To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (27 page)

Though it was unspoken, Nell realized, and was humbled by the thought, some part of the fate of England relied on this mission.

But the jolting coach had made her plan-making difficult.

Her relief on seeing the tall spire of St. Paul’s was short-lived, for once they were in Southwark, it remained for them to cross the Thames, and whilst London Bridge still towered high over the raging waters, the river had overflowed its southern banks and the streets leading to the bridge were beginning to flood.

“We’ll make it. Just!” John called back to Nell. “Though I cannot promise your feet will not get wet!” Indeed, as they approached the bridge, water began seeping into the coach bottom, and Nell could feel the whole vehicle swaying, as if being rocked by a strong current.

“Hold tight, Nell!” John called. “We’ll be soon be on dry ground!”

Nell poked her head out the window just as the carriage passed the broad stone gate at London Bridge’s south entrance.

The tall buildings towering on either side momentarily lessened the force of the storm, but Nell could feel and hear a great rumbling beneath her, the rush of the river sluicing through the bridge’s twenty massive pillars of stone. Even in fair weather, Nell knew, this was a wild and dangerous current.

From the towered gate at the middle, Nell could see the River Thames. It was odd to see the great waterway clear of all vessels, for not even the brashest of boatmen were foolish enough to brave this violent storm tide.

Once they’d passed out the bridge’s north gate into London City, Nell directed John west toward Westminster precinct.

This part of town, whilst puddled and muddy, had been spared from serious flooding. Totehill Street, not entirely deserted, was shorn of its teeming crowds of merchants, shoppers, and roustabouts.

“Slow down, John,” she called to the driver, and, holding her hood over her eyes, leaned out the window. Huddled in doorways and under the arch of the church doorway were several faces she recognized.

“John, stop!” She pushed open the coach door and, heedless of the ankle-deep mud, hurried toward two women leaning inside the apothecary’s archway.

Nell had found the first of the people she was seeking to help her. God willing, she would find the others.

Once the bedraggled women were safely ensconced in the carriage, Nell opened the hatch to the driver’s seat. “Head back toward the Tower of London, John. Take us to Gresham’s Haberdasher.” 

. . .

er father’s house behind the printshop was the perfect Hstaging area for Nell’s covert operation. Nell had instantly taken William Caxton into her confidence, and it was decided between them that Jan de Worde could be trusted as well.

Happily, the streets and alleys adjacent to the shop—

Westminster Palace, Abbey, and Sanctuary—were cobbled and well drained, so whilst they were slippery with the downpour, there was neither mud nor flooding thoroughfares to contend with.

In Nell’s bedchamber the sisters, Rose and Lily—Totehill Street’s prettiest young whores—were preening before the looking glass.

“I like the cut o’ this gown,” said Rose, tugging an inch more of her plump breast from the low-cut bodice. “And feel this velvet, Lil.”

Her sister was too busy rearranging her own conical head-dress, deciding whether the chiffon veil should be strapped tightly under her chin or left hanging loose, to admire Rose’s new dress.

“Which d’ya like better,” Lily demanded, turning to Nell, who sat on her bed, enjoying the girls’ obvious pleasure at their windfall. A good washup and Margaret Beaufort’s gold had, to the eye at least, transformed these two from gaudy streetwalkers to fine ladies of the court.

“Stick it under yer chin, sis,” advised Rose. “ ’Twill ’old up the extra.”

“I ’aven’t got extra!” Lill pushed Rose from the mirror and checked her profile to be sure. “Yer the pudgy one, to be sure.

Ain’t she, Nell?”

“Neither of you is pudgy. And you’ve each got the one requi-site chin.”

“And two fat duckies,” Rose added, playfully poking her sister’s bosom. Lily slapped her hand away and the two prostitutes laughed uproariously.

“Wish Iris could see us now,” said Rose.

“She can see you later,” Nell told her. The girls’ older sister worked the Tower precinct streets.

“Ya mean we can keep the rags as well as the money?” Rose’s tone was incredulous.

“If we’re not all caught and thrown in the jail,” said Nell.

“Don’t ye worry yerself about us, miss,” Iris assured her.

“We know what our job is, and we’ll do it to make you proud.” The sisters appraised each other carefully.

“Yer supposed to be a fine noblewoman, Lil.”

“So?”

“Think of a great broom handle stuck up yer arse and ye’ll be perfect.”

Now they all laughed.

“ ’Tis time, ladies,” Nell announced.

They trooped down the stairs, out the front door of Caxton’s house, into the small garden, and through the printshop’s back door. There, Jan de Worde was entertaining a ragged street urchin with a tour of the press room. The ten-year-old cutpurse, Itchy Mitchell, known to be the finest of his trade, was staring openmouthed at the printing press. Jan lifted the handle and extracted a printed sheet.

“So that’s how ’tis done?”

“Yes,” said Jan. He spread the page before the boy’s eyes. “Do you know how to read?”

“Na,” Itchy replied. “D’ya know how to do
this
?” From behind his back Itchy produced a small leather pouch, the strings holding it round Jan’s waist a moment before neatly snipped.

The apprentice gaped at his purse.

“Yer a little pest, Itchy Mitchell,” said Lily. “Give the man back his property.”

“Leave off, Lil,” he said. “I was just flauntin’ me skills.” He plopped the purse into Jan’s outstretched hand.

“I think it’s time to go.”

They all turned to see William Caxton standing at the archway into the bookstore with Bessie’s old pensioner friend, Tom Wilson.

“All right, then,” said Nell. “Lily, Rose, grab your cloaks. We’ll leave through the front door. Itchy, the back. Tom . . . ?”

“ ’Tis all arranged as you asked.”

Caxton’s face was tight and hard.

Nell went to him and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry.”

“That’s right,” Rose agreed. “Yer girl’ll be fine. She’s surrounded by geniuses.”

A few moments later the shop was empty, save William Caxton and Jan de Worde, who, despite the assurances, fixed each other with expressions of the deepest concern.

he soldier’s purse was neatly filched, and with a cry to Talert him and the other guards who stood sentry along the abbey’s east wall, Itchy Mitchell took off running, zigzagging

’tween men too slow, or slipping on wet cobblestones, to grab him. It was a tease, a great performance, with Itchy jeering and shooting sneers, and bending over to display his small white but-tocks and blowing farts through this mouth. The troops, miserable in the pouring rain, enjoyed the show.

It was all the diversion Nell needed to convey Rose and Lily quietly down the narrow street toward the Sanctuary Tower.

Just past it was the Westminster wall enclosing the sanctuary and its courtyard. Here stood another company of soldiers, posted three deep round the curved Tower. Clearly, Richard had ordered the strictest security for the devilish Elizabeth Woodville.

Nell and the whores, rain pelting their cloaks, began to move past. They allowed themselves to be seen by the soldiers, no doubt appearing as ladies of the court, keeping their heads down, their faces discreetly shadowed by their hoods.

The barking was faint when it started, but Nell was listening hard and heard it first. She squeezed the girls’ hands and they slowed their pace.

The barking grew louder. The soldiers could hear it too, even over the pounding rain. They glanced uneasily at one another.

What were so many barking dogs doing in Westminster’s streets?

The snarling pack, sixteen strong, came racing round the corner into the sanctuary courtyard, amidst Richard’s soldiers.

All hell broke loose. These were the royal mastiffs, savage, muscular, square-jawed beasts bred to kill bears in the bearbaiting pit. Men scattered, shrieking at the sight of the bloodthirsty animals, who began lunging and snapping at the panicked soldiers.

Now racing round the corner came Hall Wilson, Richard’s royal dog keeper, cloakless and drenched, covered in heavy nets, shouting, “Don’t harm the king’s dogs! Kill one and you’re a dead man!” He began heaving nets to the soldiers and barking out orders on how to corner the raging creatures. Everyone obeyed.

God bless Tom Wilson and his son!
thought Nell as she herded Rose and Lily toward the now unguarded sanctuary door. The old almsman whom Bessie had befriended had retired as the royal dog keeper, but his son Hall had taken his place. Both had been more than willing to help “their princes.” A moment later Nell, Bessie, and Lily had slipped inside. It was dark and gloomy on the wide spiral staircase. Hesitating for the space of a breath, they began climbing the stone stairs, moving stealthily round and round to the top floor, where the sanctuary apartments were. At Nell’s signal the girls dropped their cloaks and, with a conspiratorial smile, left Nell behind as they climbed the final turn of stairs.

Nell could hear muffled voices as the veteran prostitutes engaged in seductive banter the two sentries guarding the apartment door. There was laughter—some girlish, some masculine.

When all became silent above, Nell began to climb again.

Round the final curve she saw that the girls had done well.

The soldiers, both with faces to the wall, were madly humping their gifts of free cunny. Over their shoulders Nell received a smile from Rose and a wink from Lily.

She opened the apartment door and slipped in.

All the York girls were at the slit windows trying to see through the pouring rain the loud chaos of barking dogs and shrieking men below in the sanctuary courtyard.

Little Katherine, four, and as beautiful as a porcelain doll, was the first to turn and see Nell. “Bessie!” she cried. “Look who’s come to visit!”

Cecily and Mary spun round. “Thank God!” Cecily cried, and ran to Nell’s side. Bridget, three, toddled over too. With the girls gathered thus, Nell looked up to see Elizabeth Woodville, worn and ghostly white, enter from another room.

Bessie appeared behind her. “Nell!”

The friends flew to each other and embraced fiercely. When they pulled apart their faces were wet with tears.

“How did you manage this?” Bessie cried.

“I do not think you’d wish to know.” By now Elizabeth had come to their side. Nell curtsied to her, then added, “I would not let your daughters peek outside the door just now.” Her expression became earnest. “May I speak with you and Bessie in private?” she said quietly.

“Come.” Elizabeth Woodville led Nell and Bessie to the small room she used as her bedchamber. Nell was startled to see the enormous, gorgeously hung Bed of State crammed incongruously into the space. The once-imperious Queen of England bade Nell and Bessie sit on the bed, as there was scarce room for standing. Even now Elizabeth wished to hold the higher ground.

For the entire journey back into London, Nell had rehearsed how she would begin, and in what manner she would choose to present Margaret Beaufort’s case to Bessie and her mother. The two women would no doubt respond differently—very differently—so once seated, Nell directed her opening salvo to Elizabeth Woodville.

“I’m most grieved to tell you that your sons are dead . . . on the orders of King Richard.”

Elizabeth’s face was a stone mask. Nell, unable to meet Bessie’s gaze, plowed on. “You must forgive me for dispensing with my sincerest shows of sympathy, Your Majesty, but my time here is necessarily short, and I have much more to say.”

“Go on,” said Elizabeth.

“Henry Tudor and five thousand of Duke Francis’s troops will shortly be landing his fleet on the south shore of England.

The Duke of Buckingham, now loyal to Tudor, is already marching southeast with his Welsh army to meet him. These two will join with the rebel forces that you yourself rallied in the south for Edward. King Richard has no fighting men to speak of with him in the north. He’s only just left Yorkshire, still two days’ ride from London. Once here, he must pull together an army. Tudor and Buckingham are sure they can move on London and take Richard down.”

“Lady Margaret is behind this,” said Elizabeth, more a statement than a question.

“Yes, madam. That is who sent me.”

“But why did she go to such lengths to alert me to her son’s cause?”

Nell hesitated, for this was the most painful moment. “She wishes for Bessie to marry Henry Tudor and take the throne beside him.”

“What are the chances of Tudor’s invasion succeeding?” Elizabeth asked, hardly taking time for a breath.

“Mother!”

“Your brothers are dead, Bessie,” Elizabeth said, the force returning to her voice. “This is our only chance to keep the York bloodline alive.”

“Uncle Richard is a York!” Bessie cried.

Elizabeth looked at her daughter as if she’d lost her mind.

“ ’Tis
your
bloodline you mean to keep alive at any cost,” Bessie accused her mother. “
Any
cost!”

“That’s enough,” Elizabeth commanded.

“Your Majesty,” Nell said, “may I speak privately with Bessie?”

“Yes, do. Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.” Elizabeth turned and swept from the room.

Bessie turned on Nell. “How could you?” The hurt in her eyes was agonizing to behold.

“Forgive me,” Nell pleaded. “But if I had not been the messenger, your finding out might have been far more terrible.

Bessie . . .” She drew her friend to her and kissed her cheek.

“I’m so sorry about Edward and Dickon.” Misery of her own forced Nell into silence.

“Do you honestly think they’re dead?” Bessie demanded to know.

“When I heard that they were gone, I went back to the Tower, to their rooms.” Nell looked away, remembering. “There’d been a struggle. I cannot say for certain, but my heart tells me they’re no longer amongst the living.”