The Fate of Princes (8 page)

On Saturday, August 30th, King Richard and Prince Edward, with a huge retinue, myself included, entered York. We were preceded by two sheriffs of the city who rode at the head of a long procession, each bearing their silver wands of office. At Breckles Mills, just outside the city walls, the mayor, aldermen and councillors, dressed in a wild profusion of red and scarlets, greeted the royal family. They took us into the city through Micklegate to be cheered by a mass of citizens clad in blue and gold velvet, the favourite colours of the city. As we went under the gate I saw Richard look up; for a moment his face went grim as he remembered his own father, Duke Richard, and elder brother, Edmund, who had been caught and trapped by a Lancastrian army just outside Wakefield. Both father and son had been killed, their heads hacked off, crowned with paper hats and placed
above Micklegate Bar. Richard had never forgotten their deaths, determined not to forfeit the hard-earned rewards of the House of York.

The procession wound its way to the Guildhall, the King and his retinue being taken up by a series of banquets and receptions, amid a never-ending swirl of silk, trumpetings, speeches and exchanges of gifts. On Sunday September 7th, we attended his favourite drama, the Creed play, performed by the Corpus Christi Guild. The following day Richard’s son was installed as Prince of Wales in a gorgeous multicoloured ceremony in York Cathedral. I watched the pageant, thinking Richard had forgotten the task he had entrusted to me, but that was Richard, publicly playing the role of the popular King whilst all the time scurriers, messengers and spies were sent south to bring back information about the conspiracies brewing there. Nor had he forgotten the secret matter. On that same Sunday evening he convoked a meeting of his secret council in a small chamber in the Archbishop’s house in York.

I remember it was dark. A thunderstorm had swept in from the sea and fat, heavy drops of rain pelted the stain-glass windows of the room. Beeswax candles dipped, winked and glittered on silver and gold ornaments, catching and fanning the glow of a precious diamond necklace, ruby ring or some other valuable stone. Richard sat at the head of a long trestle-table, on his left his principal councillors. There was Sir Richard Ratcliffe, a fierce fighter from Westmoreland, knighted for his bloody service at Tewkesbury. A seafarer, Ratcliffe had terrorised the Scots off Galloway; a man of shrewd wit, short and rude of speech and temper. He was bold in mischief and as far from pity as from fear of God. Next to him, William Catesby, Richard’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, a lawyer from Northampton, a man who served Lord William Hastings but, when
Hastings fell, Catesby switched his allegiance. A shrewd, hard-visaged man but a popinjay. He kept peacocks on his estate and loved to wear costly raiment, white or green satin doublets, scarlet hose, black leather Spanish riding-boots to which he always fastened spurs which jingled and clinked whenever he moved. Then Sir James Tyrrell, the only southerner, Master of Horse and the King’s henchman, red-haired, foxy-faced, a sharp contrast to the last person, Sir Edward Brampton, a Portuguese Jew and former pirate. He had been converted to the true faith, no less a person than King Edward IV standing as godfather. He was dark, swarthy, his oiled hair hanging in ringlets about his face. He always insisted on wearing crimson and scarlet and liked to fasten little bells to his clothes so that he walked constantly in a shimmer of silvery noise. I looked at each one of those present. God forgive my evil suspicions but, at the time, I thought they might all be murderers.

Richard began the meeting, giving a sharp, decisive description of the conspiracy in the south, expressing anxiety about how Buckingham not only refused to answer his letters but dismissed Richard’s messengers with total disdain. Haltingly, he began to talk about the Princes, sometimes making mistakes, calling them his true nephews, and then, as if remembering himself, his brother’s illegitimate issue. At length, as if tired of the subject, he lapsed into silence and waved a beringed hand at me.

‘Francis,’ he said, ‘perhaps you can give the clearest description of what is happening.’

I told them what I knew. By the end of June, both Princes had been removed to the Tower. The King had visited the fortress on July 4th. On 17 July, Brackenbury had been appointed as Constable and immediately paid his respects to the Princes. The boys had been well, though the elder was morose and withdrawn, suffering from an infection of the jaw. On the 25th, Buckingham had visited them and on the 26th, Brackenbury had seen the Princes again. On the following day Sir James Tyrrell had visited the Tower to collect stores for the King. On the 29th, Brackenbury had discovered them gone and immediately despatched a letter to the King as well as visiting Bishop Russell, the Chancellor.

As I talked, Richard sat slumped in his high-backed
chair, toying with his sparkling ring, refusing to meet my eye. I looked down at the other councillors, their hard, closed faces, and I wondered once again if any of them had been involved in the Princes’ disappearance. They were all ruthless men, totally dedicated to Richard; like John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, they viewed the Princes as obstacles to their rise in power and a threat to their own status. I looked sideways at Richard. Was he suffering pangs of guilt? Guilt about murder? Or just guilt for deserting the sons of his own brother? He stirred, chewing his lip.

‘My Lords,’ he began. ‘This matter is no secret, but your advice is needed. What is said here cannot be discussed elsewhere. Whatever you feel or think should now be openly declared.’ His words were greeted by silence.

‘Sir James Tyrrell,’ I asked. ‘It is true you visited the Tower?’ The fellow nodded. ‘And you did not see the Princes?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Why?’

Tyrrell shrugged. ‘I saw them as of little import.’

‘And Brackenbury?’ I asked. ‘He was well?’ Tyrrell stretched out his hand as though examining his fingernails.

‘Sir Robert Brackenbury was his usual self. I saw and heard nothing amiss.’

‘It’s quite simple,’ Catesby broke in. ‘Surely? The Princes are gone. They have either escaped or been murdered.’ He turned towards the King. ‘Brackenbury would not commit such an act and certainly not without His Grace’s permission. That is so?’ Richard nodded. ‘Buckingham could not have murdered them,’ Catesby continued. ‘For they were seen alive after our noble Duke left. The culprit must either be someone we do not know or William Slaughter.’

‘But why?’ I interrupted. ‘Why should Slaughter kill
the Princes? What had he to gain?’ Catesby smiled thinly.

‘If it was Slaughter,’ he murmured, ‘then a number of people could have bribed him and, once the act was done, his throat cut.’ The room grew quiet. I felt a prickle of sweat on my back. Catesby’s conclusions were the same as mine. The last person to have seen the Princes alive was Slaughter. He might well have carried out the dreadful deed but who was behind him? I recollected my conversation with the tavern wench. She had last seen Slaughter on the evening of August 1st. Was that when he had murdered the two boys? Possibly. But the real problem was who had paid him?

Richard’s secretary, Kendall, now white-faced, listed the possibilities.

‘Your Grace,’ he began. ‘Slaughter may have been paid by Brackenbury, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke of Buckingham, or,’ he paused, ‘anyone in this room.’ He held his hands up. ‘I mean no disrespect but the crime will be laid at our door.’

‘Francis,’ the King asked sharply. ‘What do you think?’

‘Your Grace,’ I replied. ‘Kendall is correct. I believe the Princes were killed or disappeared around the beginning of August, the same time the rumours began in London and the surrounding shires that the Princes might be murdered. They began,’ I added slowly, ‘after Buckingham had visited the Princes. Buckingham could have bribed Slaughter to either abduct the Princes or kill them. The fellow did so but was double-crossed, his only reward being a torn throat and a pauper’s grave.’

‘True! True!’ Brampton spoke for the first time, his voice clipped in an attempt to disguise his accent. ‘Many men had motives to kill the Princes. Let us be honest. We sit on the council because the Princes were set aside.’ He looked quickly at Richard. ‘I mean no offence, your Grace. I only say to your face what others relate behind
your back. Buckingham would like them dead. Remember, as a boy he was a ward of the Woodville woman, who forced him to marry one of her daughters. Like us, he hates the entire brood. My Lord of Norfolk also profits. The Mowbray inheritance was held by the younger prince; if he was dead I do not think Jack of Norfolk would weep bitter tears.’ He held up one bejewelled hand. ‘We must also remember that my Lords of Buckingham and Norfolk remained in London, whereas we joined his Grace’s progress through the country.’

‘There is one fly in the ointment,’ Catesby interrupted softly. ‘Brackenbury! If anyone had killed the Princes, Brackenbury would find their corpses. He would tell the King, as well as inform us of the possible murderer. I do not believe,’ he concluded firmly, ‘the Princes are dead, but that they may have escaped.’

Tempers became heated as different possibilities and theories were exchanged across the table. I just sat watching Richard carefully. He still refused to meet my eye, lost in his own thoughts, impervious to the discussion. Catesby was right, the key to the solution was Brackenbury. Was he the murderer? Either on his own or on secret orders from the King? I quietly promised myself that Sir Robert and I would certainly discuss the matter again. Catesby, ever the diplomat, led the discussion on to the conspiracy in the south and the possible plans of Buckingham. Adept and skilful, he drew the King into discussion and Richard vented his anger and hatred at Buckingham and his coven.

‘That man,’ Richard shouted, ‘has betrayed us all! He is behind the whispering campaign, spreading malicious rumours, stories and whatever filth he can dig up. I believe my Lord Lovell,’ he turned and glared at me, ‘has other news.’ I had told Richard about Percivalle’s meeting with me. The King had dismissed it as a matter of little consequence yet he had apparently brooded on
the matter, gnawing away at it, imagining threats which did not exist. I had no choice but to describe the scene to the rest of Richard’s councillors, the King nodding vigorously as I spoke.

‘Percivalle’s visit,’ the King said menacingly, ‘is important. Firstly, because he sows seeds of doubt about my true intentions. Percivalle brought news to me that my brother was dead; he may well have been responsible for rumours that King Edward had died before he actually did. Secondly, Percivalle wished to suborn the allegiance of this,’ Richard stretched out a hand and put it lightly on my shoulder, ‘my lifelong friend. So, my Lords, if Percivalle has approached Lovell, who else has he visited in the dead of night?’ A sharp intake of breath greeted Richard’s question. I glanced around. Each of the councillors looked away, shuffling nervously on their chairs. Catesby was the first to reassert himself.

‘Your Grace,’ he exclaimed. ‘I speak for myself and for everyone in this room when I say that our allegiance is to you, and I am prepared to prove my loyalty,’ he embraced us in one sweeping gesture, ‘as we all do on our bodies.’ Amidst such exclamations of loyalty, even anger, at the King’s question, the council meeting broke up.

I stayed with the Court at York. The King had private words with me, saying that I was to continue in his secret matter but it would be best if we waited until Buckingham made his move; only then would we gain a clearer picture of what had happened. Meantime the King gave strict orders that all other royal children, including his own bastards, the son of his elder sister and Clarence’s simple-minded son, should be moved out of harm’s way to Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire. I do not know why Richard did this. Did he fear some attempt on their lives in a further attempt to blacken his name? At the time I was reassured, but wondered why
Richard had not taken stricter measures over his two nephews.

After his wife and young son left him for Middleham, I approached Richard again in the sacristy of York Cathedral, a place I considered free of any eavesdroppers or spies. The King had paid a private visit to the church and I, as Chamberlain, accompanied him. Seizing the opportunity of being alone, I told him about Brackenbury’s nervousness and urged him to do something to counter the rumours about the Princes’ death. Despite his secretiveness, I sensed the King’s fury and anger.

‘I am caught either way, Francis,’ he answered hoarsely. ‘If I say the Princes have escaped, it gladdens those who constantly plot against me. If I say they are dead, killed by the Duke of Buckingham, who would believe me? They will assert that I am the assassin, eager to pass the blame onto someone else. The same is true of Norfolk. I will still be blamed and lose the support not only of a friend but of my most powerful ally. We are in a dark tunnel, Francis. Ahead of us may be enemies and snares. We must walk silently, create no stir.’ He paused and grasped me firmly by the arm. ‘But for my sake, Francis, my own peace of soul, I must know what happened to those boys. Where are they? Are they to appear in a year, two years’ time, backed by France, Brittany, Burgundy or the Empire to challenge my rule and that of my son? You are to keep with this task, Francis, and not give it up until we have found the truth. I have your word?’

‘You have my word, your Grace.’

Two days later I received the following letter from Belknap in France; it dashed other hopes:

‘Thomas Belknap, steward, to Francis, Viscount Lovell, health and greetings. Know you how my journey to France was both swift and safe and that I have come to the French King’s Court at Plessis-les-Tours.
However, Monsieur the King of France is, so common report has it, now dying and refuses to meet anyone, let alone a simple steward like myself. Know you also, or so I learnt from one of the notables of the Court, how King Louis is angry. He feels insulted that someone like you should send messages via the hands of a mere commoner.

‘Nevertheless, I have talked to those who serve on Louis’ council but they have denied me access to the King who has turned Plessis into a veritable fortress. Along the roads leading to it, caltrops have been scattered to bring down the horse of anyone seeking a forced entry. There are also detachments of archers in the forest with orders to kill anyone trespassing near the walls. The King’s residence itself is surrounded by a deep ditch and a high wall. The latter has many pronged iron spikes embedded in it. Beyond the wall is a high, iron grille patrolled by sentries. Beyond that, on the four corners of the King’s house, are moveable iron watch-towers, each manned by ten crossbow men day and night.