The Fate of Princes (12 page)

I left the fortress late in the afternoon. I met my retainers outside the main gate and took a barge down to Southwark. As usual, its narrow streets were packed with all the filth of the underworld. Sham beggars, relic-sellers, footpads, whores, pimps, cutpurses, forgers, counterfeiters and murderers. Men who killed another human being for the price of a pot of ale. The stalls and booths were open selling baubles, cheap food or other items, usually stolen from shops across the river. The whores were there but, being so early in the day, acted as discreetly as their painted faces, orange-braided hair and scarlet gowns would allow. We turned down one street where I asked a scribbler for directions to the tavern Sir Edward Brampton constantly frequented. The fellow grinned. Yes, he knew the Ragged Staff and, for a few pennies, sketched directions on a piece of dirty vellum.

One of my retainers, a serjeant-at-arms, led the way. At last we arrived at a huge, three-storeyed building with an ale stake pushed under the eaves and a crude sign above the broad wooden entrance proclaiming it to be the Ragged Staff. Sir Edward Brampton was well-known there. A great navigator from a nation whose sailors are now scouring the dark coasts of Africa, Brampton liked his comforts. Inside it was no different from any other tavern: a large, overheated room, filled
with shouting, half-drunk customers seated around stout wooden tables. They were busy baiting a relic-seller, who claimed to be selling hairs from St. Paul’s beard. The upper storeys, however, housed a luxurious bordello and I found Brampton there, lying upon a great four-poster bed, on either side of him a giggling wench, almost identical with their black curly hair and gentle curves of pink and white flesh. They lay on lace-fringed covers, a sheer contrast to the dark, swarthy body of Sir Edward. Around the room were strewn silken garments, dresses, petticoats and red hose with golden roses on them.

A grinning, evil-smelling boy ushered me in; I sent him packing back downstairs with strict instructions to look after my retainers. Only when he closed the door behind him did Brampton see me. He sat up roaring with laughter, inviting me to participate in what he called his great banquet on the bed. I declined and said I wished to speak to him alone. He damned me for being as prim as any archdeacon and, slapping both wenches on the backside, told them to grab their robes and get out before he laid about them with his belt. They slipped by me, brushing my shoulders with their silken flesh. Once they were gone, Brampton rose, wrapping a rather dirty sheet about him, and went over to pour two generous cups of wine, proffering one to me. I remember it tasted delicious, white Rhenish, smooth and chilled in snow or ice.

‘Well, Lovell!’ he roared. ‘What do you want?’ God knows he knew why I was there. For all his bluntness and foreign ways, Sir Edward was as keen as I to know the truth. Seated now in the cold darkness, I remember that meeting, the wine, the friendship, the sense of common purpose. It warms me against the chill approach of death.

At the time, however, I was suspicious and he had to repeat his question. I began to ask delicately about the
King’s instructions to take a ship, stand off the mouth of the Thames and wait for certain passengers to be put aboard. His eyes hardened, shifting away from mine.

‘Sir Edward,’ I said tiredly, ‘you know the King has instructed me in this matter. He has probably asked you what happened and I have his authority to ask the same. When was it?’ I asked. ‘What time?’

‘After dark,’ he replied. ‘On the evening of July 25th.’ The same day, I noted, as Buckingham went to the Tower.

‘But no one came?’ I asked.

‘No one,’ he replied. ‘We were instructed to take up our position just after dark; it was almost dawn before we raised anchor and sailed away.’ I searched his face for any lies but he just shrugged his shoulders, rubbing his ear lobe, playing with the gold pearl-studded ring which dangled from it.

‘You know who your intended passengers were?’

‘Of course,’ Brampton snapped back. ‘Richard’s bastard nephews.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘The bastard princes?’ He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped from his cup. ‘They may be dead or they may have escaped. I keep my eyes and ears open. I think they are abroad.’

‘What makes you so certain?’ I asked.

He put the cup down and leaned across to me.

‘Just rumours. Stories from Tournai.’ My heart quickened. I wish it had not, for Brampton sowed a seed that day, the seeds of destruction. I pressed him for more details but he could tell me nothing more. He said he had recently informed the King but so far he had found nothing to add.

I left Brampton with his whores and went back downstairs. A strumpet with an orange wig and a red, loose, flowing dress tried to block my way; a young girl with a soft, sweet face and eyes as hard as steel. She
whispered promises of delights for a drink or a few coins. I tried to push by her but she blocked my path. The stairs were empty, dark and gloomy, the girl’s arm hard against my stomach. I heard the clink of steel behind me, the soft slither of leather on wood, and, suspecting a trap, threw her aside, running down the stairs shouting for my retainers to the shrill mocking laughter of the doxy.

The next morning I was up early and, escorted by a now grumbling group of servants, went up to Holborn and the stately grand town house of Lord Thomas Stanley. I found it easily enough, the largest in the area, more like an inn with its spacious courtyards, orchards and raised flower-beds. The bricks between the jet-black timbers glistened with fresh coats of white paint and the gables were gilted with ornate embosses and small shields bearing the red insignia of the Stanleys. Both courtyard and house were full of retainers and they greeted my arrival with cool disdain. The Stanleys had never been Richard’s friends. Lord Thomas had been allied to Hastings and arrested in that frenetic meeting in the Tower. He had been thrown roughly to the ground, banging his head so hard he was led off covered in blood. Stanley never forgave nor forgot either the blow or the accompanying humiliation. Richard had tried to buy him with honours, but the only person Stanley really supported was himself. His family were weasels, time-servers, switching sides to suit their own convenience. Richard was frightened of his great power in the counties of Cheshire and Lancashire but, in hindsight, Richard’s greatest mistake was not having him executed.

Stanley’s second wife, Lady Margaret Beaufort, was the perfect match for him. She was the sole heir of the Duke of Somerset, one of the House of Lancaster’s most powerful generals. She had been married at the age of thirteen to Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond; their
son Henry was now the only surviving Lancastrian claimant to the throne. By all rights she should have been locked up in prison but Richard, unwilling or unable to confront her new husband, had simply stripped her of her titles, her lands given to her husband who was to be the guarantor of her future good behaviour.

I was not looking forward to the meeting and, as I was ushered upstairs to a small comfortable chamber, found myself strangely nervous. The Lady Margaret was waiting for me, seated in a huge chair before the hearth of a roaring fire. A diminutive woman, she nevertheless had a presence, sitting there in a dark-blue velvet dress, fringed at neck and cuffs with frothy white Bruges lace. She did not wear an elegant Court head-dress but a white veil like a nun’s which framed her thin, pale face and large dark eyes, pools of passionate power. She did not stir as I entered except to raise her hand to be kissed before gesturing me to sit in the chair opposite. Like some great abbess she insisted on the civilities, offering me wine and a dish of cloying sweetmeats. She was the most powerful and dangerous woman I have ever met. She exuded a baleful, threatening presence. Her arrogant face and thin lips concealed any disappointment or humiliation she may have felt following Buckingham’s defeat and Richard’s public rebukes at her involvement.

‘Why are you here, my Lord?’ she said in a whisper. I stared back, challenging the malicious menace of this diminutive woman and undoubted traitor.

‘My Lady,’ I replied. ‘The Duke of Buckingham’s late lamented rebellion. You were involved?’

‘So Parliament says,’ she quickly replied.

‘And you?’ I asked. ‘What do you say?’ She smirked.

‘What do I care? More importantly, why do you?’

I decided to end this cat-and-mouse game.

‘My Lady, when the King left on his progress through
the shires, you stayed in London?’ She nodded. ‘And so,’ I added, ‘did the Duke of Buckingham.’

‘So?’ One raised eyebrow seemed to dismiss my question as nonsense.

‘In that time,’ I asked harshly, ‘did you and the Duke of Buckingham meet?’ She smiled sweetly.

‘I need not answer that.’

‘No, my Lady, you may not and I will leave. But the King may very well ask your servants.’ I was pleased to see a flicker of alarm in her eyes. We both knew that two of her household, Reginald Bray and her chaplain, Christopher Urswicke, were constantly peddling money and information to her son in Brittany.

‘You would not dare!’ she hissed.

‘I would dare, Madame. It is remarkable what people will say after a short sojourn in the dungeons of the Tower. Madame, we are talking about treason. Of plotting with the King’s enemies both here and abroad. The King has been clement but his mood could change.’

‘Old Dick!’ she jibed. ‘Little Dickon of Gloucester! How high he has risen!’

‘He is the King, Madame,’ I replied.

‘He is the King,’ she mimicked back.

‘Madame, if you will not talk to me, then I shall ask to meet Masters Bray and Urswicke in less salubrious surroundings.’

‘Sit down, man!’ Her voice was still harsh but I detected the note of fear. ‘Buckingham,’ she began more evenly, ‘came to see me once the King had left on his progress through the shires. He informed me how he and other gentlemen were sickened by Richard of Gloucester’s seizure of the crown and the destruction of his nephews. He said he wished to change his allegiance and hoped this information would be conveyed to my son, in Brittany.’

‘So, Buckingham informed you that the Princes were dead?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘On what day was this, Madame?’

‘On the evening of July 25th,’ she said after a long pause as if trying to recollect. ‘He came here, late at night, to tell me the Princes were no more.’ I stared at her, trying to conceal my own surprise. Here, indeed, was a riddle. When Buckingham and this lady met, the Princes were alive and well. Indeed, they were seen the following day by Brackenbury. But when Buckingham was falsely informing this lady that the Princes were dead, he knew that Brampton was waiting up the Thames with a ship to take them abroad. What had been Buckingham’s game? He seemed to change his message depending on whom he was speaking to. The Lady Margaret leaned across.

‘You seem bemused, my Lord?’ she asked smugly.

‘No,’ I lied. ‘A little puzzled about how the Duke should know the Princes were dead. Did he give you any evidence for this?’

‘Oh, yes,’ the Lady Margaret smiled. ‘Before the King had left London, he and Buckingham met in secret council at Baynards Castle. There, in a private chamber, your master told Buckingham he had sent secret instructions with Sir James Tyrrell to Brackenbury that the Princes were to be silently removed for the good of the realm. How does it feel, Viscount,’ she rasped, ‘to be the servant of an assassin? A child-murderer!’ I glared back at the woman. She considered Richard a hypocrite but she was no less a Pharisee herself. Three times married, the patroness of religious works and monastic houses, she prided herself on direct communication with God, claiming to have had visions since the age of nine. Strange, isn’t it, when we burnt the Maid at Rouen for claiming to have similar dreams and fantasies? The Lady Margaret believed her son was the reincarnation of Arthur, the Welsh prince, who would come out of Wales and wield total power over the realm. People who
have visions are dangerous. They tend to think that if God will not help their dreams to be realised, they ought to offer a little help themselves.

However, I run on. I promised to let this story unfold and not to endow it with the virtue of hindsight. At the time, the Lady Margaret seemed composed enough so I decided to press her further.

‘My Lady, Buckingham met you here in London and again outside Worcester. Why was it important for two great notables to meet in some dirty tavern in the middle of the countryside?’ The Beaufort woman shrugged.

‘The meeting was accidental, though I knew Buckingham was in the area. He simply wished to affirm his allegiance and repeat his story how the King had murdered his nephews.’

The Lady Margaret was going to reveal no more. She would continue to lie and mock me, but at least I could shake her calm demeanour. I rose, unceremoniously bowed and, turning on my heel, walked back to the door.

‘So, my Lord, did you learn anything fresh?’ She could not resist the jibe. I walked back.

‘Oh, yes, my Lady,’ I answered. ‘You see, the night Buckingham came to tell you that the Princes were dead – well, he was lying. On the day after, both boys were seen by Brackenbury.’ My heart warmed to see the alarm and panic in her eyes. She clenched her little white fists, her mask of serenity replaced by a look of furious hatred.

‘That is a lie!’ she snarled. ‘The Princes are dead! Your master killed them!’

‘Oh no,’ I answered casually. ‘They may not be dead. I am sure you have your spies, Lady Margaret. Perhaps you know a man called Percivalle? He will inform you about my secret business. Let us say, Lady Margaret,’ I taunted further, ‘that your son does invade, and let us
say my master is overthrown.’ I walked nearer, pushing my face close against hers. ‘What then, Lady Margaret? Your son is nothing but the misbegotten creation of a lady whose family are debarred from the throne. Whose father and grandfather were nothing better than Welsh adventurers. So, how will he hold his throne? Richard’s son still lives. Clarence’s son still lives. The daughters of Edward IV still live and, God willing, so do his sons! Remember that next time you have a vision or you plot here in this secret chamber!’ I turned and walked away.