To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (25 page)

In the torchlight Nell could see Nan’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. “Have you come about the boys, then?” she said with no hesitation.

“I have. Oh, Nan, you must tell me what you know about what happened.”

The girl bit her lip and looked away.

“Are you afraid that if you speak—?”

“You would be too, Nell. I mean, if they can make off with a little boy who was once the King of England, what’ll happen to a bigmouthed laundry girl? But I’ll tell ye what I know, though

’tis not much.”

“Anything is better than nothing.”

“Well, you saw the state they were in a few weeks ago when you came with the princess.” Nell nodded. “It didn’t get no better. In fact, it got worse. Poor Edward’s pain was excruciatin’.

He cried and he moaned and prayed all the day and night. Little Dickon was beside himself, so lonesome and scared. All of us from the kitchen and laundry would do what we could to help when we went to their rooms—a sweetmeat, a warm compress for Edward’s ear. Then four days ago word came down that all the boys’ servants and guards were to be replaced.”

“Yes, Matthew told me.”

“Me, the bigmouth, asked why on earth did we need replacin’, and who would be replacin’ us? ‘None of yer business,’

they said.”

“Who is ‘they,’ Nan? Who sent word? Was it King Richard?”

“He’d gone north, to Yorkshire, by then, though it could’ve come down from him, I suppose. But the one who so rudely said ’twas none of my business was the Tower’s own delight.”

“Harry Buckingham?”

“In the flesh.”

Nell’s mind raced. “He came here himself to give the order?”

“That he did. With terrible threats to anyone who disobeyed . . . or spoke of it. Our beloved constable stayed only long enough to see the first of us booted out. He’d brought his own maids and laundresses and stewards, and placed those boys in their care. Then he left and we haven’t seen the smallest part of him since.”

“That was four days ago,” said Nell.

“For two days the new crowd was acomin’ and goin’ from the Garden Tower. Then last night the sentries were given their marchin’ papers. There were plenty of Harry Buckingham’s soldiers about, but none at the boys’ door. All day it was unguarded, but we worried at disobeyin’ the little ratbag. Finally I got up the nerve and climbed the stairs. There were no guards at the apartment door. I knocked, very careful like, but there was silence. Like a tomb of the dead.” Nan’s eyes welled with tears. “I went and they were just gone altogether. The room was . . . disarranged. A chair knocked over. The feather beds—”

“I know, Nan, I saw them.”

“Someone took them, Nell. Took them. Dead or alive, I don’t know. And we let it happen. We took the orders of that God-cursed man.”

“So you believe ’twas Harry Buckingham?”

“Sure, ’twas his orders, but who ordered
him
?”

“ ’Tis all over the London pubs,” Nell said, “that a rebellion’s been raised in the south of England to place Edward back on the throne.”

Nan’s eyes brightened. “Might it have been the rebels who took him?”

“Perhaps.” Nell grasped the laundress’s rough red hands. “Let us pray that it was.” She stood. “You’ve no idea how helpful you’ve been. Thank you, Nan. And God bless.”

“God bless you too, Nell Caxton, and speed your way.” uring Sunday’s church sermon Nell’s mind wandered.

DThe heat, even in the morning hours, had grown oppressive and the air felt stagnant—too heavy to breathe easily.

Everyone was fidgeting around her. Babies cried. The smell of all those bodies pressed close together made Nell feel faint.

The priest, stationed so close to Westminster, had chosen to avoid all mention of that which was running riot in every Londoner’s brain, for by now news of the rebellion and the missing princes was known to all. In this very church, Harry Buckingham had first announced Edward’s bastardy to the public, paving the way for Richard’s accession. With the new king four days’ ride away, there’d been no time for the priest to hear his views on the matter, and so it was prudent for the man of God to say nothing.

Services finished, the churchgoers fairly exploded from the doors, gathering into groups on the stairs and in the street to hear news of the recent events refreshed. As though to mimic events, great roiling storm clouds had gathered in the western and southern skies.
A rain is what we need to relieve the heat,
Nell thought. It was much worse than when they’d entered the church.

William Caxton, Nell, and Jan de Worde separated and moved from group to group listening for a voice that had, perhaps, come from Kent or Devon, where the rebellion had reportedly broken out.

“Nell! Jan!” It was Caxton. He had clearly discovered a pro-lific fountain of information. They joined him in a group surrounding a thin, wild-eyed man named Jenkins who smelt of perspiration and whose clothing was hardly church-fresh. He had ridden all night from Guildford, he said, where armed townsmen and farmers were gathering by the thousands.

“Thousands?” Caxton repeated. “How many thousands?”

“Two, p’raps,” Jenkins said. “But that was just Guildford. As I rode from town to town, men were mustering everywhere in great numbers.”

The crowd was growing round the self-sent messenger.

“Are they all for Edward?” Nell demanded.

“ ’Tis hard to say, miss. For some say Edward is dead, murdered by King Richard. Others say he and his brother were snatched from the Tower by rebels and will be restored by this revolt. But one thing’s for sure. Now our rebellion has a leader.”

“Who is he?” Caxton demanded.

Jenkins looked around him. “Lord Buckingham.” The listeners were momentarily stunned into silence.
The
kingmaker had turned against the king he had made!
Then the crowd hooted with excitement and pressed in round Jenkins, shouting questions.

“You’re saying the king’s best friend betrayed him?”

“Is Harry Buckingham for the boy?!”

Nell strove to keep the shock of the news from blunting her senses.

“I wish I could say,” Jenkins replied. “First reports were, he would return Edward to the throne. By the time I left to come north, ’twas said that Buckingham wished the crown for himself.”

There were derisive shouts and hisses. Buckingham was less popular in London even than King Richard.

“People don’t know what to think,” Jenkins continued. “But they’re arming themselves, and they’re ready to fight!” ater, at the Kings Head, the tables were filled but the talk Lwas subdued. Such widely diverse news was disquieting, confusing. Clearly a revolt was under way, but that was all that was sure. The fate of the “little princes”—that was what they were now called—was uncertain. Were they dead or alive?

Most believed they had somehow perished at King Richard’s hands, though some held out hope that they lived, and that Edward would take back the throne from his usurper. As the day passed, more messengers from the south arrived in London and word spread fast, making its way into every pub, where nearly the entire population of the city had gathered for hearing the latest news.

Harry Buckingham was heading a rebellion against Richard.
But who was willing to fight behind Harry Buckingham?

“Anyone’s better than Richard,” one man said.

“Anyone other than Buckingham,” said another.

“The poor infants,” Nell heard a teary-eyed woman say.

“ ’Tis pure evil to murder children.”

“Richard done it for sure!”

“I hear he’s grown horns and a tail!”

“Why would he kill them? The boys were bastards under law. What threat did they pose him?”

“Satan needs no threat for his actions.” Nell looked up to see her father, head down, scribbling notes, recording all he heard. Later that evening, he and Jan would return to the printshop to set type for a broadsheet, recording all the news they’d heard that day. They would work the night through, and tomorrow these would be distributed and posted at every tavern and church and market in London.

Someone who could read would stand on a box and shout the news at the top of his lungs.

Nell marveled at the thought.
The printed word in England, still
damp from her father’s press, would inform the populace of unfolding
events!

But now Nell found herself eager to return to Woking. She was sure Margaret Beaufort would know something of her nephew’s revolt.

She stood and kissed the top of her father’s head. Caxton did not look up from his writing, but spoke to her nevertheless. “Be mindful of yourself, Nell. Anything can happen when rebellion is afoot.”

“I will pray for your safety,” Jan added, suddenly appearing at her side. “I wish most heartily that I could accompany you to Woking myself.” His eyes were downcast. Shy.

“You’re better served working with my father tonight,” she said. “But I do thank you, Jan, for your care.” Nell picked her way through the still-crowded tavern and made for the rendezvous with the driver from Woking.

A light drizzle had begun.

n the road west out of London the drizzle gave way to Oa cloudburst. The driver, named John—the same sturdy young man who had driven her into the city—carried on a steady stream of conversation with his passenger through the window between his seat and the coach’s interior. Rain splashed off his hooded oilcloth cape and dripped onto Nell, yet she engaged him, for he spoke not just about the weather, which was worsening with every moment, the rebellions, and the missing boys, but about his position with Margaret Beaufort, gossip from the Woking household, and the reason for his mission to London.

“Dr. Argentine is Lady Margaret’s physician,” he informed her. “The old man’s made up some concoctions for her, and I picked them up. Female troubles, or so says Lydia, her lady’s maid. Lydia and me are sweethearts.” John was silent momentarily. “I hope to ask Lady Margaret’s permission for her and me—I mean Lydia, not Lady Margaret—to be married next year. Do you know Lydia, Nell?”

“I’ve met her, but we’ve not had much time to talk.”

“That’s Lady Margaret for you. She’s a fair employer, as employers go—not that I’ve had many employers before. Lady Margaret’s my first. But you must work yourself silly and make no mistakes.”

“She’s hard on servants who make mistakes?”

“Ach! Thomas Cockburn, my friend, was her footman. He fell asleep on a job, and that was the end of him. Well, it
was
an important job. Transporting gold from the manor. You don’t fall asleep when gold is involved.”

“Where was the gold going?” Nell asked, careful to sound nonchalant.

“To the coast. Dover, I think. ’Tis a regular thing. She has a son, Henry, on the continent. But
you
know that, her secretary and all. I think the gold is for him.”

Nell was thinking hard.
What information might she extract from
talkative John or his beloved Lydia about Lady Margaret?

“Do you drive many noblemen to Woking for their audiences with Lady Margaret?”

“Oh, dozens,” said John. “I most enjoy the foreigners, for the English are so closemouthed. They reckon their driver will be listening, so they sit in silence the whole way. But the French and the Dutch and the Spaniards, they gibber away merrily.

’Course, I haven’t a clue to what they’re saying, but I like the way it sounds.”

“Who comes most . . . of the foreigners, I mean?”

“Oh, the Spaniards, for sure. Why, the ambassador of the King and Queen of Spain came just last month.”

“From the court of Ferdinand and Isabella?”

“Aye. And he was very generous too. Gave me a gold coin, he did, and taught me a Spanish word.
Grass-yes
. That means thank you.”

Finally the rain became too heavy for even John to ignore, and on the last leg of the journey south, Nell sat in silence, contemplating her ever more complicated life. There were times the sound of rain on the roof was so heavy it was as if a wave had crashed down on it. The coach lurched as it sank into frequent potholes, and wove crazily along the rutted road to avoid others. Occasionally John would call back that the stream they had just crossed was far over its bank, or the bridge they had just crossed was about to give way.

“ ’Tis a mighty storm, this!” he said to her after the first brilliant bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, and just before its deep, roaring thunder rattled the carriage.

“Should we stop, John!” she called out to him.

“No, miss, we’re almost there!”

Indeed, it was not twenty minutes later that the soggy vehicle clattered over the two Woking moats and into the manor yard.

When the heavy door was opened for her, Nell was surprised to see Lady Margaret standing just inside with an anticipatory expression. It appeared as if her employer had been
waiting
for her.

“Good evening, Lady Margaret.”

“Good evening, Nell. I trust your journey was uneventful.” Nell was perplexed.
Was the woman joking with her? No,
she answered herself,
this was not a jesting woman.

“The storm has gotten very bad,” she said.

“The storm?” Margaret peered out a window. “I see. How long has it been coming down?”

“Half the day,” said Nell. “Were you altogether unaware of it?”

“I was in my office.” Lady Margaret moved to the window and stared silently out for a great long time, contemplating the tempest.

Nell was unsure what to do or say, so she stood in her place and said nothing. Finally Margaret turned. “Come with me,” she said, motioning for a servant to take Nell’s bag to her room.

Nell followed her employer through a portrait-lined corridor and the carven door to the warren of rooms where Margaret’s offices were. It was a Sunday night—no one worked on Sundays, even Margaret Beaufort—and it was therefore surprising to see someone in the office. Indeed, he was sitting behind Margaret’s desk, in her chair, with his back to them. As they entered he turned.

It was Harry Buckingham.

“My lord!” Nell greeted him, altogether flummoxed.

“Good evening, Mistress Caxton.”

Nell marveled that the man could imbue the words of her name with such arrogance and disdain.