The Fate of Princes

by Paul Doherty

  All I could do was dally around the taverns and meeting-houses of Tournai, remembering the past and wondering what to do next. Time and again I went over the King’s secret matter, my suspicions being aroused by news from London. Strange, the Tudor had made no accusations against Richard, no startling revelations, no proof, no evidence. What, I wondered, had happened to that grisly, secret chamber in the Tower? The Tudor wanted to marry Elizabeth of York, even honouring the Woodville woman. Surely, they must have some influence and insist that a future husband or prospective son-in-law should reveal the truth about the two murdered Princes? Nothing. Ominous silence. Veiled hints. All shadows, no substance.

  I thought I would end my days as a pensioner of the Dowager Duchess, when fortune gave her wheel another fickle turn. Other exiles came to Tournai, including John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln, Richard’s nephew, who had made his peace with the Tudor but now regretted it and fled abroad seeking vengeance. A popinjay of a man, vain, stupid, I never really trusted him. The Dowager greeted him like a long-lost son. I was polite but cool, though my heart warmed to see Sir Edward Brampton in his retinue. Still dressed as gaudily as a peacock, Brampton had returned to his privateering in the Channel after the Tudor’s victory. We exchanged greetings and Brampton whispered that he wished a secret meeting as soon as possible, mentioning the name of a small tavern just off the market square in Tournai. I met him there shortly after dark, a gloomy, low-beamed place with rushes on the floor and few pretensions to luxury though I could see why Brampton had chosen it; full of nooks and corners, it was the ideal place for conspirators to meet. Sir Edward was already there, tense with excitement, his eyes and pure white teeth flashing in the darkness, the bells sewn on his jerkin clinking at every movement. He hired a small table, shouting for the best wine the house had and damning the inn-keeper to mind his own business and keep well away.

  Brampton leaned across the table and held my wrists tightly.

  ‘Do you remember the King’s secret matter, Francis? The fate of the Princes?’ I nodded guardedly. Brampton’s face was flushed with excitement and he licked his lips as if savouring a good wine.

  ‘Well,’ he added, ‘I believe one of the Princes is still alive. I have seen him.’ I would have pulled away but for the vice-like grip on my wrists.

  ‘That is ridiculous!’ I said. Brampton gazed at me steadily. ‘Where?’ I exclaimed. ‘When?’

  ‘You were in the same camp as he, the night before the fatal battle.’

  ‘Sir Edward,’ I said quietly. ‘Tell me and have done with it.’

  Brampton took his hands away, steepling his fingers.

  ‘Do you remember that last council meeting? Well, after Richard dismissed us and all his attendants, saying he wished to be alone, I followed the rest out. A few hours later, unable to sleep because of the impending battle and knowing the King was in a melancholy mood, I went back to the royal tent. I thought the King was alone until I saw his secretary, Kendall, bring a boy into the royal tent. He must have been nine or ten years old. There was something about him vaguely familiar, the way he walked, held his head. I kept in the shadows and went along the side of the pavilion. In their haste the servants had not erected it properly and there were gaps between the overlapping sheets. I found one which gave me a view of what was going on. Kendall had gone, God knows where, and Richard was alone except for the small boy, thin, pale-faced. Richard was holding him gently by the arms. The King murmured something about not recognising him and that he would have to leave for if the coming battle went badly and the King’s enemies knew the boy was alive, they would undoubtedly murder him. Richard pulled the boy to him, embraced him passionately, kissing him on either cheek. The King called out and Kendall returned.’ Brampton stopped speaking and poured the now empty wine-cups to the brim, offering one to me. ‘You remember the confusion the following morning? Kendall looked tired, travel-weary. I asked him where he had been. His answer was diffident. I pretended to be suspicious for we all knew there were common rumours about traitors in the camp. Kendall explained he had been to Eastwell, I think it was there, on a private mission.’ Brampton shrugged. ‘Then he just walked away. That’s all I know.’

  I leaned back on the bench and stared up at the rafters. Brampton was telling the truth, but about what? Richard’s words about recognising the boy indicated that the lad may have been an illegitimate son. If so, why had Richard not mentioned him? He had made no attempt to hide his two other illegitimate children, John and Katherine. Indeed, he had boasted about them, taking every care to lavish honours, dignities and lands upon them. And why should the King be concerned that the Tudor, if victorious, would persecute and harass a young illegitimate son? Why didn’t the King afford similar protection to his two bastard children or the son of his brother, the Earl of Warwick? Why the secrecy? Why was it so important to send Kendall through the night to hide the boy away?

  ‘Do you realise, Francis, what this means?’ Brampton interrupted excitedly. ‘Richard was no assassin. Perhaps the boy was one of the Princes, so a direct claimant to the House of York still lives in England.’ I put my hand over his.

  ‘Edward, let us tread gently here. Does Lincoln know this?’

  Brampton shook his head. ‘No, I do not like the man and I tell you this, Francis, I am going back to privateering, perhaps returning to Portugal. Lincoln has the stink of defeat and treachery around him.’

  ‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Let us leave it at that.’ Brampton left shortly afterwards, slipping into the night, leaving me to my thoughts. Two things convinced me Brampton was not relaying rumour. First, his story made sense. Richard had been mysterious about the two Princes, almost apologetic to me, as if frightened to let me into a secret. His meeting with the young boy just before the battle accorded with his mood. Richard had been anxious, withdrawn, fearful of what was to come. Secondly, Brackenbury also had his suspicions and so the two confessions interlinked, forming a pattern. Perhaps there was hope, but Brampton’s story created more problems than it solved. Was this boy one of the Princes? If so, where was the other and who was buried in that secret chamber in the Tower?

  During the next three days I attended countless meetings with Lincoln and the Dowager Duchess. Lincoln unfolded his plans, claiming we had lost against the Tudor for two reasons. First, he had been assisted by professional mercenaries. Secondly, Richard’s reputation had been tarnished, albeit falsely, by rumour and slander. If we invaded England, we would need mercenaries of our own. Lincoln turned and bowed towards the Duchess, the Princess Margaret had promised these, two thousand German lancers under their captain, Martin Swartz. Finally, we would need a figurehead and Lincoln described the most sensational of plots. How an Oxford priest, Richard Symonds, held a boy, Lambert Simnel, with the same blond hair and aristocratic looks of the House of York.

  ‘We will,’ he claimed triumphantly, ‘depict this boy as the young Prince Richard, son of Edward IV, and so draw support from all the country!’ I looked around the room, my heart sinking at the insanity of such a plan. Tudor, at least, had been a figure in exile, a Lancastrian prince. But would people rally behind a mysterious boy claiming to be someone the country had now forgotten? The Dowager Duchess was enthused with excitement, eyes gleaming, her sallow face flushed with fervour. She was a woman who would support anyone, be it a monkey or an ape from Barbary, if it suited her plans. Lincoln was lost in his own arrogance. Brampton’s eyes simply slid away as if he already knew the outcome of such a madcap scheme. The rest, however, petty Yorkshire gentry, exiles from England, slumped back in their chairs crowing with excitement. I had only one fear. If Simnel used the name Richard of York and was victorious, the young Prince hidden away would still be threatened.

  ‘My Lord,’ I interrupted. ‘Would not such a scheme founder?’

  ‘Why?’ Lincoln’s narrow face became creased with annoyance, lips pursed, eyebrows raised like some parish schoolteacher, angry with a favourite pupil.

  ‘Because, my Lord,’ I
answered wearily, ‘God forgive me, but the two Princes must be dead, or lost to us now. Why not have Simnel represent the living and at the same time cast bloody doubts on the Tudor as he did on the late King Richard? Who knows,’ I jibed, ‘if Edward, Earl of Warwick, Clarence’s son, has been left alive in the Tower? The Tudor may well have executed him.’ I saw the Dowager Margaret’s head nodding vigorously. Brampton smiling secretively, also murmured fervent support for my scheme.

  After heated debate and constant flattery on my part, Lincoln changed his mind and accepted my plan.

  Brampton left shortly afterwards and his words were prophetic. Even now, I find it hard to describe the bloody fiasco. At the end of April we sailed from Tournai and joined Simnel in Ireland on the 5th May proclaiming the silly lie that he was Edward of Warwick. My only comfort was that undoubtable soldier of fortune, Martin Swartz. With his cropped hair, weather-beaten brown leathery skin and pale blue eyes, Swartz instilled confidence and determination into the small group of Yorkist exiles and his two thousand steel-harnessed German mercenaries. A brave man, a good soldier. The Dowager Duchess Margaret must carry his blood on her hands. He deserved a better fate. In Dublin the Irish lords greeted us fervently. They dazzled our eyes with their shabby opulence, lavish banquets and promises of thousands of wild kerns, the Irish foot-soldiers, badly armed, poorly led but with all the bravery of bull mastiffs. Symonds I disliked as soon as I met him, a shabby, sly-faced priest, but I was impressed with Simnel. A good actor, the boy would have made a fortune with any travelling troupe. Nevertheless, I hid my doubts, attending his coronation as King Edward VI in Dublin Cathedral with my fellow-conspirators. Lacking a crown, we took a silver chaplet from the statue of the Virgin and placed it on the pretender’s young blond head.

  On 4th June we landed at Furness in Lancashire but not with as many Irish kerns as I would have liked. But at least, the red-haired, russet-bearded Irish leader, Thomas Geraldine, came to die with them. We decided to strike east, keeping the north behind us, hoping the levies would come in. A few did but not enough to ensure a victory. Twelve days later, John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, put an end to our fantasies near the small village of Stoke in Nottinghamshire. The battle, despite success at the beginning, was a disaster. Swartz’s mercenaries stood and fought to the last man while the Irish were trapped in a narrow gully leading down to the river Trent and slaughtered in their thousands. We had hoped to smash de Vere’s forces before fresh royal troops arrived but we were unable to. In one final dramatic charge, which reminded me bitterly of King Richard’s death, Swartz, Lincoln and other leaders were trapped and killed. Their bodies were later impaled for public view.

  God knows I would have died with them. I fought that day like a berserker, trying to break through Oxford’s ring of steel. I wanted to drive my axe into the body of the man who had cost Richard the throne and myself everything I held dear, but I was driven back. I had one final task to accomplish, so I turned my horse down the riverbank and across the Trent to safety. Discarding my armour, I rode across the shire border into Leicestershire, along isolated narrow lanes, my horse’s hooves pounding like the beat of a drum. Now and again I would stop, look round, and, satisfied there was no pursuit, hasten on. The night before the battle at Stoke I had studied Lincoln’s crudely-drawn map and, from my own experience, I knew which country tracks and bridle-paths to follow. At times they narrowed to little more than alleyways between the trees. The overhead branches blocked out the sun, making the tracks as dark as any street in Southwark. On one occasion, I met a shepherd guiding his flock to pasture. I scattered them all, ignoring the fellow’s shouts as I rode my horse through.

  At last I breasted a hill and there in its cusp was Eastwell, a scattering of houses nestling round an ancient single-spired church and, at the far end, I glimpsed a makeshift market and the striped awnings of its booths and stalls. I went into the town, my mud-stained, blood-scarred horse and unkempt appearance drawing hostile mutters and glances. A mongrel came up, lip curled, yellow teeth bared, but I turned my horse which lashed out one iron-shod hoof and the mongrel slunk away. Women hurried out of the houses, drawing back the leather covers which served as doors. They shooed aside the bony chickens pecking in the dust and drew the grimy, naked children closer to their tattered skirts. I hobbled my horse outside the church and, running up the steps, pounded with the hilt of my dagger on its great iron-studded door. The priest came, huffing and puffing, his bald head tinged with a fine sheen of sweat, wiping mud-stained hands on a black, tattered robe. He studied me curiously, the light-blue eyes in his sunburnt face cool and watchful.

  ‘What is it, my son?’ The voice was soft, twanging with the local dialect. I pushed by him into the coolness of the church, unsheathed my dagger and slumped exhausted at the base of one of the pillars.

  ‘Father,’ I replied. ‘I mean no harm, I swear.’ I waved my hand towards the darkened altar. ‘I swear by the sacraments! By the Bible! By any relic you wish to bring! I mean no harm to anyone in your village but I look for a boy, blond-haired, about twelve years of age, a stranger here.’ The priest came and crouched beside me, his eyes studying me carefully. ‘Father,’ I pleaded, ‘I must see this boy! I must talk to him! Surely, in a village this size you know everyone.’ The priest continued to gaze at me. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘I mean no harm to the boy but, soon, I am going to die. I ask you for the love of Christ, let me see him, let me talk to him. Here, in this church!’ The priest cocked his head sideways, his face turned away as if listening for something. ‘What is it, Father?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Nothing,’ he murmured. ‘Just the master mason and his apprentice. They are at work on the outside of the church.’ He turned and smiled at me. ‘It’s the wind, you see. It howls right down, drenching the brickwork with rainwater.’

  ‘Father,’ I answered wearily, ‘please help me.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ the priest replied. ‘You see, the apprentice is not from these parts. A well-spoken boy. He has been here two years. He and the mason journey from Leicester to work. Fine craftsmen.’ I stirred to get up but the priest crouched beside me. He suddenly drew his hands from beneath his robes and laid the tip of a long, wicked dagger he had concealed there against my chest. ‘Do not move,’ he said quietly. ‘and even if you do, you can’t see Watkins over there, can you?’ I turned, peering down the dark nave, and saw a shadow move near one of the far pillars. ‘Watkins,’ the priest continued drily, ‘is a farmer. He was talking to me when you began your pounding on the door. I must add that he is also a fine archer. By now he has a goose-tipped arrow notched to that wicked longbow of his. He has a good eye. I am sure he could take you.’ The priest pricked the dagger into the softness of my neck. ‘Right here!’ The priest beamed. ‘Oh, we have seen the armies, the great men of war. And you must be one of them. Or rather were, for now you are fleeing for your life, ay?’ He pulled the dagger away from my neck. ‘There must be a reward for you.’ I felt slowly for my own purse and emptied its contents, gold and silver Flemish coins, into my hands.

  ‘Take these, Father,’ I said. The priest smiled.

  ‘I will take half. You can see the boy, but Watkins and I will stay over in the shadows there. If you threaten the lad, Watkins will put an arrow straight into your heart. I would then take the rest of your coins and turn your corpse over to,’ he screwed his eyes up as if puzzled, ‘to the Tudor’s men,’ he said. ‘Yes, your arrival here must mean the Tudor has won. May heaven,’ he turned and spat, ‘may heaven damn him!’ He got up and went back to the door. A few minutes later he returned, a tall, blond-haired boy behind him. The lad was dressed in brown woollen leggings, a white soiled shirt and a sweat-stained leather jacket across his shoulders. I looked at the blond hair, the thin narrow face and wide-spaced blue eyes. I knew this must be no other than Richard, Duke of York, son of Edward IV, nephew of Richard III, the last real Yorkist claimant to the crown of England. I struggled to my knees and bowed; the priest gave a sharp intake of breath. �
��I don’t know who this is, Richard,’ he murmured, ‘but he seems a good, though now lost, man. He wishes to speak to you. I think he should.’ The priest looked at me sharply. ‘Though only the sweet Christ knows why.’ And, nodding to the apprentice, the priest walked away as the boy knelt opposite me, sitting back on his heels, his hands resting in his lap.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ The boy’s voice was soft, though already I could catch a rustic burr. I looked in his eyes, used to laughter I think, but now they were guarded and wary. I gazed around; the priest was now over in the shadows.

  ‘Sire,’ I answered hastily, ‘I am a doomed man. My executioners may well be close behind me, but you must know that I, Francis, Viscount Lovell of Titchmarsh, served your father, King Edward, and your uncle, King Richard. Many times I have fought for your House, but the White Rose has died and soon I will join it.’ The boy never moved. He just sat, studying my eyes as if undecided whether to speak or not. ‘I mean no harm,’ I said. ‘I have not come to hurt you but to ask for the love of the sweet Christ what has happened to you, to your brother?’ I saw the eyes blink to hide the pain. I shook my head, forcing back the tears of desperation. ‘I may have done you and yours great harm.’ I knelt before him. ‘But now a dying man, I beg forgiveness and ask only for the truth.’ The boy leaned over and gently touched my cheek, before crouching cross-legged in front of me.