The Fate of Princes (17 page)

‘Jack of Norfolk, ride not so bold,

For Dickon, your master, has been both bought and sold.’

‘I wonder,’ Norfolk said, plucking the parchment from my fingers, ‘how many such messages have gone out? And what traitors have sold our master?’ Catesby and I just sat, not daring to answer.

On Sunday, 21st August, the royal army formed its column of march. The streets of Leicester filled with
colour as banners were unfurled to the shrill bray of trumpets. The King, now tight-lipped, his face white, drawn with tension, led the royal army down the Swine’s Market, his figure slight, even in the full casing of armour he wore. Richard bore a gold crown upon his helmet; the banners of France, England and St. George snapped and flapped in the breeze above him. All the heralds, in their brilliant tabards, blew shrilly on trumpets, drowning the beat of the drummers, proclaiming that the King was going forth to war to destroy his enemies. Behind Richard was Norfolk and his son, the Earl of Surrey, then other retinues forming a screen around the great baggage-train, and in the rear Northumberland, treacherous as ever. I wished to God the King had killed him on the spot! I was slightly behind the King; unlike him I was not in armour for I wanted to feel the sun and wind and rejoice in that glorious August day. The trees were green still in full bloom, the sky blue, and around us, as far as the eye could see, the yellow corn reaching up ripe and full, ready for the harvest. I thought of Anne and the calm beauty of Minster Lovell. I wished I could turn my horse and canter away from the agony, suspicion and frenetic excitement of the royal army.

Later in the afternoon, the army entered the small village of Sutton Cheyne, a collection of houses grouped along a high street and an old greystone church. The hamlet stood on a ridge, the land sloping northwards to the manor and village of Market Bosworth. Our spies reported that Sir William Stanley had taken up position here and those with keen eyesight could espy the different colours of his banners, pavilions and the liveries of his retainers.

The site was near the old Roman road which the Tudor would have to march along. We camped on the summit of some rising ground the locals called Ambian Hill. This provided us with an excellent view of the
low-lying Redmore Plain beneath, whilst our camp was protected by a moss-covered, treacherous marsh. Tents and pavilions were set up, camp fires lit, servants and boys bringing water and provisions from the purveyance wagons. Our spies and scouts went out and returned to declare the Tudor’s army was three miles away and nearby the forces of the two Stanley brothers, their intentions still unclear. Darkness fell and the fires of the enemy danced like a cluster of fireflies across the meadow. A restless night, the silence continually broken by the hammering on steel, the clanging of armour, horses neighing and the shouts of camp marshals and sentries.

Richard held a brief council in his tent. We sat grouped round a trestle-table as Norfolk, with the aid of a crudely-drawn map, demonstrated what actions we should follow. Essentially, we would hold the high ground and allow the Tudor to attack, hoping he would waste his energy. However, any real discussion was blighted by distrust of the true intentions of both Northumberland and the Stanley brothers. I looked around the table, for the last time seeing the faces of Richard’s secret council, all pale-faced, with black shadows under eyes which gleamed with a frenetic excitement. To be brief, we had no illusions. Tomorrow there would be a battle and it would be a hard-run fight. The Tudor was already proclaiming himself as King and, if we were defeated, we would suffer the fate of any traitor caught in arms against the Crown. The wine-jug circulated. No one wished to leave, preferring to stay in the flickering light of the candles, drawing comfort from those present. At last Richard ordered us to withdraw. Catesby touched me gently on the arm as I left the royal pavilion, a signal to follow him deeper into the darkness. Once out of earshot he turned.

‘This is the message,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing is to be done to Lord Strange, otherwise, if the battle is lost and
we are found on the field, it will be either the axe or the rope.’ I nodded and turned away, fully understanding Catesby’s message. We were not to go over to the Tudor but simply ensure we left the battlefield as discreetly as possible. I walked back to my own tent. I wished Belknap was with me and regretted my decision to send him back to Minster Lovell before marching north to join Richard. I entered my tent, surprised to find the page had lit a candle and placed it on the table. I cursed, such negligence could start a fire and a panic. But then I saw the figure huddled in a cloak seated in the far corner. He stood as I entered, pulling back the cowl, and I recognised the swarthy dark looks of Sir Robert Brackenbury.

‘You are welcome, Robert,’ I said, realising this was no chance meeting. He had just attended the recent council meeting. He must have left swiftly, to ensure he would be at my tent before I arrived and so block any refusal to see him.

‘Sit down, Francis,’ he replied, and without another word turned to the two cups standing on a chest, both already filled with wine. He gave one to me. ‘Pardon my presumption,’ he said quietly, ‘but I need the wine and your page was agreeable enough.’ I sipped from the cup, watching him carefully. ‘I have come to make a confession,’ he began abruptly.

‘Aren’t there priests in the camp?’ I asked.

‘As a matter of fact, there are not,’ he answered. I felt the tingle of excitement in my stomach, the quickening pulse of my heart, and yet smiled at the foolishness of it. Here, before the battle, the evening before I might die, I would learn the truth about a secret which had eluded me for two years. I sat on the corner of the chest close to him.

‘Then you had better make your confession, Robert,’ I said. ‘It is already dark and the King intends to be moving before dawn.’

‘I wish to confess,’ Brackenbury began, ‘to the murder of William Slaughter.’ He held up a hand to fend off any questions. ‘Slaughter was a rogue, a mercenary, corrupted by the traitor Buckingham. When Buckingham came to the Tower,’ he hurried on, ‘he saw the Princes, as I said, in the royal apartments. I moved them from the Tower to keep them more secure. The chamber you saw was empty. Only Slaughter and I saw the Princes.’ Brackenbury rubbed his face. ‘Anyway, Buckingham. He gave them gifts, small painted wooden swords and a silver tray of sweetmeats. The dish was poisoned.’ He stopped and put his face in his hands. ‘The venom must have been some Italian concoction, not quick-acting but slow, taking hours rather than minutes to work.’

‘But surely,’ I interrupted, ‘such presents should have been carefully inspected?’

‘Oh, they were.’ Brackenbury looked up at me. ‘Slaughter told me he would check everything, but he had been bribed. The morning after Buckingham left, the knave came rushing to me, saying how the Princes were sickened, too drowsy even to stand. I ordered him to keep his mouth shut and, by secret passages, brought the Princes to a small chamber deep in the royal apartments, a room once used as a warming-room for any child born in the Tower.’ Brackenbury shook his head. Beads of sweat poured down his now grey face. ‘There was nothing I could do,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘If I sent for Argentine, he would know it was poison. I or the King would be blamed. Richard would never forgive me. I did not want to die a traitor’s death.’

‘And the Princes?’ I asked, hiding the chilling terrors in my own body.

‘They just died,’ he answered.

‘And their bodies?’ Brackenbury placed his head in his hands.

‘God forgive me. Slaughter and I simply bricked the
room up. We took off the door and lintel, it did not take, long. The chamber lay off a disused passageway, very few people used it. I then wrote to the King saying the Princes had escaped and you know the rest.’

‘And Slaughter?’ I asked.

‘At first,’ he replied, ‘I swore him to secrecy, offering him gold, treasure, even lands, but afterwards I recollected how the Princes must have died. First I thought it was the sweating sickness but I knew they’d been poisoned and Slaughter had been bribed, so I arranged to meet him in some small squalid tavern alongside Cheapside. I cut his throat.’ Brackenbury gulped from his cup. ‘He was a traitor and he deserved a traitor’s death. I was quick and it was a mercy for him.’

‘Surely a new, bricked-up chamber would be noticed?’ I said.

‘Not really,’ Brackenbury said wearily. ‘The royal apartments in the Tower are a collection of rambling rooms and chambers. Many are in disrepair. They are hardly ever used.’ He looked away, listening to the distant noises from the camp. ‘Sometimes in my dreams,’ he said, ‘I stand in that long, dusty, whitewashed passage looking down at the walled-up chamber.’ He licked his lips. ‘I hear a tapping, see the dust begin to crumble, a skeletal arm push through the plaster, stretching and grasping for my throat.’ In the darkness I heard an owl hoot and, despite the warmth, I shivered.

‘But the King?’ I asked, asserting myself. ‘He must have questioned you?’ Brackenbury shook his head.

‘No, nothing out of the ordinary. No reproof. No reports. Just a strange look and assurances that he did not hold me responsible. It makes me think.’ Brackenbury rose and put his cup back on the table. For the first and last time ever he patted me affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, Francis, God be with you. I have confessed my sins.’ He walked to the flap of the tent.

‘Sir Robert,’ I called out. ‘You said something then
about the King’s manner making you think.’ Sir Robert grimaced, rubbing his hand through his hair, and walked back towards me.

‘Perhaps it’s wishful thinking,’ he murmured, ‘but, after I became Constable, I never really spoke to the Princes. Remember, I only knew them for ten days and they hardly talked to me. All their old retainers were withdrawn, Argentine included. Slaughter was a stranger.’

‘What is it, man?’ I interrupted.

‘Well,’ Brackenbury began slowly, ‘I said it was wishful thinking but there were times, when I watched the Princes, I half suspected they were not genuine. Something about them, bearing a close resemblance but not the sons of Edward IV.’ He laughed nervously. ‘As I have said, the humours of the mind can play strange tricks.’ He looked at me. ‘Goodnight, Francis.’

I heard him walk away and stood for a few seconds at the mouth of the tent, catching the cool breeze and listening to the sound of the camp settling down for its restless sleep. So the Princes were dead. I thought of that long, whitewashed passage, the sombre dark chamber and its hidden secret. Perhaps Richard knew the truth and blamed himself, fully expecting that tomorrow he would have to settle his debts with God.

Long before dawn our captains moved amongst our sleeping army, rousing soldiers to break their fast and prepare to stand in their battle-lines. I had slept restlessly, fitfully, and woke to the sounds of a stirring camp: the clash of harness, the ringing of armour, the hum of bowstrings, horses neighing and stamping as they were saddled for battle. I hastily drank a cup of watered wine and shouted for my servants to arm me in full harness, breast and back plate, greaves, reinforced gloves, sword, dagger, lance and battle-axe. I went straight to the royal pavilion; Richard also was being armed, the table used for the previous night’s council now covered with pieces of the finest armour from Nuremburg. The King looked pale and red-eyed from lack of sleep but confident enough as he stood in the satin-lined fustian doublet, woollen hose with padded kneecaps, and thick leather shoes. His pages were busy dressing him, putting the armoured sollerets on his feet to which gold spurs were attached. Once he was armoured, a loose belt was girded round his waist; on one side hung a triangular-bladed dagger and on the other a naked double-edged sword thrust through an iron ring so it could easily be drawn. Over all, Richard donned a short-sleeved, red and blue silk surcoat, split at the sides, embroidered with the golden leopards and lilies of England and France. Once finished, Richard had a few quiet words with his pages and cradling his
helmet, a gold-plated steel sallet surmounted by a golden crown, he walked from his pavilion into the darkness. There, in a dimly-lit ring of spluttering torches, the rest of his captains awaited him. The King, his face grey with anguish and tension, confessed his sleep had been broken by nightmares. One of the captains, I forget whom, hesitatingly reported that there were no priests in the camp to say Mass.

‘No need,’ Richard snapped back. ‘If our quarrel is God’s, we need no prayers. And if it is not, such prayers are only idle blasphemy.’ Someone else made a pathetic joke about the lack of breakfast. Richard smiled. ‘If I gave such orders,’ he said, ‘spies would have undoubtedly reported to Henry and he would know of our awakening. Let us fight and still have time for breakfast!’ The King mounted his tall grey war-horse, his favourite destrier, White Surrey; a squire handed him his principal battle weapons, a lance and battle-hammer. The latter was Richard’s chosen weapon, a cruel device; half-axe, half-mallet, it could and would wreak terrible damage in battle. The captains were dismissed, Richard instructing me and others in his household to stand with him in the battle. Our horses were brought and, as we mounted, orders rang out and the army began its ascent of Ambian Hill.

The plan of the previous evening was followed. On the brow of the hill was our van under Norfolk consisting of pikemen, archers and one hundred and forty light serpentines and a number of bombards served by their sooty-faced gunners. Behind Norfolk was Richard with a small hand-picked force of household knights and men-at-arms. In the rear Northumberland, moving sluggishly, ignoring Richard’s scurriers who rode up and down insisting the northern earl move quicker. For a brief, quiet moment as our army turned to face down the hill, Richard rode along the ranks shouting encouragement.

‘This battle,’ he proclaimed, ‘will change England for ever! If the Tudor wins there will be destruction and, if I am victorious, I will face no further opposition!’ A desultory cheer greeted his words. Richard galloped back to us, the visor of his helmet open, revealing a flushed, excited face, his eyes gleaming at the prospect of battle. He touched me lightly on the cheek and I felt the cold finger of his steel glove before he turned to John Kendall, his secretary.