by Paul Doherty
‘I am your King, Viscount Lovell,’ Richard shouted. ‘I may be your friend but I am also your King. I do not have to make my mind a window for everyone to look through. I was not abusing you,’ he said. ‘Matters went wrong. First, at Gloucester Buckingham told me the Princes were abroad and I was happy, but then Margaret sent me a secret message saying they had not arrived and my spies reported on the growing rumours that I had killed them. I was confused then and I am now!’ He leaned over and grasped me by the wrist. ‘Francis, the fate of these boys haunts me. I dare not interrogate Brackenbury,’ he sighed deeply. ‘I feel I am responsible.’
‘Why did you not inform Sir Robert?’ I asked.
‘Simple,’ the King replied. ‘The less people knew, the better. In a sense Brackenbury could do nothing. If they went missing from his charge, he would be the last person to proclaim the fact to the world. Moreover, why should I give him such confidences? Men’s hearts are fickle, Francis. Why should I entrust such power to Brackenbury?’
‘You gave it to Buckingham,’ I replied, cursing myself even as I spoke.
‘I trusted Buckingham,’ he replied evenly. He looked strangely at me. ‘I believe my life, Francis, will be ruined because I trusted the wrong people! I tell you this,’ he added softly. ‘Even on this council, I believe there are men who already have secret pacts with Henry Tudor. If I find them, Francis, even if it is you, I will send them to the axe!’
His words did not concern me, I was loyal. I just hoped he was telling the truth. Poor, secretive Richard. He never trusted anyone, not even me. Oh, he told the truth or rather some of it. The full truth, however, proved more hideous.
Richard entered London at the end of November. He was greeted at the city gates by the mayor and aldermen, dressed in scarlet robes, with five hundred of the principal citizens garbed in violet. They met us at Kennington, escorting us through the cheering crowds in Southwark and across London Bridge to the Wardrobe Palace near Blackfriars. The next day I was with the King; he returned the Great Seal of England in its white, gold-fringed leather bag to the Chancellor and drew up preparations for Christmas and a Parliament in January. I asked permission to return to Minster Lovell but the King reluctantly refused. He took me by the hand and begged me to stay with him, promising he would use all his power to have my wife brought from Minster to Eltham Palace.
Of course I agreed to the King’s request. Anne arrived in London a few days before Christmas and we rejoined the court for Yuletide at Eltham in Kent. The setting was memorable enough; the moat, glistening over with ice, spanned by a four-arch bridge, and the great hall, built by Richard’s brother, adorned with Turkey cloths and tapestries of gold and silver. Richard insisted that we enjoy ourselves and savour our triumphs after an autumn of hard campaigning. Costly presents were exchanged; Richard gave me a precious set of armour from Milan and Anne a golden egg encrusted with gems. There was dancing, feasting, the cooks not sparing themselves in providing rich sauces, pastries, jellies and blancmanges executed in exquisite designs and shapes. There were masques, mummers’ plays, sweet songs and carols from the King’s choristers. Richard was determined to lock the world out, though it was present all the time: his wife, now thin and frail, white-faced, her bony body constantly racked by spasms of coughing; and his heir, Edward, conspicuous by his absence, so ill his mother had to leave him at Middleham.
Our spies still reported conspiracies and whisperings in London and Kent as well as news from Brittany. The Tudor had returned safely, openly declaring on oath in Vannes Cathedral that he would take Elizabeth of York as wife, once he had invaded England and overthrown the usurper. This and news that the spy Percivalle was once again busy in the south, spurred Richard into action. Once Twelfth Night was over, preparations were begun for the Parliament called for Friday, January 23rd. On the day before, I kissed Anne goodbye, escorting her and her party of retainers out of the city onto the road north. A hard, cold, bleak day; I held Anne’s warm hand in mine, beseeching with my eyes that she take great care of herself and the child growing within her. We had spent the festivities in one whirligig of pleasure. I did not want to question her about Percivalle or the dangers around us. God bless her, I think she knew, but never once did she ask, never once reproach me. As I watched her go, disappearing into the mist, I knew I could face anything but the loss of her.
The King still wished me to pursue the truth behind the fate of the Princes and, though attendant upon him at Court and in Parliament, I used the time to revise what I had learnt.
Item – Richard claimed he had entrusted Buckingham with the task of privily removing the Princes from the Tower and sending them abroad into the care of his sister Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy.
Item – He had not disclosed the plan to Brackenbury but kept it private between himself and Buckingham. He had not since informed Brackenbury because this would achieve nothing.
Item – Buckingham had visited the Tower and claimed to have seen the Princes in the royal apartments. Brackenbury, however, claimed the meeting took place in the White Tower.
Item – Brackenbury claimed to have seen the Princes the day after Buckingham’s visit, so the rebellious duke had not kept to his plan. Sir Edward Brampton had also reported that his expected guests had not boarded the ship as planned. Accordingly, there were a number of conclusions. First, Buckingham could have taken them and Brackenbury could be lying to cover his own mistakes. But why? It would be simple just to accuse Buckingham. Secondly, Buckingham could have taken the Princes, replacing them with boys of similar appearance, but this was too preposterous. Brackenbury would not have hesitated in proclaiming this to the world as well as to the King. Thirdly, Richard could have killed the Princes and Brackenbury could have been his corroborator, but this only led to more questions. Why was the news of the Princes’ death rumoured so quickly not only in England but also in France? Why should Richard kill them? This still left other claimants: George, the Duke of Clarence’s son, not to mention Edward IV’s daughters. The Tudor’s proclamation how he intended to marry the eldest of these was sufficient proof that any claimant to the throne could still use Edward IV’s children to secure the crown. Moreover, the death of the Princes actually aided the aspirations of any would-be claimant.
There were other problems. Who had killed Slaughter and why? And, if the Princes were dead, how had their bodies been disposed of? The Tower was a small town in itself, it had been a hot summer, the ground would be hard; any attempt to dig graves would soon be noticed. True, the bodies could have been removed by night and dumped in the Thames, but the perpetrators would always run the risk of being noticed or the corpses being discovered. Finally, did Richard have the mind of an assassin? He had executed opponents, but all such deaths had been open. Richard had made no attempt to disguise his own view of justice; Buckingham, Hastings and others had faced secret trials but their executions had been public enough.
Eleven
I teased with these problems for days and, once Parliament was ended, I returned to the Tower on an overcast, fog-bound day. The mists swirled round the mangonels and war-machines lying derelict in the courtyards. The place was active enough, farriers busy seeing to horses before spring and the fires of the smithies blood-red as they obeyed Richard’s instructions for new culverins, serpentines, bombards and other cannon. I was allowed access through all the gates but a guard stopped me at the entrance to the royal apartments and insisted on escorting me up to Brackenbury’s chamber. The Constable was calmer, more collected, than the last time. He was guarded but at ease. The room was freezing despite the roaring fire and the glittering braziers which had been wheeled into the chamber.
For a few minutes we made desultory conversation. We exchanged civilities and news, discussing common acquaintances at Court and in the recent Parliament, Brackenbury being conspicuous in his absence from both. I studied the man carefully as he chatted, noticing the lines of care around his mouth and deep-set eyes. He knew the rumours. He was Constable of t
he Tower and the accusation of being a child-murderer does not rest easy, even on the most hardened conscience. Brackenbury sensed my thoughts.
‘You are most welcome, my Lord,’ he said. ‘But you are here about the Princes. How can I help you this time?’
I told him about my meeting with Buckingham and watched his face pale. He seemed to lose his composure at the dead Duke’s claim to have met the Princes not in the White Tower, but here in the royal apartments.
‘The man’s a liar!’ he retorted. ‘He saw them in the Tower. I cannot see why the traitor should have made such a comment. There again he was so full of his own pride as well as wine, he would scarcely know he was in London never mind the Tower!’
‘And have you learnt anything new, Sir Robert, in the last six months? Any rumour, any whisper?’
‘No, nothing.’
I leaned towards him. ‘Sir Robert, I am not your enemy or your judge. But for God’s sake, man, face the problem. You had custody of the two Princes, yet they disappeared. No one saw them leave. There was no attack. How did they escape? What explanation do you have?’
‘I have told you,’ he snapped back. ‘William Slaughter, he knew his way round the Tower. There are still many secret exits and entrances.’
‘Did you know,’ I asked slowly, ‘that Slaughter is dead?’ I held up a hand to fend off his questions. ‘I have seen his corpse, throat slit from ear to ear.’ Brackenbury’s eyes flickered away; he smiled thinly. ‘But that is the explanation,’ he answered. ‘Slaughter took them. He was suborned. He was working for someone else. Once he had carried out their orders . . .’ Brackenbury shrugged, ‘. . . Slaughter was of no use, and what he knew was dangerous so he was killed.’
I considered the possibility. Brackenbury was right. The Princes’ gaoler could have freed them, but what had then happened to them? Not one sign or hint of their appearance or claim to the throne. Had they been rescued just to be murdered?
I left Sir Robert, having gained his permission to question others in the Tower, but I found nothing. All I received were evasive answers, blank looks, even a refusal to answer despite my status as both Richard’s Chamberlain and loyal friend. I studied the account for the Tower but discovered nothing, except confirmation that on July 19th the rest of the Princes’ retinue had been paid off. There were references to Buckingham’s visit but the rest of the items were wages for the garrison and payments to masons and carpenters for the constant building which was carried out in the Tower.
I left the fortress late in the afternoon. I met my retainers outside the main gate and took a barge down to Southwark. As usual, its narrow streets were packed with all the filth of the underworld. Sham beggars, relic-sellers, footpads, whores, pimps, cutpurses, forgers, counterfeiters and murderers. Men who killed another human being for the price of a pot of ale. The stalls and booths were open selling baubles, cheap food or other items, usually stolen from shops across the river. The whores were there but, being so early in the day, acted as discreetly as their painted faces, orange-braided hair and scarlet gowns would allow. We turned down one street where I asked a scribbler for directions to the tavern Sir Edward Brampton constantly frequented. The fellow grinned. Yes, he knew the Ragged Staff and, for a few pennies, sketched directions on a piece of dirty vellum.
One of my retainers, a serjeant-at-arms, led the way. At last we arrived at a huge, three-storeyed building with an ale stake pushed under the eaves and a crude sign above the broad wooden entrance proclaiming it to be the Ragged Staff. Sir Edward Brampton was well-known there. A great navigator from a nation whose sailors are now scouring the dark coasts of Africa, Brampton liked his comforts. Inside it was no different from any other tavern: a large, overheated room, filled with shouting, half-drunk customers seated around stout wooden tables. They were busy baiting a relic-seller, who claimed to be selling hairs from St. Paul’s beard. The upper storeys, however, housed a luxurious bordello and I found Brampton there, lying upon a great four-poster bed, on either side of him a giggling wench, almost identical with their black curly hair and gentle curves of pink and white flesh. They lay on lace-fringed covers, a sheer contrast to the dark, swarthy body of Sir Edward. Around the room were strewn silken garments, dresses, petticoats and red hose with golden roses on them.
A grinning, evil-smelling boy ushered me in; I sent him packing back downstairs with strict instructions to look after my retainers. Only when he closed the door behind him did Brampton see me. He sat up roaring with laughter, inviting me to participate in what he called his great banquet on the bed. I declined and said I wished to speak to him alone. He damned me for being as prim as any archdeacon and, slapping both wenches on the backside, told them to grab their robes and get out before he laid about them with his belt. They slipped by me, brushing my shoulders with their silken flesh. Once they were gone, Brampton rose, wrapping a rather dirty sheet about him, and went over to pour two generous cups of wine, proffering one to me. I remember it tasted delicious, white Rhenish, smooth and chilled in snow or ice.
‘Well, Lovell!’ he roared. ‘What do you want?’ God knows he knew why I was there. For all his bluntness and foreign ways, Sir Edward was as keen as I to know the truth. Seated now in the cold darkness, I remember that meeting, the wine, the friendship, the sense of common purpose. It warms me against the chill approach of death.
At the time, however, I was suspicious and he had to repeat his question. I began to ask delicately about the King’s instructions to take a ship, stand off the mouth of the Thames and wait for certain passengers to be put aboard. His eyes hardened, shifting away from mine.
‘Sir Edward,’ I said tiredly, ‘you know the King has instructed me in this matter. He has probably asked you what happened and I have his authority to ask the same. When was it?’ I asked. ‘What time?’
‘After dark,’ he replied. ‘On the evening of July 25th.’ The same day, I noted, as Buckingham went to the Tower.
‘But no one came?’ I asked.
‘No one,’ he replied. ‘We were instructed to take up our position just after dark; it was almost dawn before we raised anchor and sailed away.’ I searched his face for any lies but he just shrugged his shoulders, rubbing his ear lobe, playing with the gold pearl-studded ring which dangled from it.
‘You know who your intended passengers were?’
‘Of course,’ Brampton snapped back. ‘Richard’s bastard nephews.’
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘The bastard princes?’ He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped from his cup. ‘They may be dead or they may have escaped. I keep my eyes and ears open. I think they are abroad.’
‘What makes you so certain?’ I asked.
He put the cup down and leaned across to me.
‘Just rumours. Stories from Tournai.’ My heart quickened. I wish it had not, for Brampton sowed a seed that day, the seeds of destruction. I pressed him for more details but he could tell me nothing more. He said he had recently informed the King but so far he had found nothing to add.
I left Brampton with his whores and went back downstairs. A strumpet with an orange wig and a red, loose, flowing dress tried to block my way; a young girl with a soft, sweet face and eyes as hard as steel. She whispered promises of delights for a drink or a few coins. I tried to push by her but she blocked my path. The stairs were empty, dark and gloomy, the girl’s arm hard against my stomach. I heard the clink of steel behind me, the soft slither of leather on wood, and, suspecting a trap, threw her aside, running down the stairs shouting for my retainers to the shrill mocking laughter of the doxy.
The next morning I was up early and, escorted by a now grumbling group of servants, went up to Holborn and the stately grand town house of Lord Thomas Stanley. I found it easily enough, the largest in the area, more like an inn with its spacious courtyards, orchards and raised flower-beds. The bricks between the jet-black timbers glistened with fresh coats of white paint and the gables were gilted with ornate embosses and small
shields bearing the red insignia of the Stanleys. Both courtyard and house were full of retainers and they greeted my arrival with cool disdain. The Stanleys had never been Richard’s friends. Lord Thomas had been allied to Hastings and arrested in that frenetic meeting in the Tower. He had been thrown roughly to the ground, banging his head so hard he was led off covered in blood. Stanley never forgave nor forgot either the blow or the accompanying humiliation. Richard had tried to buy him with honours, but the only person Stanley really supported was himself. His family were weasels, time-servers, switching sides to suit their own convenience. Richard was frightened of his great power in the counties of Cheshire and Lancashire but, in hindsight, Richard’s greatest mistake was not having him executed.
Stanley’s second wife, Lady Margaret Beaufort, was the perfect match for him. She was the sole heir of the Duke of Somerset, one of the House of Lancaster’s most powerful generals. She had been married at the age of thirteen to Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond; their son Henry was now the only surviving Lancastrian claimant to the throne. By all rights she should have been locked up in prison but Richard, unwilling or unable to confront her new husband, had simply stripped her of her titles, her lands given to her husband who was to be the guarantor of her future good behaviour.
I was not looking forward to the meeting and, as I was ushered upstairs to a small comfortable chamber, found myself strangely nervous. The Lady Margaret was waiting for me, seated in a huge chair before the hearth of a roaring fire. A diminutive woman, she nevertheless had a presence, sitting there in a dark-blue velvet dress, fringed at neck and cuffs with frothy white Bruges lace. She did not wear an elegant Court head-dress but a white veil like a nun’s which framed her thin, pale face and large dark eyes, pools of passionate power. She did not stir as I entered except to raise her hand to be kissed before gesturing me to sit in the chair opposite. Like some great abbess she insisted on the civilities, offering me wine and a dish of cloying sweetmeats. She was the most powerful and dangerous woman I have ever met. She exuded a baleful, threatening presence. Her arrogant face and thin lips concealed any disappointment or humiliation she may have felt following Buckingham’s defeat and Richard’s public rebukes at her involvement.
