by Paul Doherty
I entered Farringdon Ward, crossing the great stinking cattle-market of Smithfield and into the cool darkness of the tavern, the one Howstead had directed me to, ‘The Sun in Splendour’. The landlord came bustling up, one calloused hand combing back his dank, rat-tailed hair. I looked at his watery eyes and yellow buckteeth and wished to God the business was over and I was gone. I ordered a pot of ale and asked to see his daughter. The man grinned and was about to nudge me as if I was some fellow-conspirator but I glared at him and moved away to sit in a corner. His daughter, Isabella, was a pleasing contrast, tidily dressed, her dark hair pinned up under her veil. She was sweet-faced, eager to please until I mentioned Slaughter’s name. She was about to move away but I ordered her to sit down.
‘I mean you no harm, mistress,’ I said. ‘But you were sweet on Master Slaughter, or Black Will as he was known?’ The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘Why do you say “was”, Sir?’ she asked. ‘Has anything happened to him?’
‘No. No,’ I lied. ‘You were the only person he talked to?’ She nodded. ‘Did he ever tell you about his tasks?’ She shook her head. ‘When did you see him last?’ I asked gently. The girl looked down at her hands.
‘Ten, twelve days ago,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I remember, the 1st of August. It was the beginning of the month. In the evening. He came here, furtive and restless. He left and I have not seen him since.’ I looked into her childlike grey eyes and believed that of all the people I had questioned in London, she was telling the truth. I dug into my purse and, taking out a gold coin, pressed it into the palm of her hand. She thanked me with her eyes.
‘Sir,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know where Slaughter is? Will he return?’
‘No,’ I lied, not bothering to turn. ‘No, I do not know where he is, but I do not think he will ever return.’
I returned to Crosby Hall convinced that Slaughter’s death had something to do with the Princes’ disappearance. I also felt my work in London was finished. Any further stay would only endanger myself and raise more questions. Norfolk left London on the 11th, Belknap had already gone, so I ordered my retainers to pack and on the 14th left London, riding hard and fast along the old Roman road, on to the country lanes past Banbury to Minster Lovell. I was pleased to be free of the city. The summer had been long and golden, the corn was ready for harvest and the birdsong on the clear air warmed my heart. After two days of travel I entered the green lush fields of my manor. I glimpsed the red-tiled roof and yellow bricked walls of the Minster and heard the sweet gurgling sound of the Windrush as it flowed between green banks down to turn the wheel of an old cornmill.
Anne was waiting for me as I had sent a retainer ahead. She came running into the yard, her long hair streaming in the soft breeze, throwing her arms round my neck before I had scarcely dismounted. Poor Anne! Sweet Anne! If we had only known the terrors which lay ahead of us. The church is right to condemn and castigate those who attempt to divine the future.
I am sure that if we knew we would lose the will to live. Nonetheless, these days of dalliance at Minster Lovell were some of the sweetest in my life. Anne had used my new-found wealth to decorate and beautify the hall: new beeswax candles in the candlebeams, diamond-shaped glass in the windows of our chamber, a huge new bed standing on a dais with four gilt posts and draped by a cloth of velvet and gold, embroidered with the silver dogs of my escutcheon. We used the bed soon enough, laughing and teasing one another. Anne pointed out the new drapes she had bought, the cloth of red-gold arras depicting the scene from the Bible, ‘Susannah and the Judges’, as well as the new chairs covered with red leather bearing the silver-white dog of the Lovells. I teased Anne for being a spendthrift but she only laughed all the more, claiming she had bought most of the materials before I left Minster Lovell. She had kept them hidden, wanting to surprise me.
We spent days walking in the huge garden which lies at the back of the manor, sitting on the bank of the Windrush, the fragrance of white lilies, marjoram and wine-dark roses as sweet as any perfume about us. Other times I helped her in the herb garden. She taught me the difference between lavender, hyssop, pennyroyal, camomile and other sweet-smelling flowers and herbs. At night, long banquets with only the two of us as guests, as we ate young porpoise, salted hart, lampreys, quails, venison pastries, baked quinces and goblet after goblet of different wines. She would tease me all the time, especially with riddles. Now, seated near the great hall where she and I loved and kissed, I can almost hear her voice, bubbling with laughter, calling out her favourite riddle:
A pot I have
It is rounded like a pear.
Moist in the middle,
Surrounded with hair.
And often it happens
That water flows there.
She would not tell me the answer, but now, the tears wet on my cheeks, I smile for I knew she referred to the eye.
I had not told Anne about the King’s task. I did not wish to trouble her with the sludge and filth of the Court, but at times her gaiety was brittle. I would catch her looking at me, carefully, guardedly. I would smile and she would chatter on about her father, Lord Fitzhugh, or the business and affairs of her sisters. One night as we lay beneath the red-gold canopy of the bed, she turned, stroking my face, and asked:
‘Francis, I know there is something wrong.’ She propped herself up on her elbow. ‘It is the King,’ she said, looking down at me. ‘I have heard the rumours and gossip, Francis,’ she continued. ‘Men plot and conspire constantly against him. I do not worry about Richard, but should he fall he will take you with him.’
‘Yet the King has raised me up,’ I replied. ‘Our family emblem is a dog, but one which hunts, not runs at the slightest sign of danger,’ and, gathering her into my arms, I refused to talk any further.
The following day I prepared to leave, discussing with Anne the different accounts of the manor and our other holdings in Yorkshire and Nottingham. I refused to fix a date for my return. I remembered our conversation the previous evening and gave her strict instructions that if things went untoward, she was to flee Minster Lovell and seek sanctuary with her father. Once I knew she had left the hall on some errand or other, I went to my secret chamber built behind the great fireplace. My father had devised this place when rebuilding the hall, a small room behind the great hearth where I kept a number of valuables, private papers and documents. There, in a coffer, I placed the memoranda I had drawn up in London about the King’s secret task.
I left Minster Lovell late that same afternoon and, accompanied by my retainers, travelled to the King at Pontefract where he was preparing for his great entrance into the city of York. His Grace’s love of York was well-known and he looked forward to his visits as any child does to a mummer’s play at Christmas. He was too busy and excited to converse with me. His wife, Anne (the young Neville heiress), and his only son, Edward, had also joined him but when I saw these I secretly despaired. The Queen was thin, emaciated, her once rounded face was white, almost sallow and she was constantly racked by convulsive fits of coughing. The young prince was no better; a pale shadow of his father, he was weak, listless, and had to be conveyed everywhere in a specially constructed horse-litter. There were others of the Court present: William Catesby, Sir Richard Ratcliffe and Sir James Tyrrell. The latter looked at me strangely and I suspected the smiles on their fox-like faces hid a deep curiosity about my whereabouts. The only person beside the King who seemed genuinely joyful was Richard’s ubiquitous and loyal secretary, John Kendall; he informed me how the burgesses of York had been preparing for a month to welcome Richard, how the mayor and aldermen had already sent the King gifts of wine, cygnets, herons and rabbits.
On Saturday, August 30th, King Richard and Prince Edward, with a huge retinue, myself included, entered York. We were preceded by two sheriffs of the city who rode at the head of a long procession, each bearing their silver wands of office. At Breckles Mills, just outside the city walls, the mayor, aldermen and counci
llors, dressed in a wild profusion of red and scarlets, greeted the royal family. They took us into the city through Micklegate to be cheered by a mass of citizens clad in blue and gold velvet, the favourite colours of the city. As we went under the gate I saw Richard look up; for a moment his face went grim as he remembered his own father, Duke Richard, and elder brother, Edmund, who had been caught and trapped by a Lancastrian army just outside Wakefield. Both father and son had been killed, their heads hacked off, crowned with paper hats and placed above Micklegate Bar. Richard had never forgotten their deaths, determined not to forfeit the hard-earned rewards of the House of York.
The procession wound its way to the Guildhall, the King and his retinue being taken up by a series of banquets and receptions, amid a never-ending swirl of silk, trumpetings, speeches and exchanges of gifts. On Sunday September 7th, we attended his favourite drama, the Creed play, performed by the Corpus Christi Guild. The following day Richard’s son was installed as Prince of Wales in a gorgeous multicoloured ceremony in York Cathedral. I watched the pageant, thinking Richard had forgotten the task he had entrusted to me, but that was Richard, publicly playing the role of the popular King whilst all the time scurriers, messengers and spies were sent south to bring back information about the conspiracies brewing there. Nor had he forgotten the secret matter. On that same Sunday evening he convoked a meeting of his secret council in a small chamber in the Archbishop’s house in York.
I remember it was dark. A thunderstorm had swept in from the sea and fat, heavy drops of rain pelted the stain-glass windows of the room. Beeswax candles dipped, winked and glittered on silver and gold ornaments, catching and fanning the glow of a precious diamond necklace, ruby ring or some other valuable stone. Richard sat at the head of a long trestle-table, on his left his principal councillors. There was Sir Richard Ratcliffe, a fierce fighter from Westmoreland, knighted for his bloody service at Tewkesbury. A seafarer, Ratcliffe had terrorised the Scots off Galloway; a man of shrewd wit, short and rude of speech and temper. He was bold in mischief and as far from pity as from fear of God. Next to him, William Catesby, Richard’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, a lawyer from Northampton, a man who served Lord William Hastings but, when Hastings fell, Catesby switched his allegiance. A shrewd, hard-visaged man but a popinjay. He kept peacocks on his estate and loved to wear costly raiment, white or green satin doublets, scarlet hose, black leather Spanish riding-boots to which he always fastened spurs which jingled and clinked whenever he moved. Then Sir James Tyrrell, the only southerner, Master of Horse and the King’s henchman, red-haired, foxy-faced, a sharp contrast to the last person, Sir Edward Brampton, a Portuguese Jew and former pirate. He had been converted to the true faith, no less a person than King Edward IV standing as godfather. He was dark, swarthy, his oiled hair hanging in ringlets about his face. He always insisted on wearing crimson and scarlet and liked to fasten little bells to his clothes so that he walked constantly in a shimmer of silvery noise. I looked at each one of those present. God forgive my evil suspicions but, at the time, I thought they might all be murderers.
Eight
Richard began the meeting, giving a sharp, decisive description of the conspiracy in the south, expressing anxiety about how Buckingham not only refused to answer his letters but dismissed Richard’s messengers with total disdain. Haltingly, he began to talk about the Princes, sometimes making mistakes, calling them his true nephews, and then, as if remembering himself, his brother’s illegitimate issue. At length, as if tired of the subject, he lapsed into silence and waved a beringed hand at me.
‘Francis,’ he said, ‘perhaps you can give the clearest description of what is happening.’
I told them what I knew. By the end of June, both Princes had been removed to the Tower. The King had visited the fortress on July 4th. On 17 July, Brackenbury had been appointed as Constable and immediately paid his respects to the Princes. The boys had been well, though the elder was morose and withdrawn, suffering from an infection of the jaw. On the 25th, Buckingham had visited them and on the 26th, Brackenbury had seen the Princes again. On the following day Sir James Tyrrell had visited the Tower to collect stores for the King. On the 29th, Brackenbury had discovered them gone and immediately despatched a letter to the King as well as visiting Bishop Russell, the Chancellor.
As I talked, Richard sat slumped in his high-backed chair, toying with his sparkling ring, refusing to meet my eye. I looked down at the other councillors, their hard, closed faces, and I wondered once again if any of them had been involved in the Princes’ disappearance. They were all ruthless men, totally dedicated to Richard; like John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, they viewed the Princes as obstacles to their rise in power and a threat to their own status. I looked sideways at Richard. Was he suffering pangs of guilt? Guilt about murder? Or just guilt for deserting the sons of his own brother? He stirred, chewing his lip.
‘My Lords,’ he began. ‘This matter is no secret, but your advice is needed. What is said here cannot be discussed elsewhere. Whatever you feel or think should now be openly declared.’ His words were greeted by silence.
‘Sir James Tyrrell,’ I asked. ‘It is true you visited the Tower?’ The fellow nodded. ‘And you did not see the Princes?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Why?’
Tyrrell shrugged. ‘I saw them as of little import.’
‘And Brackenbury?’ I asked. ‘He was well?’ Tyrrell stretched out his hand as though examining his fingernails.
‘Sir Robert Brackenbury was his usual self. I saw and heard nothing amiss.’
‘It’s quite simple,’ Catesby broke in. ‘Surely? The Princes are gone. They have either escaped or been murdered.’ He turned towards the King. ‘Brackenbury would not commit such an act and certainly not without His Grace’s permission. That is so?’ Richard nodded. ‘Buckingham could not have murdered them,’ Catesby continued. ‘For they were seen alive after our noble Duke left. The culprit must either be someone we do not know or William Slaughter.’
‘But why?’ I interrupted. ‘Why should Slaughter kill the Princes? What had he to gain?’ Catesby smiled thinly.
‘If it was Slaughter,’ he murmured, ‘then a number of people could have bribed him and, once the act was done, his throat cut.’ The room grew quiet. I felt a prickle of sweat on my back. Catesby’s conclusions were the same as mine. The last person to have seen the Princes alive was Slaughter. He might well have carried out the dreadful deed but who was behind him? I recollected my conversation with the tavern wench. She had last seen Slaughter on the evening of August 1st. Was that when he had murdered the two boys? Possibly. But the real problem was who had paid him?
Richard’s secretary, Kendall, now white-faced, listed the possibilities.
‘Your Grace,’ he began. ‘Slaughter may have been paid by Brackenbury, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Buckingham, or,’ he paused, ‘anyone in this room.’ He held his hands up. ‘I mean no disrespect but the crime will be laid at our door.’
‘Francis,’ the King asked sharply. ‘What do you think?’
‘Your Grace,’ I replied. ‘Kendall is correct. I believe the Princes were killed or disappeared around the beginning of August, the same time the rumours began in London and the surrounding shires that the Princes might be murdered. They began,’ I added slowly, ‘after Buckingham had visited the Princes. Buckingham could have bribed Slaughter to either abduct the Princes or kill them. The fellow did so but was double-crossed, his only reward being a torn throat and a pauper’s grave.’
‘True! True!’ Brampton spoke for the first time, his voice clipped in an attempt to disguise his accent. ‘Many men had motives to kill the Princes. Let us be honest. We sit on the council because the Princes were set aside.’ He looked quickly at Richard. ‘I mean no offence, your Grace. I only say to your face what others relate behind your back. Buckingham would like them dead. Remember, as a boy he was a ward of the Woodville woman, who forced him to marry one of her daughters. Like us, he hat
es the entire brood. My Lord of Norfolk also profits. The Mowbray inheritance was held by the younger prince; if he was dead I do not think Jack of Norfolk would weep bitter tears.’ He held up one bejewelled hand. ‘We must also remember that my Lords of Buckingham and Norfolk remained in London, whereas we joined his Grace’s progress through the country.’
‘There is one fly in the ointment,’ Catesby interrupted softly. ‘Brackenbury! If anyone had killed the Princes, Brackenbury would find their corpses. He would tell the King, as well as inform us of the possible murderer. I do not believe,’ he concluded firmly, ‘the Princes are dead, but that they may have escaped.’
Tempers became heated as different possibilities and theories were exchanged across the table. I just sat watching Richard carefully. He still refused to meet my eye, lost in his own thoughts, impervious to the discussion. Catesby was right, the key to the solution was Brackenbury. Was he the murderer? Either on his own or on secret orders from the King? I quietly promised myself that Sir Robert and I would certainly discuss the matter again. Catesby, ever the diplomat, led the discussion on to the conspiracy in the south and the possible plans of Buckingham. Adept and skilful, he drew the King into discussion and Richard vented his anger and hatred at Buckingham and his coven.
‘That man,’ Richard shouted, ‘has betrayed us all! He is behind the whispering campaign, spreading malicious rumours, stories and whatever filth he can dig up. I believe my Lord Lovell,’ he turned and glared at me, ‘has other news.’ I had told Richard about Percivalle’s meeting with me. The King had dismissed it as a matter of little consequence yet he had apparently brooded on the matter, gnawing away at it, imagining threats which did not exist. I had no choice but to describe the scene to the rest of Richard’s councillors, the King nodding vigorously as I spoke.
