by Paul Doherty
‘Percivalle’s visit,’ the King said menacingly, ‘is important. Firstly, because he sows seeds of doubt about my true intentions. Percivalle brought news to me that my brother was dead; he may well have been responsible for rumours that King Edward had died before he actually did. Secondly, Percivalle wished to suborn the allegiance of this,’ Richard stretched out a hand and put it lightly on my shoulder, ‘my lifelong friend. So, my Lords, if Percivalle has approached Lovell, who else has he visited in the dead of night?’ A sharp intake of breath greeted Richard’s question. I glanced around. Each of the councillors looked away, shuffling nervously on their chairs. Catesby was the first to reassert himself.
‘Your Grace,’ he exclaimed. ‘I speak for myself and for everyone in this room when I say that our allegiance is to you, and I am prepared to prove my loyalty,’ he embraced us in one sweeping gesture, ‘as we all do on our bodies.’ Amidst such exclamations of loyalty, even anger, at the King’s question, the council meeting broke up.
I stayed with the Court at York. The King had private words with me, saying that I was to continue in his secret matter but it would be best if we waited until Buckingham made his move; only then would we gain a clearer picture of what had happened. Meantime the King gave strict orders that all other royal children, including his own bastards, the son of his elder sister and Clarence’s simple-minded son, should be moved out of harm’s way to Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire. I do not know why Richard did this. Did he fear some attempt on their lives in a further attempt to blacken his name? At the time I was reassured, but wondered why Richard had not taken stricter measures over his two nephews.
After his wife and young son left him for Middleham, I approached Richard again in the sacristy of York Cathedral, a place I considered free of any eavesdroppers or spies. The King had paid a private visit to the church and I, as Chamberlain, accompanied him. Seizing the opportunity of being alone, I told him about Brackenbury’s nervousness and urged him to do something to counter the rumours about the Princes’ death. Despite his secretiveness, I sensed the King’s fury and anger.
‘I am caught either way, Francis,’ he answered hoarsely. ‘If I say the Princes have escaped, it gladdens those who constantly plot against me. If I say they are dead, killed by the Duke of Buckingham, who would believe me? They will assert that I am the assassin, eager to pass the blame onto someone else. The same is true of Norfolk. I will still be blamed and lose the support not only of a friend but of my most powerful ally. We are in a dark tunnel, Francis. Ahead of us may be enemies and snares. We must walk silently, create no stir.’ He paused and grasped me firmly by the arm. ‘But for my sake, Francis, my own peace of soul, I must know what happened to those boys. Where are they? Are they to appear in a year, two years’ time, backed by France, Brittany, Burgundy or the Empire to challenge my rule and that of my son? You are to keep with this task, Francis, and not give it up until we have found the truth. I have your word?’
‘You have my word, your Grace.’
Two days later I received the following letter from Belknap in France; it dashed other hopes:
‘Thomas Belknap, steward, to Francis, Viscount Lovell, health and greetings. Know you how my journey to France was both swift and safe and that I have come to the French King’s Court at Plessis-les-Tours. However, Monsieur the King of France is, so common report has it, now dying and refuses to meet anyone, let alone a simple steward like myself. Know you also, or so I learnt from one of the notables of the Court, how King Louis is angry. He feels insulted that someone like you should send messages via the hands of a mere commoner.
‘Nevertheless, I have talked to those who serve on Louis’ council but they have denied me access to the King who has turned Plessis into a veritable fortress. Along the roads leading to it, caltrops have been scattered to bring down the horse of anyone seeking a forced entry. There are also detachments of archers in the forest with orders to kill anyone trespassing near the walls. The King’s residence itself is surrounded by a deep ditch and a high wall. The latter has many pronged iron spikes embedded in it. Beyond the wall is a high, iron grille patrolled by sentries. Beyond that, on the four corners of the King’s house, are moveable iron watch-towers, each manned by ten crossbow men day and night.
‘I merely mention this to show how impossible it is to approach the King or his Court. The French King is absorbed with death, using his vast wealth to fend it off. He has sent presents to the church of St. Martin le Tours and gold chalices to Rome. He has brought a holy man to live in the palace entrusted with the task of interceding constantly wth God on the French King’s behalf. I mean no disrespect but Louis has a low opinion of our King. I was surprised to hear, even in France, how rumours about the Princes’ death are common gossip, but there is nothing about escape, abduction or the Princes hiding here or anywhere else.
‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news but my secret advice is that most people regard the young princes as murdered and our gracious King as their assassin. I only repeat what I have heard and trust you will act on it accordingly. I wish you health and good fortune. I am sending this letter by trusted carrier and when I return will talk to you personally on this matter. God keep you. Thomas Belknap Esquire – 22nd August 1483.’
Belknap’s letter proved of little comfort and I kept it amongst my private papers, not daring to show it to the King. Indeed, I secretly chided Belknap in his absence for sealing his letter with sentiments which could be described as treasonable, at a time when treason was common coin. Richard, myself, and the rest of the Court were still waiting for news about Buckingham and it came to us fast. A horseman from London, his mount lathered with sweat, the rider covered in white dust so that he looked like the pale figure of death from the book of the Apocalypse, reached us while we were at Lincoln. He breathlessly informed us how the south had risen in revolt: Kent, Sussex and the West Country. There were many branches but only one root – Buckingham. When Richard heard this, his face became ashen and tight-lipped. He drew his dagger and, time and again, dug the blade into the table-top, gouging it with savage creases.
‘Buckingham,’ he muttered. ‘He who should have been so true.’ And, unable to contain his anger any further, he stalked out of the council chamber. Only then did I realise that Richard had not really believed me, Norfolk, or even his own Chancellor. He had deluded himself into believing Buckingham was merely sulking but never treasonable.
Further news deepened the King’s anger: the rebels openly proclaimed that Richard had murdered his nephews and, worse, both they and Buckingham publicly rejected him in favour of the Welsh adventurer, Henry Tudor. Richard’s rage was terrible to see: eyes blazing, lips curled, his usual pale, sallow complexion flushed with red spots of anger.
Richard had no troops with him so he travelled to Grantham to assemble them. I commandeered the spacious, dark-timbered tavern ‘The Angel’, setting up the chancery so the King could issue writs and receive the Great Seal. All the time our spies kept us informed. We waited for the usual proclamations which might describe in detail the allegation that Richard had barbarously murdered his nephews, but, apart from the usual invective, there was nothing. The King, to bide his time, retaliated, calling the rebels traitors, adulterers, bawds. This war of words continued as each side collected forces. Richard was particularly keen to keep up clear communications with Norfolk. The Duke’s purpose was to protect the capital and drive a wedge between the rebels in East Anglia and those to the west of London.
The weather changed. Rain-clouds, thick and black, swept over the flat fields of Lincolnshire and the downpour began. We cursed it then but later thanked God, for the elements saved our cause. By the middle of October we had learnt how Buckingham had publicly unfurled his standard, sending his formal repudiation of homage to Richard, declaring him a usurper. At the same time the Duke sent his spies into all the counties, appealing to the gentry to rise in arms against Richard. I captured one of these, hanging him from the branch of an elm t
ree after ransacking his wallet and pockets for letters. There were many, all written in the rebellious Duke’s name. I studied them carefully, the rain from my soaked hair splashing on the letters, turning the blue/green words to damp splodges. Finally, I threw the papers away for they told me nothing about the Princes or provided any clue to their whereabouts, be it in this life or the next.
I journeyed on to Banbury, hoping to meet up with Sir John Stonor and others I had summoned to the King’s standard. The levies were to assemble at a crossroads outside the town and I cursed all the way there for the rain fell in sheets, turning the roads and tracks into muddy rivers which clogged the wheels of our carts and weakened our horses. My men, summoned earlier from South Yorkshire, walked in quiet files, their leather hose and jerkins a soaking mess. Those who had brought arms, breastplates, basinets and other harness, had doffed them into the wagons where leather sheets protected them from rust. At last we reached the agreed meeting-place and waited in the drenching rain for Stonor. A scout was sent out.
He returned in less than an hour to report that a party of horsemen and foot-soldiers were approaching, but he couldn’t describe the insignia on their banners. My anxiety about Sir John’s loyalty, who had not replied to earlier letters, only grew. I sent the scout back with another man. Only one returned, bloodied and dishevelled, to describe how they had met the outriders, Stonor’s men all right, but their banners were Buckingham’s.
I asked for their number and despaired when I realised they almost equalled my own. Pulling back my chain-mail coif, the wind-lashed rain beating into my face, I screamed orders, kicking, shoving my men, to turn the carts and wagons into a defensive ring. The soldiers grumbled and swore in their broad flat accents, but we managed to achieve it, men slipping and groaning in the mud, horses neighing and rearing, bucking in their traces. The wagons were emptied, the soldiers drawing bows, quivers, pikes, axes and daggers. My serjeant-at-arms bullied them into some form of battle-line: pikemen just behind the wagons, archers next to the knights, and mounted men-at-arms in the centre of the ring. Stonor’s men came on slowly through the driving rain. Armed and helmeted, they resembled spectres out of a nightmare. I espied Stonor, clear in his colours, and cursed him loudly for a traitor. My serjeants took this as a signal. ‘Loose!’ they shouted and a dark cloud of arrows whirred towards the oncoming force. Most of the arrows fell short. I was glad, I knew Stonor and rather liked him; I had carried the christening robe for one of his children, whilst Anne and his wife, whenever they met, would link arms and go off giggling like two young maids. Now, in the rain and filthy mud of war, all such memories disappeared. I drew my sword, my serjeants rapped out orders, and a second volley of arrows rose up from our circle. Some reached their targets, and two or three of the foot-soldiers fell screaming and kicking in the mire. The enemy line stopped. I climbed onto a wagon and shouted through the rain:
‘Stonor, for God’s sake put an end to this nonsense! Take your wounded and withdraw!’
I thought he was about to ignore me, but I saw a banner furled and the enemy line fell back. I allowed them to carry their wounded away and we watched their retreat before turning back to join the main force.
Nine
Richard moved his army to Coventry; I found him and his council in good spirits. Norfolk had proved loyal; despite his age and lumbering gait, the Duke had moved swiftly and deadly as any cat. He had sent out reconnoitring parties to occupy Gravesend and the river passages across the Thames, whilst browbeating the citizens to prepare the defences of London. He had despatched a force to Reigate and managed to throw a protective circle around London, vigorously snapping the links between the rebels in Surrey and East Anglia. Sir John Fogge attempted to attack Gravesend but the Duke’s men beat them off. Richard now ordered a general advance into the south-west. He proclaimed one thousand pounds reward for Buckingham, dead or alive, and appointed Sir Ralph Assheton as Vice-Constable of England with powers to try all rebels and mete out summary justice. As we advanced south, Assheton took his new office seriously, hanging rebels, even rolling prisoners down hills in barrels with spikes inside. Richard attempted to curb this ferocious enthusiasm but the bloodlust of the royal army was aroused, whetted by the news of Buckingham’s revolt being on the wane. The rebel duke had tried to move eastwards from Brecon but he had been constantly harassed by the Vaughan family, chieftains in that area; they cut off his communications with the rest of Wales, attacking the rebel force, even raiding Brecon Castle itself. Elsewhere, his inveterate enemies, the Staffords, systematically wrecked bridges, leaving parties of men to attack Buckingham’s force whenever they thought fit.
Richard continued his march into the south-west and we reached Salisbury; the fields and meadows outside the town were soon covered by the silken pavilions of the nobles and the straw-coloured bothies of the common soldiers. The King moved into the city, taking over the episcopal palace of Lionel Woodville; he had supported the rebels but, after Buckingham’s revolt collapsed, escaped across the Channel. Belknap rejoined me here, tired and mud-stained after his ride from Dover. I intended to reprove him but changed my mind after one look at his grey, exhausted face.
Later the same evening, both Belknap and myself were aroused by a royal serjeant-at-arms who whispered that the King wished to see me in the Bishop’s council chamber. I found Richard excited, his face wreathed in smiles, so pleased he could scarcely stand still but paced up and down the room exclaiming to those members of the secret council who joined him that Buckingham had been taken.
‘I do not wish to see him!’ he shouted. ‘I do not wish to hear that ingrate’s voice!’ He went up and clapped a hand on Catesby’s shoulder. ‘William, let Sir Ralph Assheton deal with Buckingham; say I do not wish the Duke’s head to be still on his shoulders come Monday morning!’ He turned to Ratcliffe: ‘Sir Richard, you are to take a convoy of mounted men-at-arms and pursue that episcopal lump, Sir John Morton. Our spies inform us he has fled. He may well escape to the Fens, reach Ely and use his friends and wealth to secure passage abroad.’
‘Your Grace!’ I turned in surprise to find Belknap behind me. Normally a guard would have barred his entrance but, in the excitement, he had been let through. ‘Your Grace,’ Belknap repeated. Richard looked questioningly at me.
‘Thomas Belknap, your Grace,’ I answered. ‘My steward.’
‘Well,’ the King replied. ‘What does Thomas Belknap, your steward, wish to say to me?’
‘Sire,’ Belknap answered coolly, ‘I know the Fens well, I once served in Bishop Morton’s household. I could be of service to Sir Richard in bringing that old fox to earth.’ Richard grinned. He nodded his consent and Belknap, without a by-your-leave, followed Ratcliffe out of the council chamber. At the time, I was not surprised; Belknap’s hatred for Morton was as important to him as the fate of the Princes was to me. Devious Belknap, cool and hard. The perfect snake in the grass!
Richard watched them leave before approaching me.
‘Buckingham is outside the city!’ he hissed. ‘I do not wish to see him. You are to go there, Francis. Find out what evils he plotted and who helped him. You will do that?’ I agreed, watching Richard’s eyes, wondering why the King seemed so relieved at not having to see Buckingham.
The rebellious Duke had been concealed in a tavern just under the castle walls, a dark, dingy place with ragstone walls and blackened wooden beams. The rushes on the floor looked as if they had not been changed for years, the smell was rank, and I glimpsed a dead cat in the far corner. The place was ringed by knights of the royal household in full armour, with more inside; they sat beneath the flickering cresset torches, silent and menacing. In the centre of the room, the reason for their presence, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, Constable and Grand Chamberlain of England, now adjudged a traitor, was chained and padlocked to a wooden pillar. I had last seen him in his blue and gold gown at Richard’s coronation but now his greatness was gone. His clothes were in tatters, his blond hair dirty and bedraggl
ed; his proud face was a mass of bruises and raised welts, the lower lip swollen, one eye half-closed. The captain of the guard stopped me as soon as I entered and, even though he knew me, insisted that I tell him why I had come. Much to my annoyance he searched me for any hidden arms.
‘I am sorry, my Lord,’ he muttered, ‘but the King has authorised this. He is afraid the Duke may seize a knife, despatch himself, and so escape the full rigours of the law.’ Once done, the captain let me through. The Duke stirred as he heard me, peering through his one good eye, turning slightly to glimpse me in the poor light.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘it’s Lovell the dog! Has the King’s cur come to gloat?’
‘Not gloat, my Lord,’ I said. ‘I wish we could have met in more honourable circumstances.’ I knelt down, crouching beside him.
‘Will the King see me?’ Buckingham whispered. I shook my head.
‘You will have a priest and, before the day is out, you will appear before Sir Ralph Assheton.’ Buckingham’s face, despite its horrible bruises, betrayed his fear.
‘I am to die?’ he said hoarsely.
‘Yes, my Lord, you are.’
I could see no point in giving the condemned man false hopes. Buckingham pulled himself up and leaned against the pillar.
‘So, what do you want, Lovell?’
‘The Princes.’
‘Ah!’ Buckingham’s bloodied mouth opened and, if he could he would have grinned. ‘You know the truth, Lovell?’ he whispered. ‘Oh, I have heard how you were digging amongst the filth in London, but you know, Brackenbury knows, Richard knows, God knows, and soon all the kingdom,’ he spat out, ‘will realise our usurper is also an assassin!’
