The Fate of Princes

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I remember you, Viscount Lovell, faintly. I saw you once at Court. You made my father laugh, some joke on a long-forgotten sunny day. Really, I should hate you, for you supported my uncle’s usurpation, but I should thank you too, for where is King Richard now? Just a soiled corpse in some ditch! And you, one of his principal generals, crouched in the dust, begging my forgiveness. Yet, where should I go? Back to my mother who handed me over?’ I looked up and stared curiously at this boy with the angelic face of a twelve-year-old and eyes a thousand years old, hardened by the experiences he had suffered.

  ‘I will tell you the truth,’ he replied quickly. ‘My brother and I were placed in the Tower. I remember it was the height of summer. Edward was sick, feverish, never very strong. He became melancholic when he heard of Richard’s usurpation, the flight of my mother, the Queen, and the death of Earl Rivers and others. He wanted to die. He caught a fever, some ague from the river.’

  ‘When was this?’ I asked.

  ‘At the beginning of June.’

  ‘Before Brackenbury became Constable?’ The boy looked puzzled.

  ‘Who was he?’

  I almost laughed. Of course, poor Brackenbury. Who was he? The young prince had never seen him. I knew what he was going to say next.

  ‘Uncle Richard,’ the boy continued, ‘came to see us in the Tower. He became alarmed at Edward’s condition and one night secretly moved us.’

  ‘By himself?’

  ‘Yes, alone. Oh, there were guards. They were on the river in boats. All I can remember are their shadows and torches lashed to prow and stern. About three in number. Richard gave me a cloak and a hood to wear. He carried Edward by himself.’ The boy looked sharply at me. ‘Of course, there were the others.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Two boys, of similar height to ourselves. They came into the room in the White Tower. Richard himself made them strip and wear clothes, ours which he had pulled from a trunk. The King told them it was a game, a trick, a device. They were schooled well, not to talk much, not to be afraid as all our servants had been withdrawn, then we left. We landed at some steps where a small carriage awaited us, more soldiers on horseback; the city streets were empty, quiet. Edward was groaning for he was racked with fever, soaking in sweat. We came to a great house. I was placed in one chamber, Edward in another. I never saw my brother again. I think he must have died in the night.’ He stopped, biting his lip in an attempt to keep calm. ‘I was moved to a merchant’s house,’ he continued, ‘a kindly old man, once a master mason. My uncle took me there, whispering that I was not to tell anyone who I was but pose as his illegitimate issue. I was frightened, scared, yet happy to be free of the Tower. Richard said if I told anyone the truth, I would have to go back to the Tower.’ The youth smiled half-heartedly. ‘Believe me, Viscount Lovell, it was not hard to keep silent. The merchant was kindly and three days later we left, crossing the river. The merchant told me about his trade, showing me around one of the royal palaces where his own masons were working. He allowed me to join in; it was the first time since my father died that I was happy. Sometimes I thought about my father. My mother . . .’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘I could not think of her. All I knew was that I was happy, pleased to be free of the Tower. I had been so frightened of the guards and the strange powerful men who came to look at me there.’ He stopped, licking his lips nervously. ‘Then the Tudor landed. My uncle Richard sent messages. I was to be brought north, quickly and quietly, by the King’s secretary though he did not know who I was. He brought me into the King’s camp. My uncle spoke to me. He said if the battle went well, he would look after me, but if the day went wrong I was to remain hidden. I must not tell anyone the truth, not even that I was bastard issue, for they would not only send me back to the Tower but undoubtedly kill me. The King’s secretary took me to Leicester. We were to come here, to Eastwell, but he was so frightened of the Tudor’s spies and horsemen, he left me just inside the city gates with some silver and a letter from the master mason in London. I was to stay near the church of Greyfriars until someone came to collect me. The monks looked after me. I saw my uncle’s body being brought back.’ He closed his eyes. ‘It was dreadful! Naked! Splattered from head to toe with red mud. He had been tied like a pig and slung across a horse. The brothers would not let me near him and the next evening a mason came. He is outside now, a kind, cheerful man. Sometimes when I work alongside him, if I close my eyes and listen to his laughter, I think he is my father come back again to jest and tease me.’ He stopped and stood up, wiping off the dust of the church floor with his hands. ‘Your cause,’ he began quietly, raising a hand to fend off any questions, ‘the cause of my father, my uncle, my brother, it is finished! You are finished, my Lord! And so am I with any trappings of the Court. For what shall I do? Reveal myself? Join my cousin Warwick in the Tower? No! Sudden death seems the fate of Princes. I am happy and safe as a stonemason. Goodbye! We shall not meet again!’

  ‘Sire,’ I said wearily, struggling to one knee. I held my hand out. ‘Please.’ He came back, slipping his long, sunburned fingers into mine. I kissed them fiercely, holding his cool hand against my flushed cheek. Finally, he pulled it gently away and walked out of the darkness into the early evening sunlight.

  I left Eastwell and, by secret routes, rode furiously back to Minster Lovell. Perhaps I could see Anne, just once, take silver from my secret chamber and journey abroad, first to Flanders and perhaps join Sir Edward Brampton, and then go on to Portugal. I had done my duty, fought the good fight. I had kept faith. There was nothing more to do. I had lost everything. I was tired of power, of the malice, the intrigue, the battles and constant bloodshed. Richard would surely understand. Never once had I betrayed him or the secret matter.

  Postscript

  I approached Minster Lovell secretively, leaving the road and riding across country into the shadow of the trees. The manor house looked deserted. I left my horse in the wood and stealthily approached a small postern door at the back of the house. The windows were all shuttered, no sign of life; the stables were empty, closed and locked. I tapped gently on the door, still no sound; growing bolder I pounded with the pommel of my dagger until I heard faint footsteps. The door swung open and Belknap emerged, an old robe of mine thrown across his shoulders. He was welcoming enough, though, on reflection, he was also secretive, sly, as if he expected my return. In a few short words I described the defeat at East Stoke, Belknap shaking his head when I asked him about Anne. I felt exhausted and, for the first time ever, showed Belknap my secret chamber. Again, he did not seem too surprised, saying he would bring more candles, wine and food. I am glad I did not let him into the room and confide in him further or show him the small secret closet in which I kept monies and most of my private papers. He brought a platter of cold meats, pouring me a full glass of wine, solicitously saying I should take my rest on the trestle-bed for he would wake me in a few hours. Perhaps I should have sensed the danger; Belknap was a good steward but never a body-servant.

  Oh, I was wakened all right, by Belknap shaking me roughly. I sat up in bed, surprised to see my servant now armed with sword and dagger, an arbalest in his hand, the bolt already placed. Behind him, seated at a table, smiling benignly at me from beneath his hood, was John Morton, Bishop of Ely, the Tudor’s most zealous counsellor. My own dagger and sword had gone and, while I had been asleep, Belknap or some other had placed an iron chain and gyve around my ankles, the end of it being tethered to a hook on the wall. Morton grinned.

  ‘Ah, well, Master Lovell,’ he quipped. ‘You have slept well. Almost a full day. We have been looking after you. Your erstwhile comrades are dead, strung up on gibbets outside East Stoke. We missed you and I thought you might come here. Belknap informed us you had a secret chamber.’ The Bishop stopped and looked around. ‘But nothing so well devised and cunningly hid as this. We might have taken you before. Ah, yes . . .’ He must have seen the stupefaction on my face and, rising, waddled across to Belknap, clapping a hand on
his shoulder. ‘Ah, yes, you failed to realise. Thomas Belknap, your erstwhile steward, is also one of my best spies.’ The Bishop’s white, podgy face beamed at my servant before turning to stare at me. His eyes were like two small black puddles of ice. No warmth, no compassion, only hatred stoked by years of exile.

  ‘Belknap,’ he continued smoothly, ‘told us everything. Of the King’s secret matter, of your running round in the dark. Of your plans to seize King Henry in Brittany. Thomas was always there.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I shall always be grateful for his services in offering to lead Sir Richard Ratcliffe to me after the late Duke of Buckingham’s abortive rebellion.’ He put an arm round Belknap’s shoulder, pulling him closer as if he was a favourite dog. ‘I shall never forget the dance he led them.’ The Bishop cocked his head to one side as if uncertain of how to deal with me. I just sat and glared at both of them. Belknap, God forgive him, could not meet my eyes, whilst the fury seething in Morton’s eyes warned me not to beg for any mercy from this most implacable of enemies.

  ‘The King’s secret matter,’ I said. ‘The fate of the Princes. You know about them?’ I smiled. ‘Was it your idea?’ Morton nodded.

  ‘Oh, yes. Buckingham was with us from the start. Remember, he had me transferred into his custody? At my bidding, he advised that the Princes be put in the Tower, counselling the stupid Richard to go on a royal progress of the kingdom.’ The Bishop sat down, folding his hands together as if in prayer, fully relishing the situation. ‘It was easy to turn Buckingham’s mind, to stoke his jealousy and hatred. We simply asked him for some symbol of friendship, for some sign of recognition, something which would win the heart of Henry Tudor.’

  ‘The murder of the Princes?’ I interjected. ‘You had them killed? But you said “we” not just you. That bitch of a Beaufort woman, she was involved as well?’ I saw the flicker of alarm in the Bishop’s eyes and knew I had hit the mark.

  ‘What other crimes?’ I jibed. ‘The Princes’ father, King Edward IV, was that your work? Were you planning it from the start?’ The Bishop shrugged.

  ‘It is all God’s will, but sometimes we have to help.’ His voice grew shrill. ‘The House of York had no right to rule, never had. We are God’s agents on earth, the rightful King now sits on the throne at Westminster.’

  I felt tired, dispirited. This man, allied with the Beaufort woman, had fought the House of York for twenty-five years and had finally brought it crashing to the ground. Of course, it all made sense. Edward IV suddenly taken ill; some suspicion thrown on Richard; Buckingham playing on Richard’s fears; the removal of the Princes, their incarceration in the Tower and a brilliant whispering campaign against Richard which never really ended. I glared across at Morton but found it hard to turn and stare at Belknap standing quietly beside him. A traitor from the start, planted like a weed in my own household, sowing dissension and suspicion. I remembered the attack on me outside the Tower when he had so opportunely appeared and knew it was all his work. A black rage stirred inside me. I could have howled like a trapped wolf but I thought of Eastwell Church and the young face of the hidden Prince Richard. First I smiled and then began to laugh. I put my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with merriment at this most private of jokes. Morton banged the table with his fist. When I looked up his face had lost its aura of superiority, of vindictiveness.

  ‘You find this amusing?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I find you amusing. Your secret plans. Your stratagems. Your belief that you control everything.’ I raised my right hand. ‘I swear,’ I said, ‘I swear as I now undoubtedly face death; I swear on the sacraments; that Buckingham did not kill the Princes in the Tower. He thought he did but they escaped. One still lives. Do you understand me, Morton? Go, tell that to the Beaufort woman and to her Welsh misbegotten usurper of a son! The House of York still lives!’ I placed my wrists together. ‘Come,’ I said. ‘Bind my hands. Gag me. Take me to London or execute me secretly, it won’t change the truth.’

  Morton rose, no mockery now, his face serious. He came and stood over me.

  ‘You say a Yorkist prince still lives?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You swear that?’

  ‘I do and will again.’ Morton stepped back a pace.

  ‘Then this is my judgement, Viscount Lovell. You will not be taken from here.’ His eyes swept round the room. ‘There is some food here, some wine, candles.’ He nodded back towards the table. ‘Even writing-materials. You will stay here immured in this chamber. Should you wish to be released, I am sure Belknap will hear your cries and we will release you on condition you tell me where this Prince is. Your estates are forfeit to the Crown. No one will be allowed in.’ I rose and edged closer to the Bishop, walking to the end of my chain, not caring when Belknap clicked the crossbow back.

  ‘I tell you this, Bishop. Satan will enter heaven first, before I ever talk to you again. Now take your …’ I gestured towards Belknap, ‘your dog, your mongrel, and do your worst!’ Morton shrugged.

  ‘So be it!’ he replied. Belknap released the chain from the wall and followed his bishop out. He kept his face constantly towards me, the crossbow raised, but I turned my back, preferring to look at the blank chamber wall. They sealed my chamber. I heard Belknap place the bricks. He must have covered them with plaster, perhaps hiding his handiwork behind some arras or tapestry. The door had always been well concealed, it would not take much work to hide it completely. No one would be allowed near the house. I know I will be dead before any of my servants ever return.

  I have sat here in the darkness; the vents and cracks allow a little air but I have not been able to tell day from night; I just sit and write in the flickering light of guttering candles. I will ask for mercy. I have written the truth. I have begged God’s forgiveness and tried to forgive those who have brought me so low. I have written my confession, my story. Sometimes as the food is scarce, I sit here at this table fitfully sleeping, or remembering the past. I served a king, not a saint, but a prince of his own dark days, who did what he thought best.

  I now see the picture complete, the shadows removed by the torch of truth: Richard took the throne from his nephews only to find them sickening in the Tower. I know Richard, he would have panicked. If the boys died, he would be their murderer. He may have even suspected poison, hence their removal at the dead of night. Perhaps Richard meant to return them there, take them north to Sheriff Hutton or even send them to Margaret in Burgundy. Young Edward’s death thwarted this. In a quandary, Richard realised the two imposters in the Tower also posed a threat, though not immediately. All the Princes’ servants had been withdrawn and replaced by two relative strangers, Brackenbury and William Slaughter. God knows who these unfortunate boys were, but Edward IV and George of Clarence sired enough bastards to people a small village. Richard did not tell Buckingham but kept the secret to himself. Instead he plotted further: the two imposters were to be spirited out of the Tower by Buckingham who could never allege Richard was guilty of their murder. True, Buckingham might have seen through the sham but would he really know? First, Richard could always silence any doubts. Secondly, Buckingham had scarcely met the Princes: during Edward IV’s reign he was most conspicuous in his absence from Court. Any changes in the boys’ looks or behaviour would be explained by their imprisonment and fall from power. If Lambert Simnel could be recognised by Margaret of Burgundy as her nephew, Buckingham would accept two imposters as princes.

  I thought about this carefully, for here Richard made another mistake: Buckingham didn’t really care for Richard, the Princes or, above all, anything to do with the Woodville clan. All Buckingham knew was that when he left the Tower, the two boys would soon be dead and the guilt laid at Richard’s door.

  Richard, however, thought his plan had gone ahead: Brampton would never have really known whether they were Princes or not, whilst Margaret of Burgundy, married and out of England some seventeen years ago, would hardly recognise the boys. She, too, hated the Woodvilles, preferring to see her
own brother on the throne than give Elizabeth Woodville the title of Queen Mother. Richard’s tortuous mind had worked out this complex plot but he did not know other players had entered the game. Buckingham was being controlled by Beaufort and her minions.

  Brackenbury, too, played his role. A man who could be totally trusted, a member of Richard’s household, a northerner, someone who did not really know the Princes. In a sense Richard’s trust in him was betrayed. Brackenbury, fearful of what Buckingham had done and wishing to protect both himself and the King, simply disposed of the bodies and, until the night before he died, stoutly maintained that the Princes had simply vanished. Richard had no choice but to accept this for he recognised his own guilt in the story. Desperately Richard tried to attempt a solution. He used me, one of his closest friends, to establish the truth. Already guilty at the death of young Edward, the King also had on his conscience the possible death or disappearance of the other two boys. In the end he came full circle. Because of the boys’ disappearance, he had to face the nightmare, the dreadful accusation, of having slain two of his own kin. Richard was trapped. Whichever way he moved, who would believe him? Poor troubled Richard! As I approach death, I wonder if he too looked for its peace in that last dreadful charge against the Tudor?

  Sometimes I am back with Richard, playing in the reedy marshes outside Middleham Castle or walking with him along a corridor, arms linked, discussing some matter of state. Then there is Anne and I long for her sweet face and teasing ways. One day she will realise how Belknap poisoned her mind against me. I have given my last will and testament. Even if they break in they will not find these papers in their secret compartment.

  I know death has taken up position, crouched at my elbow. He waits for me to die but I am not afraid. After the heat of the day, its troubles and strife, perhaps it’s best to yield gracefully to the silence of the coming night. I rose high in life, tasted the bitter-sweet fruits of success, but I was no traitor. I kept faith to my King and to that Prince who sat so humbly opposite me in Eastwell Church. If my death buys his life, the price has not been too high in deciding the fate of a Prince.