by Paul Doherty
‘Not necessarily, my Lord,’ I replied. ‘You were the last to see the Princes alive. I believe you suborned Slaughter and he killed the Princes on your orders.’ Buckingham threw his head back, the laughter cackling in his throat. He coughed and spluttered, a look of pure malevolence in his one good eye.
‘Your family emblem is well named, Lovell!’ he hissed. ‘You are a dog. You follow your master, nose to the ground. I did not kill Slaughter nor did I kill the Princes. I was never party to that. When I saw them in the royal apartments of the Tower, they were alive and in good health.’ He lunged forward, his bruised face close against mine. ‘Go on, dog! Go and tell your master he is an assassin!’ He spat full in my face.
I rose, wiped away the spittle and walked from that hate-filled tavern. Later the same day, on a newly-erected scaffold in the rain-drenched market square of Salisbury, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, paid for his treason when the town executioner swung his great silver sword, hacking his head from his shoulders.
I did not inform the King about every item of my meeting with Buckingham for I was fascinated by something the Duke had said. According to common rumour, and to the King himself, his Chancellor, Buckingham and, above all, Brackenbury, the Princes had been kept in a small chamber in the White Tower. Buckingham had unwittingly confessed to two things. First he had insisted that the Princes were still in the Tower when he left, so freeing himself from any accusation of abducting them or organising their escape. Secondly, he had said he had last seen the Princes, not in the White Tower but actually in the royal apartments, contrary to what Brackenbury had informed me. I did not realise this contradiction until hours after Buckingham’s execution. But, even if I had realised it in time, the Duke, sensing I was interested in such a remark, might only have entangled me deeper in his web of lies.
Another prick to my memory was the confession of Stephen Deverel. He had been a body squire of the Duke and he gave much information to Assheton in a successful bid to save his own life. I attended these hearings, hoping to trap the spy known as Percivalle, listening carefully to the accents of those taken prisoner with Buckingham – God knows I would never forget that voice. It proved fruitless; none had heard of anyone known as Percivalle, nor could I detect his tones in the different speeches I observed. Deverel’s confession, however, was interesting. He reported that he had stayed with the Duke in London and had gone to the Tower with him before the Duke’s party journeyed west to meet the King at Gloucester.
In London, Buckingham had attended secret meetings, but Deverel did not know where or with whom. However, on his departure from Gloucester, Buckingham had met up with the Lady Margaret Beaufort, mother of Henry Tudor and wife to Lord Thomas Stanley. She was travelling from London either to visit her estates in the midland counties or some shrine of the Blessed Virgin. They met in a village between Worcester and Bridgenorth, dining alone in an obscure tavern. Buckingham had thought he was safe, not knowing that Deverel, because of the thin walls, could hear a great deal of their conversation. Buckingham confessed to Lady Margaret how he no longer supported Richard, for the King had killed the two Princes. Buckingham insisted he was desirous of better relations between himself and the Countess because of this, as well as his secret talks with his prisoner, Bishop Morton. The Duke admitted that being descended from Thomas of Woodstock, he had entertained hopes of the crown passing to him if Richard was overthrown. Bishop Morton, however, had persuaded him to support the claim of Henry Tudor, promising the Duke that if Richard was removed and Henry came into his own, Buckingham would be amply rewarded.
According to Deverel, the Lady Margaret confirmed Morton’s promise. She secured Buckingham’s agreement to Henry Tudor’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville’s eldest daughter, adding that she would send her own chaplain, Christopher Urswicke, to Brittany to make known Buckingham’s intentions. Assheton interrogated Deverel most closely but the man refused to recant. I sat in the crowded Guildhall at Salisbury and believed Deverel was telling the truth, but were others? Did Buckingham, did Brackenbury, and, above all, did Richard my King, know the hidden truth?
Richard was in no mood, however, to be questioned, revelling in his victory over the rebels. Flushed with success, the royal army left Salisbury and swept south to Exeter, a city whose loyalty Richard gravely doubted, calling it a nest of traitors and the hotbed of filthy treason. The city fathers, fearful of the royal wrath, humbly submitted. We found the city gates open, the mayor and leading citizens kneeling in the dust to offer the King the keys to their city. Richard, menacing in his silence, accepted them and led his army into Exeter. The streets were deserted, the market-place empty. We passed the huge, elaborately carved houses of the merchants, surrounded by walled courtyards and sweet-smelling gardens, now drenched after the constant rainfall. Interspaced between them were the modest, square, two-storeyed houses of the artisans working in the cloth trade. All of these, however, looked forsaken, doors and shutters pulled close and tightly fastened. I heard movement behind some; the cry of a child, a shout of anguish, and a brief glimpse of terrified eyes and white faces.
The real object of terror was not so much the King himself but Sir Ralph Assheton, riding alongside him in black plate-armour. Behind the Vice-Constable trundled a huge four-wheeled wagon, painted black and hauled by four great horses, draped in purple, their manes hogged. In the cart was the paraphernalia of Assheton’s office; a makeshift gallows, execution block, axe and other instruments of torture. The King led us into the main square of the city, a huge expanse with houses on either side and the large, soaring cathedral at the far end. On a normal day this would be the market area, crowded with people, covered in stalls. Now it was forlorn and deserted except for three figures clad in black with halters around their necks. They knelt on the steps of the cathedral, their hands outstretched, begging for mercy. The King stopped his horse and took off his coronet and helmet. He shook his blood-red hair free and slouched brooding in the saddle at the scene before him. He beckoned me alongside.
‘Who are they?’ he said, nodding towards the three figures. I spurred my horse across the square, took it up the steps, carefully guiding the horse as its iron-shod hooves clattered and sparked on the hard granite stone. I stared up at the cathedral, the huge steel-studded doors, and above them the tympanum, Christ in full judgement at the end of the world. The three men turned, the first a small, brown-faced man, the other two silver-haired, their white faces glistening with sweat. I stared at them before shouting back:
‘I recognise one, Your Grace, as would you: Sir Thomas St. Leger. I do not know the other two.’ I knew Sir Thomas well. A crafty man, who thought he would better himself by marrying the King’s sister. The King was unmoved by this news; after Buckingham’s rebellion he had sworn he would never again be surprised. He leaned over his horse and mumbled a few words to Assheton before standing high in his stirrups, shouting till the square echoed with his words.
‘Citizens of Exeter, I forgive you your crimes!’ He turned towards the three figures. ‘The other two may go, but Sir Thomas, my Lord Vice-Constable must have words with you.’ A low moan of terror greeted his words. Sir Thomas bowed lower while his two companions gratefully scampered away.
The King kept his word, the city was spared; but before the day was out Sir Thomas St. Leger was arraigned for treason by Sir Ralph Assheton, found guilty and put to death. That same evening the King ordered me to take troops down to the coast to the small port of Plymouth. His spies had brought news how Henry Tudor, financed with Breton gold, was planning a descent on the coast.
‘The Tudor expects,’ Richard remarked, ‘to be met by Buckingham.’ He grinned at me. ‘Let us not disappoint him, Francis.’
We camped outside the port and I placed scouts along the cliff. After two days one of these espied a large, three-masted cog, escorted by two caravels which appeared over the horizon. Archers with the keenest sight were despatched to note the colours, and our suspicions were soon confirmed. From the ster
n of the huge cog hung the pennant of the Red Dragon rampant of Wales.
Of course, the men whom Tudor had expected had long fled. I gave orders for the contents of the two sealed wagons I had brought to be emptied of the captured liveries, standards and pennants of Buckingham. My men dressed in these whilst the huge banner and pennants of the dead Duke were unfurled along the cliff top. The cog hailed into view. On instructions, my men shouted how Buckingham had been successful, loudly inviting Tudor and his escort ashore. My captains and I watched the proceedings. We hid behind fishing-smacks pulled up high on the beach, quietly cursing that no King’s ship had appeared to seal off any escape route. I thought Tudor was going to fall into our trap; a small boat was lowered down the side of the cog and I saw four figures tumble in. The boat was rowed quickly ashore but its occupants were four Breton sailors who became suspicious at the paucity of Buckingham’s men and the general air of conspiracy. My men were soldiers, not actors. The sailors were to give a prearranged signal if they were confident there was no trap. Of course they did not; the cog and its escort turned, raised their sails, and I watched despairingly as they made their way out to sea. I ordered the Bretons to be put in chains and we returned dispiritedly to Exeter.
Ten
Richard accepted the Tudor’s escape with equanimity, saying there would be other times and other places, before handing me a letter from Anne. As soon as I was alone I broke the seal and read the letter: Anne called me her beloved, saying how, despite the rain, the Minster was still beautiful. My heart skipped a beat, she was enceinte, at least two months gone, and hoped a boy would be born the following summer. The next few sentences made my blood run cold: Anne chattered gaily about a stranger who had appeared at the manor house, well-dressed, softly spoken, with a Welsh accent. He had introduced himself as a long-lost friend called Percivalle and enquired about my whereabouts. He claimed we had recently met and he was anxious to renew our acquaintanceship.
I put the letter away and walked across to a window embrasure overlooking the rain-sodden town, wondering who Percivalle was? Was his arrival at the Minster a personal threat? Yet the fellow appeared to be courteous and offered no harm. Nevertheless, I was frightened; frightened for Anne, for our unborn child and for myself. Richard was wrapped in a web of conspiracy and the collapse of Buckingham’s rebellion might only be a brief respite. I re-read the letter; in her few concluding sentences Anne obliquely referred to the evil rumours about the King; once again she was warning me. I had no illusions of what would happen if the King was overthrown. I was his Chamberlain and right-hand man; it would mean the block, the headman’s axe and an attainder passed against me and my heirs disinheriting them for life.
I hid my doubts and unease, informing Richard of my good news. The King was pleased, envious, for I knew he wanted more sons to strengthen his new dynasty. He gave me cloths of gold and sent a necklace and a silver dish full of exquisite sweetmeats for Anne. He was still optimistic that Buckingham’s rebellion meant the end to all opposition, but fortune was deluding him. Just before we left Exeter four yeomen of the Court were implicated in Buckingham’s conspiracy. They had supplied the Duke with privy information and would have escaped undetected had not one of Buckingham’s men, an openly declared rebel, bought his life and land by betraying them. They were hanged in the market square. Richard, furious at such treachery, ordered their corpses to be tarred, placed in chains and left as a grim reminder to other would-be rebels.
We marched into East Anglia, linking up with the Duke of Norfolk. The King honoured his premier duke with gratitude and tokens of affection for his loyalty and skill in crushing the rebellion. Outside Gravesend, Richard called a meeting of the secret council, the usual coterie: Kendall, Ratcliffe, Catesby, Brampton, myself and, of course, Norfolk. The King drew up a list of ninety-six rebels whom he wished to attaint in the next Parliament. A fierce debate ensued over what should happen to the ringleaders. The King was for clemency but Catesby argued that the root and cause of the recent revolt, Lady Margaret Beaufort, should be severely punished. I privately agreed with him: Buckingham was not the cause of dissent, there were other more shadowy figures behind him, certainly Morton, Bishop of Ely. The latter had given Ratcliffe and Belknap the slip, escaping into the Fens and taking ship to Flanders.
Belknap had rejoined us as we marched east, quietly confiding to me how he thought Sir Richard Ratcliffe had deliberately allowed Morton to escape. Relations between the two were not cordial; during that council meeting Ratcliffe darkly referred to my arrogant steward as more of an obstacle than a help. However, he refused to elaborate and so I dismissed his remarks as an attempt to pass the blame for Morton’s escape on to someone else.
Richard also rejected such comments as petty. He held firm in his determination to show clemency to Lady Margaret Beaufort as it was too dangerous to act otherwise.
‘We do not,’ he commented, ‘want a rift between ourselves and Lady Margaret’s husband, Lord Thomas Stanley.’ He then murmured, as if talking to himself, ‘We will deal with that problem some other time.’ Catesby, still hot against Lady Margaret, alleged Beaufort was behind the whispering campaign against Richard, particularly over the fate of the Princes. His words created pools of deep silence.
‘Francis.’ Richard looked directly at me. ‘You are to continue your commission. This matter is not to be dismissed because of Buckingham’s death.’
‘In which case, your Grace,’ I replied, ‘I wish words with you afterwards in private.’ Richard nodded and the conversation passed on to other matters.
Once the rest had filed out, Richard turned to me, playing with the sparkling gold ring on one of his fingers.
‘What is it, Francis?’
‘Your Grace, I have two problems,’ I replied bluntly. ‘Your nephews are gone, perhaps dead. If I am to continue with this matter, I must know why you left Buckingham in London and what happened between you and the Duke at Gloucester?’ Richard placed both hands on the table, staring down at me, his lips moving wordlessly. He took deep breaths as if wanting to speak, only to lapse into silence. I just sat and watched, refusing to move until the King had answered my question.
‘I am sorry for not telling you earlier, Francis,’ he began. ‘Before I left London, Buckingham and I had a secret counsel about what should happen to my two nephews.’ He chewed at his lower lip. ‘True, the possibility of their deaths was discussed but we came to a secret plan. After I left London Buckingham was to enter the Tower and spirit both Princes away.’
‘With Brackenbury’s knowledge?’ I asked.
‘No. The only people who knew were myself, Buckingham and my sister Princess Margaret.’ I let out a sigh, the King must be telling the truth. Margaret had been his favourite sister, married to the Duke of Burgundy; she would have been only too willing to assist her younger brother. As a boy, Richard saw little of his father or mother. They would arrive with a great train of retainers; hangings would be unpacked, furniture brought in. His parents, dressed gorgeously, would sweep up to talk to him and then they would leave, the Duke and Duchess of York, with their bowmen, men-at-arms, singing boys, trumpeters and servants, clattering across some drawbridge, leaving little Richard to be mothered by Margaret.
‘What are you thinking, Francis?’ Richard interrupted my thoughts.
I smiled.
‘About Margaret. What was she to do?’ Richard shrugged.
‘She promised she would not harm the boys but find them good homes.’
‘But surely,’ I replied, ‘they would grow up to lay claim to the English crown?’
‘Not necessarily so,’ Richard replied. ‘Their memories would be clouded by comfortable obscurity and who would believe them? They would be well looked after, educated, given every comfort. Perhaps they would not have wished to exchange such comfort for our dangerous world of politics. Moreover,’ he added slyly, ‘the eldest, Edward, was a very sickly child. I doubt whether he would have lived to manhood.’ I agreed. The young prince
had been a studious, rather withdrawn boy. There had been times when his parents despaired of him surviving infancy. Indeed, eight years earlier there had been rumours that he had died.
‘Do you believe me?’ Richard asked.
‘It is a preposterous plot,’ I replied. ‘I mean, it has never happened before.’ Richard laughed out loud.
‘Oh, yes, it did,’ he retorted. ‘To my own wife. Surely you remember, Francis?’
Of course I did. Twelve years earlier Richard had planned to marry Anne Neville, only surviving daughter of the Duke of Warwick, but his elder brother, Clarence, had seized her. Richard, hurrying south to claim both her and King Edward’s permission for the marriage, went to Clarence’s house only to find Anne missing. Clarence boldly insisted he did not know where the woman had gone. Richard, furious, had used all his friends, myself included, to scour London and had eventually discovered the young lady, disguised as a cook-maid, hidden in the kitchens of a friend of Clarence’s. The King was correct. It had been done before.
‘Who was to take them?’ I asked.
‘Sir Edward Brampton,’ Richard replied. ‘He was not given details but simply told to have a ship waiting off the Thames and to take two passengers to Margaret’s agents in Ghent. I think Brampton suspected,’ Richard added, ‘but things went wrong. He waited for his mysterious passengers and, when they failed to arrive, sailed back into port. Buckingham,’ he spat out, ‘claimed that he had taken the Princes out of the Tower disguised as two of his retainers. He was delayed, so one of his own men took them across to Flanders in another ship, or so he told me at Gloucester.’
‘Your Grace,’ I replied. ‘You should have told me this. And why,’ I added angrily, ‘did you order me into London to search for the Princes whom you knew were abroad?’ Richard brought his hand crashing down onto the table, making me jump.
