by Paul Doherty
‘Sir John, a word?’ She grasped the constable by the sleeve, taking him away from his escort.
‘My Lady.’ The constable leaned down. ‘I have heard how your husband was sorely wounded at Barnet.’
‘He lies grievously ill,’ she agreed, and stared pleadingly up at him. ‘Another widow to be, eh Sir John?’ She shrugged prettily. ‘Surely you must, as a widower, recognise how lonely it can be?’ Dudley grasped her right hand, raised it and kissed her fingertips.
‘In such circumstances, my Lady, I would hasten to give you any help and whatever comfort you needed.’
Margaret smiled brilliantly and moved a little closer. ‘Lord John,’ she murmured, ‘times are changing. New alliances are being formed. The past is dead. Our King is triumphant and soon I must return to my manor and poor Sir Humphrey. So, Sir John, I would like to visit the Angevin queen and my royal kinsman.’ She paused. ‘Is that possible?’
Dudley pursed his, lips deep in thought. Margaret gently rested a gloved hand on his wrist. ‘You know what is going to happen,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘I am of the court party. My loyalty to Edward of York cannot be doubted, but these two prisoners, Sir John for pity’s sake, for the mercy we all ask of the Lord, let me say my farewells before I leave London.’ She dabbed the tears from her eyes then struck her breast. ‘Sir John, Sir John, I beg you. What harm is there in saying farewell?’
Dudley quickly agreed. Margaret was taken over to the Wakefield and ushered into the chamber allocated to the fallen Queen. Dudley then left. The Angevin was sitting in a high-backed chair, the small table beside her had a platter of bread and cheese next to a jug of wine and a deep-bowled pewter goblet. Little had been done to prepare the cell, which was as gaunt and stark as any corpse chamber in a death house: a cot bed, a chest, some candles and a few stools. Cobwebs spanned the ceiling like nets. Mice scrabbled in a corner whilst the shutters across the lancet windows rattled in the strengthening night breeze. The Angevin peered at Margaret as the countess pulled up a stool in front of her.
‘The little Beaufort woman,’ she rasped, ‘I remember you. The last of your family eh?’ The Angevin put her face in her hands and sobbed quietly for a while. Margaret just watched the flame on the squat tallow candle which marked the passage of time in broad red rings. The usual noises of the Tower were now fading, but she heard the sound of revelry and she wondered if the Yorkist warlords were celebrating the annihilation of their foes, including this broken woman who had fought them for years. The Angevin took her hands away and frowned at Margaret. ‘Night is gathering,’ she whispered, ‘and I am finished. My husband, I understand, lies imprisoned in this very tower. My son is murdered, as are all your family. The Beauforts are no more. So what do you want with me, little woman?’
‘The “Titulus Regius” – what do you know?’
‘I don’t know anything and, if I did, why should I tell you? My cause is finished. You rode in the Yorkist triumph. I saw you watching me constantly.’ The Angevin showed some of her old imperiousness, pulling herself up in the chair, shaking herself, staring around as if to summon servants. ‘Why should I talk to you, Beaufort? Why should I tell you anything?’
‘You should tell me,’ Margaret countered, ‘for a number of reasons. First, I may have ridden in the Yorkist entourage, but I had no choice. I am not their friend or ally, in fact the opposite. They wish to keep me close not because of any love but to mount careful guard over me, which they do constantly. Secondly, the Yorkist lords fear me because secretly they recognise me as a rival; and so I am – or at least my son is.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Safely spirited away. His existence, his survival, means our struggle goes on, the dream of winning recognition for the House of Lancaster. Our cause will not die this day; in fact, it may now move from strength to strength.’
‘Edward and his siblings rejoice …’
‘For today, but the tensions are there. Edward’s wife is a Woodville, she and her family are truly hated by both of Edward’s brothers. A great weakness, easy to exploit, as Scripture says, “A House divided against itself cannot stand.” Oh, these halcyon days of York will end soon enough. Divisions, enmities and deep hostilities will emerge. None more powerful than the over-weaning ambition of George of Clarence. We know that he works on justifying his own claim to the throne. He and his most trusted confidants have a book, a manuscript, a chronicle called the “Titulus Regius”. What if such a work became public knowledge? Would it seriously weaken the claims to the throne of both Clarence’s brothers? My Lady,’ Margaret urged, stretching forward to touch the former Queen’s knee, ‘I need to discover the truth about all this. I have learnt that the “Titulus Regius” is the creation of three clerks in Clarence’s Secret Chancery. They work under the supervision of Mauclerc, Clarence’s principal henchman.
‘And so it is.’ The Angevin relaxed, slumping further down in her chair. She picked up the goblet and drank noisily. ‘And what do I get if I tell you what I know … which,’ she waved the goblet, ‘is not much?’
‘You are a prisoner here,’ Margaret replied. ‘Now I do have some influence to make things a little easier, more comfortable for you. Edward of York has to be careful. You are a princess of Anjou, a former Queen of England, a noble woman of ancient lineage. True, the Yorkists wish to parade you through London; however, from what I know of King Edward and his brother Richard, they have no great appetite for humiliating a captured lady who has suffered so much. I could persuade them that you could be lodged with your old friend the Duchess of Suffolk in much more luxurious quarters at Wallingford Castle …’ Margaret paused. ‘I also have some influence with Duke Francis of Brittany, as well as King Louis of France. Nor must you forget your father, René of Anjou. News travels fast. Your father will not be pleased at your plight. This kingdom depends on trade, on English cogs sailing wherever they wish. The powerful merchants, the men of real power, would not want foreign ports closed to their shipping. Of course, I cannot proclaim this all in a day but like water dripping onto a stone …’
‘You would do that?’ The Angevin’s eyes narrowed.
‘I would try my very best, I swear that on the life of my son. So, the “Titulus Regius”?’
‘As you know,’ the Angevin replied, ‘during the civil war, Clarence deserted his family, full of his own ambition, he joined myself and Warwick in exile. Clarence is insufferable. He often insinuated that he was the only true Yorkist claimant to the throne. At first we ignored him, being involved in our own struggle. We then heard of Mauclerc and the Three Kings. Of course you know of them?’ Margaret nodded. ‘Believe me,’ the Angevin held up a hand, ‘those four are Clarence’s creatures to the very marrow of their souls. We heard they were searching for evidence for this or that, God knows truly what, but Clarence seemed cock-sure of himself. Others in my party heard about this secret work, the “Titulus Regius” but we were unable to discover the manuscript, the actual text. Warwick’s people even hired the most skilled picklocks to open the chest and coffers in Clarence’s chancery.’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing came of that. And so there’s the real mystery. What is the evidence Clarence is trying to collect? How is it preserved?’
‘And only Mauclerc and the Three Kings know this?’
‘No, I would say only the Three Kings themselves. From what we learnt, even Clarence and his leading henchman do not know. They have not yet received the full extent of the secrets that the Three Kings are digging up. There is one other, a parchment seller. I believe he trades under the sign of “The Red Keg” on Fleet Street. I do not know his name, but Clarence once referred to him as a fellow seeker of the truth. This parchment- or book-seller is a Rhinelander; he is also involved in searching for evidence to bolster Clarence’s claims: be it parchment or person, anything or anyone to assist in the mischief they are brewing.’ The Angevin sipped from her goblet. ‘There is,’ she sighed, ‘no real secret about what Clarence truly intends. The real mystery is what have his cl
erks actually collected and, as I have said, where is it preserved?’ The Angevin now became quite heated. ‘I have told you this, little Beaufort, and I say it again: no one knows anything about the details, even though Clarence passed through the House of York to that of Lancaster and then back again. As I have said, his manuscripts were carefully scrutinised not only by the likes of your kinsmen the Beauforts but even by his own brothers. Nothing! Nothing has ever been found!’ The Angevin shook her head. ‘I can say no more because I know no more.’ She glanced pitifully at Margaret. ‘A boon, a favour, my Lady?’
‘If I can.’
‘My saintly husband,’ the Angevin’s words dripped with sarcasm, ‘is lodged above in the oratory chamber. Would you please take messages to him, assure my Lord of my love and my loyalty. Tell him …’
The Angevin bit her lip as tears welled in her eyes. ‘Never mind. Never mind,’ she whispered. ‘All is done, all is lost, all is dark.’
Margaret realised the Angevin would tell her no more. She searched out Dudley who had been drinking in the royal quarters, a timber and plaster mansion close to the chapel of St Peter in Chains. Full of ale and benevolence, he agreed to Margaret visiting the imprisoned Henry.
‘For a short while, for a short while,’ Dudley slurred, ‘and then Mistress, if it so pleases you, join me and my comrades at the table.’
Margaret smiled understandingly and allowed the constable, deep in his cups, to escort her up the stone spiral staircase of the Wakefield Tower. Two soldiers stood on guard outside the half-open door to the old King’s prison chamber. Dudley pushed this open and waved Margaret in, closing the door quietly behind her. The light was poor. The room full of flitting shadows. Margaret glimpsed the streaks of light from the small oratory and heard the patter of a psalm: ‘Out of the depths have I cried to you, oh Lord. Lord hear my voice.’
Margaret entered the small oratory shaped in a semi-circle, a narrow window high in the wall. Henry was kneeling on a prie-dieu, arms extended, staring up at the stark crucifix at the centre of the altar. Margaret coughed. Henry, however, continued to pray until he had finished the ‘Gloria’. Once completed, he blessed himself and rose, shaking the shabby blue robe which covered him from neck to sandalled feet. A wooden crucifix hung around his neck, a friar’s girdle with its three knots symbolising obedience, poverty and chastity about his slender waist. Ave beads wreathed his fingers. He looked gaunt, more hollow-eyed, and blood-encrusted spots peppered his mouth.
‘Sister?’ Henry stretched out his hands towards her. ‘Angels have visited me here. Truly they did. Now I have one in the flesh.’ He stepped into the pool of light thrown by a tallow candle, ushering Margaret out of the oratory.
‘I bring messages, your Grace.’
Margaret paused at the sound of growing revelry; drunken men rejoicing in their victory, shouting the war cries of the House of York. Henry stood listening to the clamour, then he turned, lips murmuring as if he was talking to someone Margaret could not see. She felt the full pathos of this encounter: a shabby, former King standing in a dingy chamber with candle-flame flickering and shadows shifting, his mocking enemies only a short distance away. Margaret tensed. The cries and shouts were growing closer. The sound of spurred boots echoing on the hard flagstones of the tower staircase. Henry half turned as if listening more acutely. He then grabbed Margaret by the shoulder.
‘Someone,’ he hissed, his mouth close to her face, ‘someone warned me that they would come.’
Margaret caught his alarm, his wild panic. The booted steps seemed to carry their own dreadful menace. The devils were closing in! Henry abruptly pushed Margaret back into the chamber and across to the lavarium, an enclave built into the wall with a carved water bowl and a jake’s hole hidden behind a heavy latticed screen, its woven wood much decayed and crumbling. Margaret stood there holding her breath as Henry pushed the screen as close as he could before hastening back into the oratory. From where she stood, Margaret could see him once again kneel on the prie-dieu, arms extended before the crucifix. The door to the prison chamber crashed open. Three figures entered the room. The foremost, Richard of Gloucester, carried a night lantern; its glow illuminated the cold features of Mauclerc and the drunken, slobbery menace of Clarence. All three were dressed in half-armour with mailed surcoats, each carried sword and club. They swept into the oratory where Henry continued to pray, his voice growing louder as he intoned the great mercy psalm.
‘Have mercy on me oh God in your great kindness …’
Mauclerc stepped forward and shoved him in the shoulder. Margaret watched in deepening horror as the murderous mystery play began to unfold in that ancient chamber, with its oratory lit by dancing candle-flame. All around flitted shadows, as if the ghosts were gathering to watch this bloody masque unfold. The old King, tottering on his feet, rose to meet his visitors. Gloucester stepped forward, still holding sword and club. Henry stretched out his hands in greeting. Margaret caught his words of welcoming, ‘to his dear, sweet cousins’. Gloucester sheathed his sword, dropped the club and walked out of the chamber. Henry now turned to Mauclerc and Clarence.
‘What do you want with me? Shouldn’t you,’ Henry’s voice rose, ‘shouldn’t you now kneel in the presence of your King as I now kneel in the presence of mine?’ Henry then shrugged, flailing his hands, as if his visitors were of no importance. He went back to the prie-dieu. Margaret caught her breath as Clarence steeped forward, raised his club and brought it down time and time again on the old King’s head. Henry slumped onto the prie-dieu then slipped to the floor, still mouthing the words of the mercy psalm. For a while he lay, arms and legs jerking. Mauclerc, at Clarence’s invitation, stepped closer and delivered a final cracking blow. Henry lay still. Clarence kicked the body, grabbed Mauclerc by the arm and both men hurried out of the chamber. Margaret waited until they had gone. She slipped from behind the screen and hurried across into the oratory.
Henry was dead. He sprawled, head to one side, eyes half open, mouth gaping, the pool of blood widening, the back of his skull shattered like a broken pot. Margaret hastily crossed herself, murmured the requiem and left. The stairwell outside and the steps leading into the Wakefield Tower were now deserted. No sound except the screech of bats winging their way above her. All guards, officials and servants of the Tower appeared to have been withdrawn so the old King’s execution could be swiftly carried through. Margaret stared around but she could see no one. Again she crossed herself and hurried across to the Tower kitchens where Bray and Urswicke were waiting for her.
Christopher Urswicke lounged against a pillar in the death house, which formed part of the ancient crypt beneath Chertsey Abbey. On a trestle table close by rested an open lead coffin containing the mortal remains of Henry VI, late King of England; cleaned and skilfully embalmed in the Tower mortuary by Cedrick Longspear, Keeper of the Dead in that dismal place: he was now being questioned and tortured by Mauclerc and the Three Kings. All four had paused to refresh themselves with more deep-bowled goblets of wine. Longspear sat retching and gasping after Mauclerc had loosened the cord bound tightly around his forehead. Urswicke stared round that macabre chamber, the stout, barrel-like pillars with their eerie ornamentation at top and bottom; carved satyrs, goats, monkeys and other babewyns and gargoyles glared stonily out through a tangle of briers and brambles. This was the death house, screened off from the rest of the crypt by a stout fence of intertwined elm-wood. Behind this rose mounds of bones, skulls and shards of skeletons, the macabre remains of monks buried centuries ago in the ancient graveyard and, when this became full, the bones were dug up and piled here, making room for fresh burials outside. Longspear whimpered and glanced pitifully at Urswicke, who hid his own guilt and glanced away. To distract himself from the prisoner, Urswicke walked over to the lead coffin resting in its oaken casket; he stared down at the pallid, narrow face of King Henry. Death was making its mark, the skin was turning slightly yellow, the eyes becoming even more sunken, the nose more sharp, whilst the bloo
dless lips were beginning to turn inwards. The late King’s soul had definitely left on its journey to judgement but, even in death, Henry had provoked violence. The cause of all this were the deep, broad blotches of blood staining the gold velvet cushion beneath the royal head.
Henry’s corpse had been embalmed and prepared for burial in the Tower before being moved to lie in the great nave of St Paul’s, its face exposed for public view. The Yorkists were determined to demonstrate that the King was certainly dead. There would be no rumours of a possible escape or the opportunity for mischief-makers and malcontents to field an imposter. Londoners were now growing accustomed to viewing the enemy dead of those in power. Nevertheless, Henry’s corpse drew large crowds, which surged through the old cemetery and into the nave. The body had lain in state for a day but on the second, just before the noonday Angelus, a near riot occurred when the corpse was seen to bleed from the mouth. A sure sign, so the soothsayers who gathered there proclaimed, that the King had been foully murdered. The gushing of blood from his cold, hard corpse was a public accusation of this, as well as providing the necessary proof. The Dean of St Paul’s had come down all a-fluster. A cohort of royal archers was summoned to ring the corpse but the damage been done. Henry the King had been assassinated! The news spread through London. Henry was a saint! Henry was a martyr! And his killers were from the House of York who had been drunk and revelling in the Tower on the night the King had been murdered. Such rumours swept the city and the shires beyond. Margaret Beaufort, aided by Bray and Urswicke, had spent good coin secretly encouraging such gossip, fanning the flames into a real fire. Margaret used the likes of the tavern keeper Hempen and a host of other little people in Margaret’s party throughout the city. The Countess of Richmond, however, genuinely mourned the death of poor Henry VI. She had confided in Bray and Urswicke the details of his murder, as well as her steely determination to exploit its consequences for her own gain.
