Roseblood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brother?’ Gabriel asked.

  Raphael got to his feet, seized his brother by the shoulders, drew him close and gave him the kiss of peace.

  ‘What did you mean?’ Gabriel demanded, stepping back. ‘Why did I do that, how did I do that?’

  ‘Look so pious,’ Raphael teased. ‘As if you are about to ascend into Heaven.’

  Gabriel stared at his brother, then burst out laughing, a merry sound that filled the austere chamber and gave Gabriel that boyish, impish look that so attracted others. Their father, roused from his inertia, joined in.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Simon declared, ‘to bring such doleful news, so it is good to laugh. I will leave silver for masses to be sung for our dead. Now, Gabriel, your brother and I have been summoned to a meeting of the royal Council at the Tower.’

  ‘I heard that the militia is being raised and the King is to leave London, and so am I.’ Gabriel smiled at his father’s surprise. ‘But let Prior Aelred explain. I believe he is waiting.’ And without further ado, Gabriel hurried from the chamber. Raphael walked across to stare at a wall painting depicting St Francis embracing a leper.

  ‘I could not do that,’ Simon remarked drily. ‘I have had enough of lepers to last me a lifetime…’

  He broke off as Gabriel returned with Prior Aelred. The Franciscan clasped hands with both visitors and introduced Brother Wilfred, their recently appointed almoner, a round tub of a man with a jolly face. Raphael had to bite his lip: Wilfred looked exactly like the mummer who played Friar Tuck in the Robin Hood masque staged every spring in the Great Cloister at the Roseblood. Once the introductions were finished, Prior Aelred came swiftly to the point.

  ‘Master Simon, you are on your way to the Tower to meet the royal Council, yes?’ Simon agreed. ‘We too,’ the prior explained, ‘have met the Council, at the request of our provincial and minister general. They wish us to mediate with the Duke of York and seek his admission into the King’s peace. Brother Wilfred and your son Gabriel will join me. We intend to leave on the morrow.’

  Raphael hid his astonishment. He glanced quickly at his younger brother, who smiled and shrugged. Raphael winked back, even as he felt the tug at his heart; that smile, the shrug, brought back sweet memories of Uncle Edmund, who had exerted such influence over Gabriel. Simon, however, just sat as if studying the cracks in the ancient paving stone.

  ‘Why my brother?’ Raphael asked. ‘He is only a novice and has not yet taken solemn vows. Would you agree, Father?’

  Simon did not reply. Raphael secretly wondered if his father’s grief over Eleanor’s death, as well as his rage at the insults heaped on his daughter, had blunted his wits. He remained sitting, head down.

  ‘We want him to go,’ Aelred declared. ‘Gabriel is young, strong and a good companion. He knows about this city.’ The prior’s gaze quickly shifted to Simon. ‘He is more than aware of, how can I put it, the complexities of our situation.’

  ‘Yes, let him go.’ Simon rose to his feet. ‘Gabriel is not in vows, so he needs my permission. He can leave with you, Prior, on one condition: that my eldest son,’ he winked swiftly at Raphael, ‘also accompanies you.’

  Gabriel clapped his hands. Raphael decided to remain silent, whilst the prior pulled a face and whispered to Wilfred, who just nodded.

  ‘We agree.’ Aelred held out his hand; Simon, then Raphael, clasped it.

  ‘We will leave tomorrow morning,’ the prior warned. ‘Just before dawn.’

  ‘And we will leave now.’ Simon picked up his cloak from the bench. ‘The Council expect us before the market horn sounds.’ They confirmed the arrangements, Simon and Raphael had a few brief words with Gabriel, then they slipped out of Greyfriars along the narrow lanes leading down to the Tower.

  The crowds were out; a throng of shifting colour jostling and shoving past the stalls heaped high with bales of coloured cloth, copper, bronze and pewter pots, lace from Liege, leather from Cordova, spices from Outremer. Traders and apprentices shouted their cries. Itinerant cooks with their mobile stoves on barrows pushed their way through. For a while Raphael and his father hurried on without speaking, knocking aside the wandering fingers of nips and foists. Both men pulled their cowls up so that they could slip unnoticed past the dung collectors, market beadles and street beggars.

  At last they reached Dowgate, where they decided to hire a four-oared barge flying the livery of the city to take them along the Thames. The river was fast-flowing. They hurtled under the towering mass of London Bridge, the water crashing furiously against the starlings. Once through to the other side, Raphael could glimpse the severed heads of traitors stark against the light sky.

  They disembarked at Tanners’ Wharf, a little distant from their destination. York’s spies, as well as those of Sheriff Malpas, kept a close eye on those who left and entered the Tower by barge. They fought their way through the crowd of porters, creelmen and other common carriers trundling barrows or dragging sledges heaped high with skins to the nearby tanning sheds. A filthy place, reeking of foul smells, where a miasma of red-flecked smoke ebbed and flowed. The laystalls were crammed high with refuse, which included the swelling corpses of horses, cats and dogs, a banqueting hall for teeming rats and flocks of scavenging kites. The ground underfoot was a foul muck of manure, mud and rotting entrails that wept filth like pus from an infected wound. The noise and din from the makeshift sheds and bothies was incessant. The apprentices who worked there, all smudged black by the smoke, pounded and flayed the skins under the vigilant eye of their masters, who bawled a stream of instructions. Only once did silence fall, when the funeral bell from a local parish church tolled to solicit the prayers of the faithful for the peaceful soul-flight of a member of the tanners’ guild. Simon and Raphael could not converse and found they had to cling to each other to keep their balance as they crossed the slippery ground.

  ‘My apologies,’ Simon whispered. ‘I had forgotten how bad this was.’

  They left the tanners’ concourse and headed down an arrow-thin alleyway reeking of rotting fruit and into a tavern that boasted the sign ‘Three Turns of a Tide’. This macabre establishment was managed by the Thames hangman who executed river pirates on the line of gallows further down the bank, making sure his victims dangled until the tide had turned three times. The hangman-cum-taverner was keen to proclaim his trade. A long dark brown coffin in the centre of the taproom served as the common table. Dim light was provided by candles placed in the skulls of executed pirates mounted along the walls, whilst a hangman’s noose dangled from the rafters above a rusting gibbet.

  ‘Old Peterkin,’ Simon murmured, ‘enjoyed a macabre humour. He is now gone the way of all flesh and his heir does not know me.’ He pushed Raphael into the shadows beneath the tavern’s only window. A slattern brought their order, two stoups of strong London ale. Simon tasted it, smacked his lips and toasted Raphael. ‘Go with the Good Brothers,’ he declared. ‘Be a member of their peace party. Raphael, war will break out. If Beaufort is triumphant, then we have nothing to fear. If Beaufort goes down, York will try to indict me. If I am still alive and escape, it’s best if I flee abroad for a while. They will then try to sequester my property—’

  ‘But if I can show I was with Holy Mother Church, pleading for peace?’ Raphael broke in.

  ‘Precisely,’ Simon agreed. ‘In this we safeguard the family. I may have to flee, but you and the rest will remain safe in the Roseblood. Now listen, Sevigny asked to speak to me alone. What I now know, so must you. Sevigny may well renounce his allegiance to York, but he has warned me about LeCorbeil. They know what I seized at St Giles. They fish in troubled waters and stir the mess for the sake of a stink; they are mercenaries and killers. Sevigny met their leader at Cottesloe. He boasted, albeit discreetly, how LeCorbeil were responsible for the death of the “greyhounds”. That is the insignia of the Talbots of Shrewsbury, who were killed at Castillon. Now they hunt Beaufort.’ He sipped again at his tankard. ‘Beaufort must not underestimate, as I have, the sheer
malevolence of LeCorbeil. They attack me and mine, they lead galleys up the Thames, they prepare for a French landing in Essex and now they intend to join York, eager to seize the opportunity to murder all on their list for vengeance.’

  ‘But war could still be avoided?’ Raphael asked.

  ‘I doubt it. York will demand Somerset’s arrest and trial, whilst the Beauforts will insist that York disband his forces, give assurances of loyalty and return to his post in Ireland.’

  ‘So Beaufort will fight as well?’

  ‘I have no doubt about that. It depends on the King, and our noble but very pious prince is loath to spill blood, so let us see.’

  They left the tavern and made their way along the thoroughfare to the Tower. Soldiers, hobelars, men-at-arms and archers were also streaming either up to the great fortress or to the mustering grounds at Moorfields to the north. Warhorses, pack ponies and creaking carts created a deafening din. The air was heavy with smoke, sweat, leather and the acrid stench of gunpowder. Knights in half-armour, acting as banner men and standard-bearers, tried to impose order. All around flared the gorgeous colours of heraldic insignia and devices: the gules of Buckingham, the wyvern wings of Clifford, the crimson unicorn of Dorset as well as the golden lions rampant of the royal household. Simon and Raphael kept their faces hidden as they slipped through the Lion Gate. A clerk wearing the insignia of the Secret Seal was waiting for them in the courtyard beyond. When he pulled back his cowl, Raphael stared into the smiling face of Reginald Bray.

  ‘Come.’ He gestured. ‘Master Simon, Their Graces the King and Queen will meet with you privately. My lord the Duke of Somerset will, of course, also be present.’

  ‘Of course,’ Simon agreed.

  Bray glanced quizzically at the taverner and led them off along the cobbled, twisting battle runs that stretched beneath the soaring walls of the Tower. The great fortress, Raphael noticed, had truly become a house of war. Carts and wagons stood ready, stacked high with pieces of armour, helmets, brigandines, pole-axes, swords and spears. The smithies and armouries were busy, fire flashing against blackened walls as the smiths worked over their anvils. Horses were being led out, hooves and harnesses checked. The engines of war were being scrubbed and oiled. The squealing from the hog pens was chilling as the fleshers cut the pigs’ throats, slashing their corpses, whilst others removed the entrails and tossed the hacked flesh into great vats of salted boiling water. Trumpets rang, horns brayed; messengers and scurriers, all booted and spurred, waited outside chambers ready to take messages from their lords closeted within.

  Bray did not stop to comment, while the strident clamour and noise hampered any conversation. They reached the Garden Tower and turned into the great bailey that stretched around the soaring white keep, with its narrow windows and four lofty turrets. Knights of the royal household, resplendent in blue-gold livery, stood on guard. Bray had a word with these, showed their passes and they entered the White Tower, climbing the steep steps into the beautiful chapel of St John the Evangelist, an oval room with drum-like pillars down each side. At the far end stood a pure white ivory altar. Torches and beeswax candles clothed the chapel in a serene golden light. Frankincense, myrrh and sweet aloes perfumed the air. Just to the right of the altar sat the King, enthroned on a gilt-edged chair of state. Bray bowed and led Simon and Raphael towards him. Halfway up, he paused, gesturing at his companions to do likewise.

  ‘Her Grace,’ he whispered, ‘will greet you first.’

  On a quilted stool close to the King’s right hand sat Queen Margaret, a veritable snow queen, Raphael thought as they approached, her lustrous blond hair not quite hidden by a beautiful gauze veil. An exquisite woman, with a rounded pale face, perfectly formed features and the most striking blue eyes, she was dressed in a high-necked gown of cloth of gold bedecked with dark red roses and deep green lozenges. Margaret of Anjou, already described as the She-Wolf, mother of the heir, the infant Prince Edward, looked what she was, a truly indomitable woman.

  She rose swiftly to greet them; when Raphael and Simon genuflected at her feet, she softly stroked their heads, murmuring compliments in broken English. Raphael stared up into the beautiful face. She extended a hand, and he kissed the slender fingers glittering with rings encrusted with precious stones of every kind and colour.

  ‘Please.’ The Queen stepped back and gestured towards her husband.

  Henry was a stark contrast to the vivid energy and exuberance of his wife. He was swathed in a thick blood-red cloak lined with ermine, slippers on his feet, a woollen cap pushed down on his head. He crossed himself, sighed deeply and straightened up, beckoning Simon and Raphael to kneel on the footstool before him. The King’s long white face was lined with care, eyes dull, mouth twitching; now and again he would rub a rag across his mouth to remove the bubbling spittle. Simon and Raphael kissed his hands, then joined Bray sitting on a bench placed at an angle to the King’s throne. Liveried servants, wearing soft buskin slippers, served cups of chilled white wine. The retainers moved soft as ghosts and Raphael recalled how the King could not tolerant harsh or strident sounds.

  Whilst the wine and marzipan strips were served, the man who had been sitting quietly on the King’s left rose, stepped off the dais and, having smilingly clasped hands, introduced himself to Raphael. Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset, was a strikingly good-looking man. His blond hair was cropped close like that of a priest, whilst his face reminded Raphael of a painting of an archangel he had seen in the castle chapel at Dover: strong features, piercing blue eyes, full red lips and a strong chin. His nose was slightly twisted from a blow in battle; his skin was a light tawny colour. He was clean-shaven, his face glistening with perfumed oil. A falcon of a man, Raphael concluded, sharp-witted, possibly imperious, but, as now, devastatingly charming. He had the long legs and arms of a born horseman and swordsman, yet he was dressed like any court fop in a tawny quilted jerkin with puffed sleeves and a high gold-encrusted collar, tight deep-blue hose pushed into soft boots of the same colour as his jerkin. He was armed: a war belt of the costliest leather, stitched with silver thread, circled his slim waist, and he carried a jewel-hilted dagger in a gold-plated sheath. This concession was a sign of the Queen’s great confidence in him; very few were permitted to wear arms in the royal presence. Simon and Raphael had given their own war belts to the guards outside without a second thought, and even Master Bray had handed over his dagger.

  Once the introductions were finished, Beaufort ordered the chapel to be cleared. He spoke quickly in Norman French, snapping his fingers, gesturing at the servants and guards to leave and close the door behind them. Once they were gone, he sat down beside the King, who still stared, eyes narrowed, as if searching for something. Raphael noticed how Henry’s hands were wreathed in Ave beads, and when his great cloak slipped, the mass of chains carrying miniature reliquaries slung around his neck could be clearly seen.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Margaret turned to grasp her husband’s hand.

  ‘I shall die here,’ the King declared loudly.

  ‘Nonsense, Your Grace.’ Beaufort’s voice was clipped; the duke stared despairingly across at his beloved Queen.

  ‘My father,’ the King continued, as if unaware of the interruption, ‘died screaming in the marshes outside Meaux, his bowels turned to a sludge of putrid matter and blood. He must have seen the ghosts of the myriads he had slain both in France and here. They would have gathered around his bed, bodies all rent and split, blood-caked mouths open in protest.’ He paused, ‘My father shouted that he was not lost, how his soul was with the Lord Jesus. When I die here, I wish to breathe my last with a similar prayer.’

  Beaufort made to speak, but Henry raised his hand, and for just a few heartbeats Raphael glimpsed the steel in this strange king’s will. He recalled the stories of how Henry V, the King’s father, had been a bloodthirsty warrior, whilst his mother, Katherine of Valois, was of tainted stock.

  ‘Your Grace.’ The Queen’s voice thrilled with passion. �
��You have many years to reign, more sons to raise, a kingdom to rule.’

  ‘I will shed no man’s blood,’ snapped Henry, abruptly asserting himself. ‘I will not have the blood of my beloved cousin York – or indeed of anyone – on my hands. I have peered into the darkness of the night and seen visions.’ He rattled the rosary beads around his hands. ‘Our earth is soaked with innocent blood; this gives voice to countless calls for vengeance, so loud, so strident that they even drown that of our father Abel, whom Cain slew with the jaw bone of an ass.’

  ‘Your Grace,’ Beaufort pleaded. ‘We wish to live in peace too, but our spies and scouts have returned. York and his Neville allies are moving south with great force and banners raised.’ The duke gestured at Simon and Raphael. ‘Master Roseblood is no common taverner. He is a vintner and an alderman of the city; more importantly, he controls the streets and listens to the chatter of the marketplace. Sire, York’s minions plot our downfall only a bowshot from here. He intends war.’

  ‘Let him sit on the Council.’ The King smiled as if the idea was original.

  ‘Your Grace, York will not sit on the Council unless,’ Margaret gestured at Beaufort, ‘unless Edmund Beaufort, second Duke of Somerset, is surrendered into his care. Sweet husband,’ she insisted, ‘if Edmund is handed over, he will die, and whose hands will be stained with his blood?’

  Henry closed his eyes and shook his head, unable to concentrate. Beaufort slipped to one knee from his stool.

  ‘Sire, I beg you, unfurl the royal standard. Order the heralds of your household to proclaim the King’s peace. Instruct all sheriffs and bailiffs that anyone, and I repeat, sire, anyone who then advances against your royal banner be regarded as a traitor guilty of high treason, so forfeiting life and goods.’

  Beaufort’s plea echoed like a funeral knell around that ghostly chapel. Queen Margaret clutched her husband’s wrist, but he gently loosened her grip.

  ‘I will die here,’ he declared in a ringing voice. ‘I, the lamb, will break the seal of God’s vengeance and justice.’ He struck his breast three times. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa – through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. My blood will atone for that of King Richard, foully slain by my grandfather at Pontefract Castle.’ He raised his hands like a priest at mass. ‘Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata mundi,’ he intoned. ‘Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world.’ His sorrowful voice filled that ancient chapel. ‘I shall atone for the rivers of blood created by my grandfather and sire, from the royal blood of Pontefract to that of the saintly Joan the Maid.’ He paused, head down, then struck his breast again and mumbled the ‘I confess’ before falling silent.