To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (24 page)

R O B I N M AX W E ll ll

carefully achieved, they will never realize that you are in control.”

Nell nodded to indicate she had heard the advice, then quietly shut the door behind her.

t supper that night Nell found she was able to adhere Aonly to one half of Lady Margaret’s suggestion.

The trestle table where the Woking office staff were eating Nell found almost altogether full. One empty place remained, and that was next to Reginald Bray. All had seen her enter and there was no choice, unless she wished to publicly offend the house steward, but to sit beside him.

She took her place and greeted the scribe to her left, then turned to her right. Reggie Bray was staring straight ahead, pretending Nell was invisible, voraciously gnawing on a beef bone and washing it down with long drafts of wine. She was rather pleased that he’d chosen not to acknowledge her and, when her meal was set before her, began to eat whilst engaging in pleasant conversation with the scribe.

She was quite unprepared for the feel of Reggie Bray’s hand on her right thigh. Her mind raced.
What to do?
The scribe was bemoaning the scarcity of high-quality quills, and Nell forced herself to continue nodding in commiseration. As the hand moved up her leg, kneading and caressing it, she picked up her cup of wine and with the greatest control, took a dainty sip.

All of a sudden she shrieked loudly, and with a great lurch flung the wine cup to the right, tipping it so that its contents flew in a graceful arc, soaking Reggie Bray’s face and doublet with the claret liquid.

Quickly she gave her molester a sharp kick under the table, then cried in the most apologetic voice, “Oh, Master Bray, forgive me!” She began dabbing his dripping face with her napkin, but furious, he pushed her away.

“You
must
forgive me,” she begged. “ ’Twas a mouse ran over my foot and gave me a fright!”

Bray stood and pushed back his bench with such force that it fell with a great crash. Everyone in the dining hall was either tittering or trying not to titter, for they all loathed the man as much as Nell did.

“Vile rodent!” she cried, just before he stormed out.

When he was well gone, everyone fell about in great gales of laughter.

knew she was an unusual woman, but I did not realize that Ishe was extraordinary.” Nell was on her father’s arm as they strolled down Totehill Street on her Saturday evening off. Jan de Worde walked on her other side. They had dined shortly after the Woking driver had left her off under the sign of the Red Pale.

Now she, her father, and his apprentice were heading for the Kings Head Tavern to finish the night. Nell had hoped that Bessie would be joining them, but there had been an unusually large presence of troops surrounding Westminster when Nell had arrived home, and she suspected this was the reason her friend was not at liberty to come out.

Indeed, another company of soldiers in the royal livery were trotting toward the trio just now.

“What is all this about, Father?” Nell asked, indicating the guard as they passed. “Why so many soldiers when the king and queen are in Yorkshire?”

“I’m afraid my head was stuck in a translation all day. I cannot say.”

“The soldiers guard mainly Westminster Sanctuary,” Jan offered.

This alarmed Nell. “The Sanctuary?” she said. “What possible reason could Richard have for securing Elizabeth Woodville and her five daughters? They pose no threat to him.” William Caxton pulled open the door of the pub for Nell. “I think we shall know soon enough.”

The Kings Head, normally abuzz with gossip on a Saturday night, was in a right uproar. There was not a table to be had, and men stood three deep at the bar. Everyone was talking—rather, shouting—at once. It took Nell but a moment to determine the jist of the excitement.

Rebellion was afoot!

A revolt against King Richard was brewing in the south of England, its purpose to restore the crown to King Edward. Nell felt the blood rushing through her veins to hear such a thing.

Sweet Edward released from horrid captivity and sitting on his rightful
throne.

But her elation was short-lived. The instigators of this rebellion, she learned, were none other than Elizabeth Woodville and her despised relations. That was the reason for the increased guard round Westminster Sanctuary. Poor Bessie must be wild with fury at her scheming mother.

Much was argued about the chances of such a revolt succeeding. It was not a
London
rebellion, after all. ’Twas only the country bumpkins of the south. And who, after all, would follow the lead of a woman? This was not France, where whole armies would rise up behind a fourteen-year-old female prophet named Joan.

“I won’t be rising up for Elizabeth Woodville, but for the firstborn son of a true and beloved king!” a patron shouted out in drunken splendor.

“A
lusty
king,” his friend added, “who had
two
wives. A man after my own heart!”

There was much laughter at that, and the arguing went on whilst Nell and her father queried the most knowledgeable men in the crowd for details. Which Woodville relatives were involved? Which southern parishes? How many had already risen up, and how many more were promised?

From the corner of her eye Nell saw the door open and Matthew Kingston enter. He was alone, and there was such blackness hanging about the normally jolly Tower guard that she quickly disentangled herself from the crush and went to him.

He seemed rooted to the spot, his eyes glazed, and he appeared confused, as though he’d forgotten how to push his way through the throng, step up to the bar, and demand his grog.

“Matthew, what is it?” Nell said to him. He did not immediately answer. “Surely you’ve heard news of the rebellion in Kent?”

“I’ve heard,” Matthew replied, but said no more.

Nell was suddenly alarmed. If such a revolt was under way, surely every last Tower guard would be on duty to prevent Edward’s and Dickon’s freeing by the rebels. Why was Matthew Kingston standing here at the Kings Head Tavern?

“Father! Jan!” Nell shouted in a voice loud and sharp enough to be heard over the hubbub. They were at her side within moments. Others, seeing Nell with the Tower guard, followed to surround them.

“Matthew,” said Nell, “tell us what you know.” She clutched her father’s hand, for she felt in her bones that she would soon hear something terrible. She had no idea how terrible it would be.

The man was struggling to compose his trembling mouth, and tears had begun to form in his eyes.

“The boys are gone from the Tower!” he finally blurted out.

“Their rooms are empty.”

If the commotion had been frantic when Nell entered the Tavern, now it was violent. Men pushed and shoved to get closer for hearing.

“Who took them?” someone cried.

“Who else but King Richard!” someone shouted in reply.

“Are they dead or alive?”

“They must be dead!”

“No, no! They were just children!”

Nell, trying hard to keep panic from her voice, said to Matthew, “You must tell us all you know.”

“ ’Tis not much,” he answered. “The princes—” He stopped, then assumed a defiant tone. “They were still royal to me.

Prince Edward was ill, and young Dickon had ceased his daily visits to the menagerie.”

“Aye,” a woman said. “Of late, they’d been seen less and less playing ball on Tower Green.”

“First the cooks and maids and grooms who had served them since their arrival were let go,” Matthew continued.

“Reassigned?” Nell asked.

“Most were told to go home. Their services were no longer needed. The guards they let stay, and so we felt ourselves lucky and kept our mouths shut, believing it just the whim of some noble prick. Then yesterday, at the start of my shift, they told me ’twould be my last.” The guard wore an agonized look on his face. Matthew had proudly held his post at the Tower for seventeen years. “There may be a few kept on, but most of us were sent packing. All I know is that the boys are gone.”

“Murder!” someone cried.

“Poor infants!”

“Edward was dead the day Richard stole his crown!” an old man muttered.

Nell understood the sentiment. In the past, when English kings lost their thrones, they soon after lost their lives—some violently. Young Edward the Second had been reamed with a red-hot poker, and poor, simple Henry the Sixth was murdered by the York brothers, some believed by Richard of Gloucester.

The shouts and cries grew to such a roar that Nell fled to the street, her head throbbing. The cool evening air stung her red, perspiring face. A few moments later William Caxton joined her. He took Nell’s arm and they began a brisk walk back to the shop.

“Bessie and her mother must be told,” said Nell.

“Perhaps they already know,” said Caxton. “Perhaps if Elizabeth Woodville is the organizer of the rebellion, she had them rescued.”

“Not likely,” Nell countered.

“Not likely,” her father agreed.

“But why would Richard want them disappeared?” Nell asked. “He proved them illegitimate. What harm are they to him now?”

“The proof is in the pudding, Nell,” her father said. “A rebellion has just been launched in Edward’s name. As long as the boys live, they threaten the king’s sovereignty.” Nell was racking her brain. “How can I get through to Bessie?

All those soldiers—”

“You’re not to risk tangling with them,” Caxton said. “Your friend is safe in sanctuary now. Messages being sent in or coming out are precisely what Richard’s soldiers will be looking to prevent. I don’t have to tell you this is serious business, Nell.”

“I promise to stay clear of Westminster Sanctuary,” she answered.

But William Caxton had said nothing about the Tower of London.

t had been terrifyingly easy to gain entrance to the ITower, now that there was no one of consequence to protect inside. Just before midnight, at the West Gate, Nell had found Gerald Spencer, a man she knew, standing guard with someone she’d never seen before. Gerald looked decidedly down at the mouth. Nell approached him with a sad, knowing look.

“Bastards!” he muttered. “If I find who took those poor little boys, I’ll rip their throats out.”

“Do you think they’re alive . . . or dead?” Nell had whispered.

“Who’s to say? But they was sneaked out of their rooms in secret, no rebels storming the Tower to break them out into freedom. I fear the worst.”

“Listen, Gerald,” she’d whispered. “Let me in. I want to see if anyone inside knows anything at all.”

“Go on, then,” he said, pulling open the heavy gate. To the new guard who began to object, Gerald said, “Mind yer business and keep yer trap shut.”

If the Tower of London had been a sad place on her last visit with Bessie, now it felt a proper graveyard. Hardly a light shined in any window. The Green was entirely deserted. It was eerie walking alone across the grassy yard where not three months before, when Edward Quintus reigned over his court, Nell would have had to weave her way through hundreds of noblemen and merchants, jugglers, musicians, and jovial servants finished with their shifts, ready for their first cup of ale.

Now she was alone, the yard dark and dead. She was at Garden Tower before she knew it. No one guarded the outer door.

She inhaled deeply, smelling the fragrance of grass and river fog, preparing herself for the inevitable mildew of the stairwell and whatever horror lay ahead. Once she was inside, none of the torches was lit, and she groped about in the pitch blackness, clinging to the damp stone walls to guide her way.

The second floor was similarly deserted, and only a few slitted windows admitted dim moonlight for her passage toward the boys’ last residence.

“Aaigh!”

Nell fell backward when a scuffling rat brushed her foot. She recoiled, realizing that several more of the repulsive, shadowy creatures were moving in and out the open door of the apartment she was now approaching.

That open door felt sinister to Nell, a symbol of all that was wrong with the scene.
Oh, how has it come to this?
she cried silently.
Where are the sentries, cheerfully guarding their beloved king?

Where is the fragrant stairwell hung with tapestries and coats of arms?

Where is the doorman to see me into royal suite, the shining faces of two
young brothers, their glorious futures spread out before them?

Nell steadied herself before entering the outer room, where she had last come upon Dickon poring over
Jason and the Argonauts
. She saw immediately that it was empty and that the door to the bedchamber too was flung wide open. Inside, the moonlight shone on a tray from the kitchen, one that had no doubt held the boys’ last meal here. It sat on the floor, picked clean of all scraps, but the rats were busy elsewhere. Nell’s hands tight-ened into fists to see them crawling busily in and out of the open box near the bed, dragging the last bits of Edward’s bloody ear bandages away to their foul nests.

Disheartened as she was, she searched the room for clues to Edward and Dickon’s disappearance or, God forbid, murder.

The place was in a shambles, blankets tossed about, the feather beds that the boys slept upon pulled out from the bed frames.

Nell’s heart sank when she admitted to herself that a struggle had occurred here.
A struggle, dear God!
In the wardrobe hung far too many clothes for it to seem that the boys had simply been transported with their things to another location.

Fighting tears, Nell retraced her steps. On the Green she strove to compose herself.
Someone . . . there must be someone here
who knows more.

Many of Edward’s servants had been let go in the past days, so Matthew said. Surely someone must remain. Nell gathered her wits and stiffened her jellied legs. She took off across the yard and, reaching the servants’ quarters, entered with no diffi-culty. It was dark inside, but Nell searched among the sleeping figures and found, to her great relief, the one she had come to see.

She leaned over and whispered, “Nan, rouse yourself! I must talk to you.”

“Nell Caxton?” Nan rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She struggled to sit up, and when she lit the wall torch, the three other laundresses on their pallets were awakened, and grumbled with annoyance.