The Fate of Princes (3 page)

‘Lord Lovell,’ he murmured, not even bothering to stir himself. ‘You are most welcome. I did not know you were coming.’

‘In haste,’ I replied. ‘His Grace is still in Oxfordshire and despatched me immediately.’

‘His Grace is well?’ The small, pebble-black eyes scrutinised me.

‘His Grace is well,’ I answered, noticing the slight flicker of Russell’s small, pursed lips. I did not like the Bishop, nor he me. He did not serve Richard well, but what does that matter now? We were not served well
and we paid for our stupidity. Nevertheless, I respected Russell and observed the civilities. After all, on that hot summer afternoon we both knew why I was in London. I leaned across the table and handed him a small scroll.

‘His Grace has sent you this,’ I said. Russell looked at it before placing it unopened to one side.

‘I know what it says,’ he smiled. ‘And so do you!’

‘The Princes?’

Russell coughed, dry, like the lawyer he was, preparing to make a speech.

‘You mean the illegitimate issue of King Edward IV?’

‘I mean the Princes,’ I said. ‘Where are they?’

The Bishop spread thin, skeletal, vein-rimmed hands.

‘How do I know? They were in the royal apartments in the Tower and were then moved.’ He looked up at the wooden carved ceiling. ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘A few weeks after the King’s coronation, first to the Garden Tower and then to the upper storey of the White Tower. After that . . .’ His dry voice trailed off. He looked away as if studying the colour-glazed windows of the room.

‘You have been to the Tower?’ I asked accusingly.

‘No.’

‘So, how do you know?’

‘Sir Robert Brackenbury came to see me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Very little. The fellow was agitated. He said the Princes were gone,’ Russell replied.

‘When was this?’

Russell bit his lower lip.

‘Brackenbury came about five days ago. The morning of August 2nd.’

‘Did you question him about the details?’

‘A little. I asked him when he had last checked on his prisoners. He replied the week previously.’

‘A week previously?’ I shouted.

Russell grinned mirthlessly.

‘I said the same.’

‘Did you immediately order a search?’

Russell glared at me.

‘That is not my responsibility, Lord Lovell. I cannot act on this matter without His Grace’s express command.’ He leaned across the table, steepling his fingers. ‘The Princes are gone,’ he explained patiently. ‘The King is only a few weeks crowned. Around us men plot in covens, conspiracies and confederations, secret meetings at the dead of night. For God’s sake, Lovell, what am I to do? Say the Princes are gone and so fan the hopes of these malignants? Or worse, if people think they are dead.’ Russell let his hands drop. ‘Their father, King Edward IV, was much loved and so were the young princes. Many thought they were sweet and beautiful children.’ Russell stopped speaking and looked away. ‘The younger one,’ he continued softly, ‘the Duke of York, was joyous and witty, nimble and ever ready for dances and games.’

My heart went cold. Here was Richard’s own Chancellor, a leading bishop of the realm, and I could read his mind. He thought the Princes were dead, perhaps murdered on Richard’s orders, and that I was part of this horrible travesty.

‘My Lord Bishop!’

Russell stared at me under his eyebrows.

‘My Lord Bishop, I swear on the gospels, on my soul, I know nothing of this and neither does the King!’

‘But what about those around him?’ he asked. ‘The henchmen, Sir James Tyrrell, William Catesby, Richard Ratcliffe? It would not be the first time that the servants of a Prince have tried to anticipate his every wish!’

I glared back. What was Russell referring to? Thomas a Beckett? Or events nearer home? Men did claim Richard had a hand in the murder of Henry of Lancaster, even in the death of his brother, George of Clarence. Once again the suspicion flitted across my
mind like a bat through the darkness. Was this all a sham? Did Richard know the truth? Were Russell’s suspicions the real truth? Just because we serve princes it does not mean we know their minds.

‘Is that all you know, my Lord?’

Russell toyed with the gold-fringed tassel of his robe.

‘Yes, Lovell, that is all I know,’ he replied.

‘And those plots, conspiracies?’ I asked, reasserting myself.

‘The King knows. I have sent letters north.’ Russell fished amongst the leaves of parchment strewn across his desk and pulled out a small ivory-white roll bound by a scarlet cord.

‘A copy of a letter,’ he muttered. ‘From one of our spies. You may read it. Take it with you.’

Tired of Russell’s guarded looks and secretive talk, I snatched the parchment, rose and walked back towards the door.

‘Lovell!’ the Bishop called out. I ignored him but he called again. ‘If the Princes are dead,’ the Bishop said, ‘then so are we. The King should watch himself. Be on guard, for the deaths or disappearance of those two boys could bring him and all about him crashing down.’ I stared coolly back but the Bishop was unflinching. ‘I mean all of us, Lovell. It is a wise man who looks to the future.’ The Bishop smiled. ‘Of course, my Lord, if you repeat what I have just said, I will stoutly deny it. I am a loyal servant of King Richard.’ I nodded and left, Russell’s dire warning and his guarded comments ringing in my ears.

I went back to the main hall and collected a still gawking Belknap before returning to Crosby Place. The workmen had all gone, there was no sign of Howard, and my retainers had ensconced themselves in comfortable quarters. I interrupted their evening drinking and dicing to send a message to Sir Robert Brackenbury at the Tower commanding him to wait for me on the morrow. I roused the steward of the kitchen to prepare cold meats, wine and a dish of fruit and a disgruntled servant laid the meal out in the hall. Belknap sat opposite me, silent, absorbed, so I thought, in his own private world of bitter vengeance. I unrolled the report Russell had given me. I have it now, along with all my papers. They left those for me. Strange, I never thought I would re-read it in such circumstances.

‘Know you’ (it began, leaving out the usual courtesies) ‘that I have travelled from the eastern shires as far west as the Severn and have met many men who now conspire against His Grace. They call him a wretched, bloody and usurping boar. They gather in secret covens and sworn confederacies to plot the King’s downfall. They accuse him of usurping the throne and ill-using his nephews. Men say, know you, how the aforesaid Princes are dead, killed secretly by their usurper, their bodies flung into the Thames. Others say the boys are beyond the seas but if they are not, and have met a grievous death, these men say they will change their
coats and accept Henry Tudor from Brittany. Know you, how men say that the Queen Elizabeth Woodville has sent many secret messages, pledges, and even plenteous gold to the Tudor. Worst still, she has pledged her own daughter in marriage to the Welshman to effect a union between the houses of York and Lancaster. They also say my Lord of Buckingham’s heart has turned against the King; indeed, he is sending secret messages to his tenants, retainers and servants in Kent. Cursors are constantly despatched between him and Lord Stanley’s wife, the Lady Margaret Beaufort. Men say the Tudor will come in late autumn and our Lord the King would best be prepared for his landing.

‘Know you that the King’s spies and agents in these shires, towns and villages are daily threatened if their allegiance to His Grace is discovered. My Lord of Buckingham has one agent, a person named Percivalle, who has greatly vexed them. A body squire of the royal household, Edmund Waters, whom I was supposed to meet in Colchester, has been found dead. The coroner ruled his death was murder by person or persons unknown. Men say he was attacked by outlaws but I believe he was executed by either Percivalle or others from my Lord Buckingham’s retinue.

‘The men in this conspiracy are . . .’

The spy listed, amongst others, Sir Thomas Browne of Surrey, Sir John Fogge of Kent (he whom Richard had taken personally by the hand to pledge his loyalty), the Courtneys from Devon, the Woodvilles and Sir William Haute of Kent. The list was lengthy and, despite the warmth, I shivered as I read it. These conspirators were not hotheads, men who had nothing to lose. Many I knew personally and respected; they had been friends and confidants of King Edward IV. Middle-aged, wealthy men, able to command the allegiance of their servants and the respect of others, serving in both Parliament and the royal household.
Their allegiance to the House of York had been unswerving and unquestioning. So why this conspiracy? Who or what had changed their hearts, as well as that of my Lord of Buckingham? Richard’s seizure of the throne? True, even I had wavered when I had heard about it, but better Richard any day than the Woodville pack or the kingdom ruled by some pretty boy who would not hold his own. After all, Edward IV had done no worse; he had displaced Henry VI of Lancaster and killed Henry’s young son in that bloody fight around Tewkesbury Abbey.

I thought of Russell, a man skilled in church and state yet his allegiance was now wavering. Above all, Buckingham. He who had supported Richard throughout. He was party to the seizure of the Princes; now he had changed, while his sinister agent, Percivalle, was busy as any farmer sowing seeds of discontent. The Princes must be dead; their murder had changed mens’ hearts and the King was tricking me. No, I lie. At that time, sitting in the shadows of the wood-panelled hall of Crosby Place, I believed the Princes were gone and half suspected Richard was their bloody abductor.

I dismissed Belknap, sitting opposite me, his goblet half raised to his lips, watching me strangely. After a while I adjourned to my own chamber. I had bloody dreams that night, dreadful phantasms, horrid nightmares of being in an upper chamber in the Tower. I knew it was there, for through an open casement window I could hear the caw of the ravens and sounds from the river. Two young boys asleep on pallet beds. Above them, a shadowy figure, dagger in hand; in the other hand a soft, thick, velvet cushion which would block your mouth, cutting the breath off for ever. Time and again I called out for him to stop. Each time he turned I saw Richard’s face, pale, white, pinched, the green eyes staring malevolently at me, his red hair flaring out like the wings of a hawk as it closes in for the
kill. God knows, I tossed and turned, wrestling with my fears. I was finally roused just after dawn by a servant, my eyes still heavy with sleep, my throat dry, my body covered in a sheen of sweat.

The fellow declared that His Grace the Duke of Norfolk had arrived and was waiting for me below stairs in the buttery. I wrapped a cloak about me and, bellowing for Belknap, hurried down. I knew Norfolk well and liked him; God rest his soul and forgive the evil he did but, after such a night, I welcomed his arrival fondly, remembering this bustling, self-important man who enjoyed playing cards and chess and delighted in nothing better than a mummer’s play, or listening to skilled musicians. He was nonetheless a brave soldier, a shrewd general and one of the best sea captains England ever had. God bless the Jockey of Norfolk!

The Duke was waiting for me in the buttery. He was dressed in a long gown of black satin lined with purple velvet over a satin doublet of a popinjay colour with hose to match, feet thrust into stout leather riding-boots. His thick, fat fingers were covered with rings, a collar of gold with roses and suns on a chain of black silk with a hanger of gold around his neck. He looked an incongruous sight. A mixture of yeoman and courtier, soldier and scholar, his huge frame seemed to fill the small room. In one hand he held a deep-bowled goblet of wine, in the other, some food snatched from the kitchen. He stood, like the sailor he was, legs apart as if commanding a cog against French or Scottish corsairs. His white leonine head was thrown back, his fleshy face wreathed in smiles, though his eyes were hard and watchful.

‘Lovell!’ he roared, putting the goblet on the table and tossing the food into a corner. Wiping his hands and mouth on his robe, he swept me up in one great bear hug so I could smell his sweat and perfume, as well as the gusts of wine-soaked breath as he kissed me hard on each cheek.

‘Be careful!’ he whispered. ‘Be very careful what you say! Belknap is behind you. Get rid of him!’ I smiled, stepped away and turned round. The Duke was right, Belknap lounged against the door; dressed completely in dark velvet, he looked like some bird of prey.

‘Thomas,’ I said softly. ‘Leave us for the moment.’ The man nodded and walked away. Norfolk, going after him, closed the door and this small gesture stirred my fears. When the Duke turned, his face was grim. We sat like two servant boys on stools facing each other.

‘His Grace has sent you,’ Norfolk began. I was about to stammer some polite reply but Norfolk clutched me tightly by the knee.

‘Francis, no lies! I have heard the rumours: in Cheapside, near the Standard, around St. Paul’s, in the villages and towns of Kent, men say the Princes have gone, been killed. They talk of conspiracy and rebellion.’

‘What if such rumours are true?’

Norfolk turned and spat in the corner.

‘God’s teeth, man. What do I care about two puking bastards? Are we to sit on the ground and mourn for them? You have been in battle, Lovell. You were in Scotland with me when we were chasing King James’s bare-arsed soldiers across the heather. We took towns and sacked them. Young boys died then. Who weeps for them? Or the young Desmond boys?’ The Duke looked at me. ‘You remember the Irish earl. He told King Edward that he could have married better and the Woodville bitch never forgave him. She later had him killed and his young bairns with him.’ The Duke tossed his head. ‘I do not care for the Princes. I care for myself, Lovell. I am almost sixty years of age. I have been fighting for the House of York for almost a quarter of a century. I joined young Edward at the battle of Towton with a sword in one hand and a bag of gold in the other. Since then I have not looked back. I owe all to the
House of York.’ He stopped and stared at the ground. ‘The fate of the Princes,’ he continued quietly, ‘wherever they may be, heaven or hell, Ireland or France, is only important if men can prove that they were killed by their uncle. That is what bothers me. The growing whispering campaign against our King. Everywhere I go I hear the same stories. How the King is a monster, born with hair and teeth, a crouchback. A hog. The despoiler of children. These rumours have been carefully sown and this business of the Princes might well be the fiery torch to the dry stubble.’