clarence and Gloucester visited me and brought their henchmen with them, a coven of real blood-drinkers. Mauclerc, in particular, is a violent wolf of a man. He is a killer born and bred. Christopher, you know that?’
‘As I know that one day I will have to kill him.’
‘A hard task,’ Bray grated. ‘Mauclerc is a man of blood to his very marrow. As our mistress says, a ferocious wolf in human clothing.’
‘Wolves can be caught, trapped and slain.’ Urswicke picked up his goblet and sipped at the mulled wine. ‘What did they want?’
The countess simply tapped her brocaded slipper on the floor, lost in thought. ‘Christopher, there was someone else.’ She glanced sideways at him.
‘My father?’ Christopher felt his stomach lurch as he always did on those occasions when Sir Thomas and the countess were closeted together. Clarence and Mauclerc may hate the entire Tudor family but Sir Thomas? He dwelt in a deeper darkness. Christopher sensed that his father would like nothing better than the utter annihilation of the Tudors, and that he’d claim the credit for doing so. It was not just a matter of politics. The countess had supported the Recorder’s lady wife during her most malignant last sickness. Christopher believed his mother had confessed things about her husband which not even Christopher knew. Matters which would provide a clearer view of the true nature of Sir Thomas’s soul and the malice which bubbled there. Christopher also sensed that his father feared Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, but Christopher could never discern the reason why. Did Margaret hold information about Sir Thomas which would blacken his name and reputation in the eyes of York? Had Sir Thomas, when the star of Lancaster had risen so bright and powerful, wavered in his allegiance?
‘What did they want?’ Bray repeated Urswicke’s question.
‘Oh, they brought news about the fresh slaying in St Michael’s and, of course, Zeigler’s successful escape. I do wonder about that.’
‘Mistress?’
‘Well, Zeigler was a riffler, a dagger man, a bully-boy, but he was also York’s bully-boy. I just wonder if his escape, flight and successful concealment were arranged by his former masters.’ She smiled. ‘But, there again, that’s just a thought.’
‘But why should York arrange that now? Zeigler was indicted, tried, found guilty and sentenced to hang. Why would York allow such a malignant to escape?’
‘I don’t know the reason, Christopher, I truly don’t. Anyway, as regards the Devil of York and his two brothers, they are still searching for Anne Neville. They have virtually ransacked the city and even despatched couriers into the surrounding shires.’
‘And they came to you for help?’
‘Yes and no, Christopher. Of course they all hate me, my son even more so. However, they have reached the conclusion that Anne has been kidnapped and they believe this is the work of so-called traitors, adherents of the House of Lancaster.’ Margaret stilled their exclamations, raising her hand for silence. ‘My friends, don’t be so impetuous,’ she continued, ‘such an allegation is logical enough. Anne Neville is the daughter of the great Earl of Warwick who died fighting for Lancaster. She is also a very rich heiress, or potentially so, a prize we would all like to capture.’
‘Oh no,’ Bray breathed, ‘do they think you have kidnapped her? Abducted Anne to be sent abroad, even for possible marriage to your son? Is that possible, that they hold you responsible?’
‘Well, they did not specifically accuse me,’ the countess played with the ave beads laced around her fingers, ‘they were more insistent that others could be involved, hinting slightly that I may know something and that, perhaps, I could be of more help.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Anne Neville is personable and wealthy: her disappearance is mysterious. But how could I do such a thing in plain sight of them, surrounded as I am by their horde of spies? Of course, they heard me out and replied there was no evidence for my implication in Lady Anne’s disappearance. Gloucester, in particular, begged me to lend an attentive ear to any rumour, gossip or tittle-tattle about the missing woman. I replied that I would do all in my power to assist Lady Anne.’ The countess half smiled and closed her eyes. ‘Gloucester,’ she said, straightening her chair, ‘has asked for my help before. On a personal basis, I think he likes me, which is more than I can say for your father, Christopher. Sir Thomas sat preening himself, watching me like a fat cat would a mousehole. Then he made the most astonishing observation about why I had decided to accompany the pilgrimage, as he mockingly called it, to Thorpe Manor.’ The countess sipped from her goblet and carefully placed it back. ‘Sir Thomas implied, yes, perhaps even more than that, that I might be thinking, even plotting, to flee the realm, to accompany the sanctuary men and so eventually join my son in exile. Of course, I just laughed at such a suggestion.’ The countess blinked away the tears which abruptly brimmed in her eyes.
‘And then what, mistress?’
‘Christopher,’ Margaret leaned across and squeezed her clerk’s hand, ‘he said such a possibility was understandable. How my son lived in constant danger and that if something dreadful should happen to him, I would want to be there. He was hinting – Christopher, Reginald – that whatever promises Edward the King may give about the life of my son, young Henry cannot be protected against the lone assassin.’
‘My father has a wicked tongue and an evil mind!’
‘I recognise that, as I do his implied threat, so I shall tell you why my mood is dark and withdrawn. Ironically Lord Jasper Tudor maintains the same. He believes we have a traitor in our household and that this miscreant, with the full support of York, is intent on removing the only threat to the Yorkist supremacy – my son Henry Tudor. Jasper believes it’s only a matter of time before this lone assassin strikes.’
‘But Prince Henry is guarded day and night?’ Urswicke said, then shook his head in disbelief at his own response. ‘Concedo,’ he murmured, ‘what I say is of no help. We all know how assassins are trained in the use of the knife, the poison cup, the crossbow. But, of course, we could always strike first,’ Urswicke hotly continued, trying to curb his anger against those who would dare threaten a woman who was so precious to him.
‘And there’s the rub,’ the countess murmured. ‘Of course York does not trust me but they have nothing to accuse me of. I am not too sure what moves they are plotting on the chessboard, whether they genuinely want my help or are trying to divide my household. Anyway,’ she pointed at Bray, ‘they look for any assistance I can provide in the search for Anne Neville. They have specifically asked for you, Reginald. When I leave for Thorpe Manor they want you to stay in London.’
‘In a word I am a hostage,’ Bray replied. ‘If you fled, or even tried to, something sinister might befall me.’
‘You may well be right but, be assured, I have no intention of fleeing. Stay in London, search for the Neville girl.’ She laughed sharply. ‘Much good will it do them. And there is a silver lining to this dark cloud, your stay is important to me. You and all those you pay will be our eyes and ears in this city.’
The riffler Zeigler made himself as comfortable as possible in the clean-swept cellar of The Dark Place, a comfortable two-storey tavern close to the river. Zeigler had fled there as soon as he was freed from the execution cart. The tavern master asked no questions but simply brought him down here, assuring him that the cellar was clean and Zeigler would be provided with all the usual comforts. Zeigler, frenetic with excitement after his escape, had
demanded the services of a whore and, once satisfied, turned his attention to other matters. He had stripped naked, washed himself, then donned the brown woollen robe of a Franciscan friar that Joachim had brought. Zeigler now sat eating noisily, digging stubby fingers into a bowl of spiced pottage and taking generous gulps from a deep-bowled cup of wine the taverner had served.
‘You are sure the whore can be trusted?’ Zeigler spluttered in a spray of wine and food.
‘You took her in the dark,’ Joachim replied. ‘And now she is in another cellar, sleeping off the wine I poured down her.’
Joachim, garbed like his leader, raised his goblet in toast. ‘So you escaped, master?’
‘I knew I would and now I am famous throughout the city.’ Zeigler’s piggy eyes, almost hidden by rolls of fat, gleamed in drunken satisfaction. ‘Oh yes, we escaped,’ he slurred, ‘as I have done so many times.’
‘Those sheriff’s men,’ Joachim laughed, ‘they fled like coneys in a field, scurrying like rats down a sewer.’
‘And so we are here.’ Zeigler took another deep gulp of wine and stared around. ‘I tell you, my friend,’ Zeigler sniffed, ‘I will be sorry to leave this city, its taverns, alehouses and brothels, but that is what our masters want.’
‘It’s been a hard season,’ Joachim replied, ‘a busy year, that fight at Tewkesbury, those blood-drenched fields.’
‘I wish I had met him there.’ Zeigler cradled his wine cup. ‘I truly do.’
‘Who?’
‘Pembroke, of course. That malignant who hides behind a mask. If I had my way, and I surely shall, I intend to send Pembroke beyond the veil to join the rest of his treacherous coven. It’s good to learn those bastards are being killed one by one. Pembroke too must die. I would love to drive my dagger deep into his throat.’
‘And the others?’
‘Oh yes,’ Zeigler agreed, ‘but did you see Pembroke, like some ragged-arsed urchin? He came to watch me die. A true coward who could act as brave as he wanted with me caged like a bear.’ Zeigler laughed. ‘Yes, like the bear I gave him to. I will hunt him down and I will strike. You saw those two women with him, yes?’ Zeigler didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Mother and sister surely? Notice how they were garbed in the grey gown and white wimple of those pious bitches, the Minoresses. Well, they too must pay for what happened.’
‘Master, Pembroke might try to hunt you.’
‘He can’t.’ Zeigler laughed. ‘Pembroke is now in sanctuary. What do we have to fear from him? I will take care of Pembroke and his ilk. I swear, Joachim, within the month, every traitor in the so-called Red Dragon Battle Group will be dead. I will kill them all. Yes.’ Zeigler again drank from his cup. ‘Then it will be home, but not before we make our fortunes in Brittany.’
‘Master?’
Zeigler, full of himself, just shook his head. ‘Joachim, I trust you as a brother, a true riffler like myself. A mercenary who has fought for York, yet I cannot tell you everything, but we shall be envoys. Yes, envoys.’ Zeigler rolled the word around his mouth. He then laughed to himself, pointing at his henchman. ‘Believe me, we are going to be envoys to the Tudor brat and, when we are accepted, we shall kill him.’
Reginald Bray made himself comfortable in the enclosed window seat overlooking the frozen garden of The Prospect of Jerusalem, which stood on the corner of Queenhithe quayside. He had dined well on roast beef cooked in a mustard sauce, a pot of stewed vegetables and a blackjack of strong ale brewed by the rubicund-faced tavern master. Bray had returned from All Hallows. He had made his farewells of the countess and Urswicke, solemnly promising that he would use the ever-attentive Fleetfoot as a courier between them. All messages would be conveyed by word of mouth or secret cipher. Bray had then watched the cortege assemble. Ten sanctuary men, shackled by foot and hand, squatting either side of the huge prison cart, a moving, barred cage with a small door above the tailgate. The prison cart was pulled by six massive dray horses caparisoned in the Guildhall livery though, at the countess’s insistence, the carters were her own household, two sitting on the cart whilst a third walked on foot leading the horses. A dozen city archers were their escort under the command of Sir Thomas Urswicke. The Recorder, resplendent in his coloured robes, led the procession whilst Parson Austin rode alongside.
Bray had watched both worthies carefully and concluded that the priest and the Recorder appeared to be on the best of terms. The sanctuary men, however, were very subdued. According to the provisions of canon law, the churches they had sought refuge in had arranged for them to be shaved of all hair, both beard and face. The parishes had also supplied them with travelling clothes, a penny purse as well as a small wineskin and a well-baked loaf; the sanctuary men had eaten and drunk such sustenance immediately.
Bray approached the cart. He nodded at Pembroke, on either side of the masked man sat two of his comrades. Bray recognised some of these, individuals who had acted as messengers between Lord Jasper Tudor and his sister-in-law the countess. Veteran warriors, skilled mailed clerks, the surviving members of the battle group looked highly nervous. Bray could only lift his hand in a sign of friendship. He sensed their fearful wariness: their comrades had been brutally and mysteriously murdered and, for all they knew, they were on their way to secret, silent execution. They had no assurance that they would finish this journey or be allowed to board that ship and, indeed, even if they did, what guarantee did they have of safe passage?
After their last meeting with the countess, Bray and Urswicke had plotted every step of the journey these men would take. Bray was convinced that if danger threatened, it would definitely be at sea. He walked around the cart and stared at the other sanctuary men, a collection of thieves and felons, men who had been put to the horn and proclaimed as ‘utlegatum – beyond the law’. Despite their situation, these miscreants were of a more cheerful disposition, relieved to be free of their sanctuary enclaves and looking forward to freedom beyond the Narrow Seas. Bray had watched and waited as the procession left All Hallows, winding down the highway towards Mile End, Bow Church and then on to the road which cut across the fringes of the great forest of Epping towards the Essex coast. He raised his hand to the countess, who sat in her own covered carriage, and had a few parting words with Urswicke, who promised he would keep strict guard over their mistress, then they were gone.
‘So let us reflect.’ Bray leaned back against the cushioned chair, half listening to the faint sounds of The Prospect of Jerusalem. Shouts, cries, a scullion laughing in the kitchen, the soft music of a lute player, the murmur of three gamblers engrossed in their game of hazard and the shouts and cries of minehost and his scullions. Bray ignored these as he began to talk softly to himself, a mannerism both the countess and Urswicke constantly teased him about. ‘The sanctuary men,’ he whispered, ‘probably include an assassin, a spy placed there by the likes of the Recorder. Nevertheless, Archdeacon Blackthorne will keep a sharp eye on proceedings through his envoy Parson Austin. Secundo …’ Bray smiled as he realised he was imitating Urswicke. He lifted the blackjack and silently toasted his absent comrade. ‘Countess Margaret has joined the cortege though she keeps her distance. The covered wagon she travels in is comfortable enough, with sound wheels, strong support; inside are cushioned seats, coverlets, provisions and chaffing dishes for the countess and her maid Edith. The carriage had been managed by her stable master, with Urswicke riding alongside. Countess Margaret,’ Bray concluded, would be more than safe but the sanctuary men? York wanted them dead. ‘Tertio,’ Bray continued his whisper, ‘the attack must be at sea. The Glory of Lancaster was nearly trapped trying to do the same as that Breton cog.’ Bray recalled the two Flemish carracks he’d recently seen tacking into port. Often used by York, the Flemings sailed under their own colours. However, once they closed with their prey, they’d hoist the blood-red standard of war and the black banner of anarchy. So, what could he do? Never mind the Neville girl. Bray deeply suspected that all these issues would be resolved off the coast of Essex. Yet he had
to stay in the city. He was undoubtedly being watched and followed along the streets. Bray sat supping his ale, wondering what to do next when he started at a knock on the screen door to the window embrasure. He rose, opened the door and stared down at the dirty-faced street swallow who raised a finger to his lips and beckoned him closer.
‘It’s a stranger, Sir Reginald.’ The boy stumbled over the name. ‘He’s outside, he bears urgent messages.’
The street swallow turned and scampered across the taproom. Bray followed him out into the alleyway where a stranger waited, bold faced, his hood pulled back.
‘Master Reginald Bray? Sir, if you would be so good as to follow me. Someone you know needs urgent but secret words with you.’
The man did not wait for an answer but turned and walked across to the mouth of a runnel. Bray followed. The stranger strolled into the alleyway then he abruptly turned, the dagger he had drawn cutting the air. Bray, his suspicions aroused, had already unsheathed his own blade. He feinted quickly to his left and thrust his dagger straight into his opponent’s belly, cutting up before twisting the blade. The would-be assassin, mouth gaping, throat filling with his own blood, stood stock still before lurching forward, dropping his knife. Bray caught him by the front of his blood-soaked jerkin.
‘You moved your hands too swiftly, my friend, and why should you put both of them beneath your cloak?’
He withdrew his dagger, struck again and let his attacker fall to the ground. Bray stared around. There was no one. The street swallow had disappeared. Bray rifled the man’s purse and pockets but found only a few coins which he slipped into his own wallet. He then straightened up and walked swiftly down the alleyway.
