by Paul Doherty
‘A sad end,’ Bray remarked as Urswicke took his seat on the bench.
‘We did not cause their death,’ Urswicke hissed. ‘They did. They betrayed their loving mistress. They violated all faithfulness and fealty. They forsook their loyalty to her and to us. If they had been successful, Countess Margaret would have ended her days in some dingy cell in the Tower. Her son would be some battered corpse floating in this river whilst we would have suffered the full rigour of the punishment for treason.’ Urswicke glanced at his companion. ‘Reginald, my friend, we did not compose our sad world’s music, yet, like everyone else, we have no choice but to dance to it.’
Three days after returning with Bray from their murderous journey across the Thames, Urswicke was roused by a servant who had been urgently despatched upstairs by the countess.
‘Master,’ the stable boy hissed, ‘a stranger, cowled and cloaked, his face visored, waits for you in the stable yard. He claims to be sent by your father the Recorder on the most urgent business. He refuses to speak to any of us, nor will he come in. He says he will stay until you meet him.’
‘In which case, I will.’
Urswicke climbed out of his cotbed, crossed to the lavarium and threw cold water over his face. He then hurriedly dressed, strapped on his warbelt, forced his feet into his boots and, throwing his cloak around his shoulders, hurried down past the countess, who simply nodded as he passed. The mysterious visitor was in the stable yard, one hand on the hilt of his sword, with the other he beckoned Urswicke closer before pulling down the visor, covering his nose and mouth. Urswicke immediately recognised Spysin, one of Clarence’s squires, a sly-eyed fighting man, skilled with the dagger and garrotte, who also enjoyed the most unsavoury reputation of being a pimp for his betters. Urswicke noticed how Spysin was belted, spurred and booted, as if ready to leave on some errand.
‘Master Christopher,’ he murmured, ‘my Lord Clarence and Mauclerc need you at The Sunne in Splendour – something has occurred.’
‘What has my father got to do with that tavern?’
‘Nothing at all – well, at least not yet. I simply concocted the message to stir your curiosity as well as to protect my master’s business. But come,’ Spysin urged, ‘I am also busy. I must leave on the evening tide.’
Urswicke nodded his agreement and followed Spysin along the winding streets of Queenhithe. Morning mass at the different churches was just finishing, the lanterns in their steeples doused so the bells could toll, reminding the faithful to patter their morning prayers before the merchant horns sounded to start the business of the day. Already the crowds were thronging about, although everyone stood aside as a host of knight bannerets, their destriers caparisoned in emblazoned leather, moved down to the tiltyards and tourney grounds of Smithfield. The knights in half-armour, their jousting helmets ornate and crowned with mythical beasts, were carried along with their shields and lances by a noisy entourage of squires and pages. Urswicke was sure he glimpsed his father, who was already eager to prove his spurs during the great celebrations being planned for later in the summer.
Once the knights had passed, Spysin led him on. Although the city was celebrating, the effects of the recent fighting was still clear, with makeshift gallows standing at certain crossroads, each decorated with gibbeted corpses. Not even in death were these allowed to rest, their flesh being cut and scarred by the warlocks and wizards who regarded the grisly remains of a hanged man as possessing rich, magical properties. Urswicke recalled his execution of Owain and Oswina; he felt no guilt at their deaths. If they had had their way, his corpse and that of Bray would be gibbeted in iron cages.
At last they reached The Sunne in Splendour. Its courtyard and stable bailey were packed with men-at-arms wearing Clarence’s livery, depicting the Black Bull or the Bear and Ragged Staff of Warwick. The tavern had been emptied. Minehost Master Tiptree and all his scullions and slatterns stood in a disconsolate group. Every entrance to the hostelry was closely guarded by men-at-arms with drawn swords. Urswicke and Spysin had to wait until Mauclerc came out. Urswicke stared across at Tiptree who was throwing his hands up in the air and wailing about the loss of business. Urswicke realised Tiptree was deeply agitated yet, behind all his bluster, was clearly terrified about what had happened in his opulent tavern. Urswicke wondered what had caused such a commotion and the secrecy cloaking it. Mauclerc strode out and greeted them. He told Spysin to wait and took Urswicke into the taproom, where Clarence sat crouched over a goblet of wine. He gazed drunkenly at Urswicke and flailed a hand towards the broad, open stairs leading to the upper chambers.
‘All dead.’ He slurred. ‘Show him, Mauclerc.’
They climbed the stairs and along the narrow gallery to the chancery office Mauclerc had hired for the Three Kings. The door to it had been smashed from its hinges and now leaned against the wall. Mauclerc led Urswicke around this into the chamber. The shutters from the narrow window had been pulled back, lanterns and candles had been fired to cast light on the mayhem and bloody murder which had been perpetrated there against the Three Kings and one other, whom Mauclerc identified as the parchment-seller Oudenarde. The four corpses lay sprawled on the floor, the blood from their slit throats drenching the costly turkey rugs. The victims were grouped together, as if they had clustered close against their killer. Urswicke carefully picked his way around the murdered men. He noticed how their bodies were slightly twisted, but what was extraordinary was the lack of any sign of violence either to themselves, the chamber or any of its furnishings. He found it impossible to believe that these men had been led like lambs to the slaughter offering their throats to be cut. Apart from the gruesome death scene, everything else seemed in order: no destruction, no damage, nothing at all.
Urswicke approached the chancery table. Mauclerc edged up very close behind him, as if fearful at what Urswicke might discover. The clerk tried to ignore Mauclerc almost breathing in his ear as he sifted amongst the documents strewn there before picking up a book of hours, a bulky manuscript, freshly paged and neatly bound in gold twine held fast by a clasp. Urswicke opened this, turning the pages, admiring the miniature jewel-like paintings and the glorious decoration which marked the beginning of each prayer or psalm. He turned the pages then studied the front and back of the psalter.
‘It is what it is,’ Urswicke murmured, putting it down. ‘A book of hours.’ He gestured at the documents which covered the entire table. ‘Nothing has been stolen?’
‘No, no,’ Mauclerc retorted.
Urswicke glanced sharply at him. For the first time since they had met at Tewkesbury, Clarence’s henchman seemed genuinely puzzled, surprised as if caught off balance.
‘Nothing has been stolen?’ Urswicke repeated.
‘No.’
‘And there was nothing precious here to steal?’
‘No.’
‘So why did the Three Kings, together with Oudenarde, work so hard here in the chancery chamber of a splendid tavern, a room your three clerks closely guarded, so no one could spy on them? Now that’s a mystery, Mauclerc! What was so valuable here to explain such secrecy or to account for their murders?’
‘They were working on my claim.’
Urswicke spun round. Clarence lounged drunkenly in the doorway, arms crossed, staring fixedly at Urswicke. ‘You,’ Clarence pointed a finger, ‘you have sharp wits and an even sharper mind, Christopher. You have proved invaluable. Find out who did this. Let me see them hang. You will receive my warrant commanding you. Act on it!’
‘I will, my Lord. And so first, did you or Mauclerc visit this chamber yesterday, be it day or night? Or even earlier this morning?’
‘No,’ Clarence spat back. ‘I should object to you, a low-born knave, questioning me so closely. But that has to be done, I suppose.’
Clarence pushed himself from the doorpost and turned drunkenly, balancing the wine goblet carefully in his hand.
‘Mauclerc will take care of any questions.’
Once Clarence had gone, Ma
uclerc grasped Urswicke by the shoulder, his cold face hard, as if the deep malice which defined the man had returned. ‘We have nothing to do with this,’ he declared. ‘My Lord Clarence and I were busy in the Jerusalem chambers at Westminster. Minehost Tiptree sent messages about what happened here? And as far as my Lord of Clarence’s claim is concerned …’ Mauclerc pointed at the parchments strewn across the chancery desk. ‘As you know, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the so-called King-maker and leader of the Lancastrian host, owned estates and manors the like of which have never been seen in this kingdom for many a day. According to those who know, Warwick was killed at Barnet by something flying.’ He laughed sharply. ‘A well-aimed war axe or crossbow bolt. Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘Warwick left no male heir and you must realise the implications?’
‘Yes I do,’ Urswicke agreed. ‘Warwick had two daughters, Isobel and Anne. If the Warwick estates aren’t seized by the King, and I doubt if they will be, they will be shared out amongst the two daughters, one of whom, Isobel, is married to our master, Lord Clarence. I heard rumours,’ Urswicke lowered his voice, ‘that Richard of Gloucester nourishes the most tender feelings towards Isobel’s sister Anne, not to mention,’ he added wryly, ‘her estates. If Lord Richard marries the heiress, he will certainly demand a just division of the Neville inheritance.’
‘My master,’ Mauclerc interjected, ‘is insistent that the entire Neville inheritance, its manors, estates and holdings, everything to be found there, are rightfully his. True, Richard of Gloucester challenges this, so our Lord builds a case to justify his God-given rights based on both law and fact.’
Urswicke suspected Mauclerc was lying for Clarence, but he nodded understandingly as if fully accepting what he said. He continued to survey the different parchments spread out across the table. Sharp-eyed and the swiftest of readers, Urswicke tried to make sense of what he saw. Most of the documents were bills, indentures, licences, lists and drafts of memoranda. One already laid out and sealed by Clarence caught his eye; a licence for ‘Eudo Spysin, squire of my Lord Clarence, to leave the kingdom with important messages to be delivered by word of mouth to his Grace Duke Francis of Brittany.’ Urswicke recalled Spysin all booted, buckled and belted, as well as the squire’s self–important remark about being busy on some task and catching the evening tide. Urswicke studied the rest of the parchments, now aware of Mauclerc’s impatience to distract him.
Urswicke realised he could do no more so he walked across to the window and stared out through the lancet opening. He had no illusion about what Spysin was intent on. The courier would be carrying messages, on Clarence’s behalf, with the full support of the English Crown, graciously asking Duke Francis that if Henry Tudor arrived in Brittany he was to be seized immediately and despatched back to England. Clarence would offer lavish bribes and generous trade concessions to achieve this. Similar envoys would go to other kingdoms, though this did not concern Urswicke. Countess Margaret had confided how her son would shelter in no other place but Brittany, which enjoyed the closest ties with Wales and the Tudor family. Nevertheless, the danger was pressing. Would Duke Francis be suborned? Would members of his council, their purses bulging with English gold, argue that Tudor was not worth alienating the powerful Edward? And what would Clarence offer? Treasure? Trade? Treaties? Had Countess Margaret anticipated Clarence’s next move? Somehow, perhaps because of the last treacherous act of that precious pair Owain and his sister, Clarence had come to realise that Henry Tudor was no longer in Pembroke but was probably on his way to Brittany or, perhaps, already there.
Urswicke stared down through the window; he made his decision. For a brief while he would have to stay in this chamber and act the part. But, before the tide turned that evening, he must kill Spysin. On that he was determined. Urswicke glanced sharply over his shoulder at the chancery table. He could detect no disturbance amongst the different parchments and documents. Was there something missing? Mauclerc didn’t seem to think so. So why these murders in such mysterious circumstances? Mauclerc was now collecting the different manuscripts and placing them in the reinforced parchment chests.
‘Why did my Lord Clarence choose me?’ he asked.
Mauclerc brought the lid of the coffer sharply down. He snapped it shut, turning the key. ‘We trust you Christopher. You have given us invaluable information and have been of great assistance to our Lord. Our master believes all this,’ he gestured at the corpses, ‘could even be the work of your redoubtable mistress or—’
‘Or who?’
‘Someone who is in bitter rivalry with our master.’
‘Such as?’
Mauclerc walked towards him and pushed his face close to Urswicke’s. ‘Gloucester,’ he whispered, ‘and that little mountebank’s claim to the Neville inheritance.’
Urswicke stared back in surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ Mauclerc hissed, ‘there is more to this masque than meets the eye.’
‘Yet you and our Lord,’ Urswicke pointed to the corpses, ‘do not seem too perturbed by the brutal murder of four chosen henchmen?’
‘We have lost the same in battle, Urswicke. I have seen comrades cruelly slaughtered or heard of their excruciating executions at the hands of our enemies. My Lord Clarence and I have been fighting for the last twelve years.’ Mauclerc sucked on his teeth. ‘Men live, men die. The Three Kings were faithful, shrewd and skilled. Oudenarde the parchment-seller equally so. They were all working on creating a book, a chronicle which would justify Clarence’s claim to his inheritance.’
‘What about Oudenarde’s shop under the sign of “The Red Keg”?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Our searchers will already be busy there seizing and securing whatever they find.’ Mauclerc poked Urswicke in the chest. ‘What you must do, like any scholar in the schools, is discover what truly happened here. Present a hypothesis which is logical and possible. If the hypothesis is probable, that would be even better.’ Mauclerc’s fingers fell to the hilt of his dagger. ‘Once we know, then we can carry out the most bloody reprisal.’
Urswicke was left alone in the death chamber. At his request, some of Mauclerc’s ruffians set up guard on the stairs to the chancery chamber and the room itself. Urswicke moved swiftly. He soon established there was no secret entrance to the chamber, only the doorway, and that had been battered, its lock twisted and the inside bolts shattered: the windows were too narrow for anyone to even try and break in. Moreover, they had been firmly shuttered because of the cold early summer night. Urswicke then scrutinised the food: scraps of chicken, pieces of fruit and a manchet loaf. The jug of Bordeaux was half full, with wine dregs in the four goblets. Urswicke sniffed at all of these but could detect nothing amiss. Moreover, the chamber, like many such tavern rooms, suffered from an infestation of mice. Urswicke discovered their droppings as well as scraps of food these rodents nibbled at. He cast about; if any of the food and drink had been poisoned, he would find the corpses of such vermin. But, there again, he could discover nothing.
Urswicke decided to be as thorough as possible. He took the deep bowl from the lavarium stand and scraped in the remnants of the food along with the wine from both the jug and the goblets. He mixed this together and ordered one of the guards to take it down to the tavern cellar and leave it for the rats. Urswicke then turned to the four corpses and, for the first time since he had entered that sinister death chamber, he felt a deep chill of fear. Urswicke had viewed corpses on the battlefield, in lonely copses of the wild, windswept north, as well as those left stabbed or hacked along the dirty runnels and alleyways of London. He had seen the dead piled high like stacks of wood before they were tumbled into makeshift, common graves. This was eerily different. The four victims sprawled as if they were asleep, except each of them had drawn his dagger and held it in listless fingers. Four corpses, eyes staring, mouths slightly open in shock at the savage cut across each of their throats. Even more mysterious, there was no sign of any struggle or violence, apart from those death wounds and the blood f
loating out in great pools.
Urswicke crouched down and scrutinised the scene carefully. ‘Impossible,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Impossible.’ The clerk hurriedly searched the pockets and wallets of the dead but he could find nothing significant. He suspected Mauclerc had already done this at Clarence’s behest. Urswicke got to his feet and crossed to the door, resting against its lintel, and carefully scrutinised how it had been violently broken. The bolts at top and bottom had fractured the clasps whilst the key was still in the now twisted lock. He asked the guards outside to move away and stared around the stairwell, noticing the heavy yew log which had been used as a ram against the door. Urswicke walked back into the chamber. So far he had nothing to use, nothing he could seize on to resolve these mysteries.
He ordered one of the guards to bring up Master Tiptree. Minehost, sweaty-faced with a nervous twist to his mouth, came hurrying up all a-fluster, wiping greasy hands on his thick, linen apron. Behind him trotted two scullions and a slattern who, Tiptree explained, ‘had first raised the hue and cry ready to shout “Harrow! Harrow!”’ All four tavern people were nervous at entering the death chamber, Tiptree in particular. He was deeply agitated, lower lip trembling, teeth chattering. Urswicke realised he would have no sense out of him. He ordered Tiptree and the rest to go back downstairs into the small buttery which adjoined the great kitchen before telling the guard to maintain strict watch over the death chamber and allow no one in without his permission.
Once gathered in the buttery, the landlord and his minions seemed more composed as they sat on the cushioned settle. Urswicke leaned across the table pointing at Tiptree.
