To the Tower Born - Robin Maxwell (30 page)

Dickon, his once soft golden hair hanging in brown strings round his grimy face, was kneeling by a second flea-bitten pallet, his arms protectively encircling his elder brother. Edward, lately the King of England, lay limp as rags, his sunken eyes closed, and his face as gray and skeletal as it had been in Nell’s nightmare.

Dickon looked up slowly, disbelieving that Nell was not a vision, but flesh and blood come to rescue them.

“Nell, Nell!” He flew to her, arms clutching her waist, and hers cradling his head. He wept and murmured unintelligible ex-hortations of gratitude. She crooned comfortable words and stroked his hair.

“Is Edward—”

“He is alive, but barely,” Dickon answered. “The pain is terrible. I think he wishes to die to be taken out of his misery.”

“No!” said Nell, pushing the young boy to arm’s length. “He must not die.” She went to Edward’s side and knelt there. Heat was rising from his body. She had no need to feel his head. He was burning with fever. The pillow beneath him was clotted with gore and pus.

“Edward, can you hear me? Edward, ’tis Nell.” He moaned very faintly, but audibly.

“I am going to get you help. I will get you and your brother out of here to safety.”

“No, Nell, you mustn’t leave us!” Dickon was tugging at her arm. She turned to him. “If I am to help you, I must leave you, but I
will
come back here with a rescue party. And very soon.” The boy began to sob, and all Nell could do was hold him to her breast as he wept.

“Think of this,” she said, trying to force strength into her voice. “Jason, on his adventures, was tested in trial after trial.

Think of all he suffered! But he was a brave warrior, and in the end he prevailed. You and Edward are the bravest boys in England, and if you hold on just a little longer, you will survive this most terrible trial. Can you hold on, Dickon?” He sniffed. “Yes. But Edward—”

“You will have to be strong for him as well. Do you hear me?

You must stay at his side and whisper in his ear constantly that help is on the way.
Help is on the way!
”

“Do you promise?”

“On my soul, Dickon!” She bent and kissed Edward’s emaciated cheek, then embraced Dickon once more. She moved to the cell door and looked back at them. “Princes of England,” she said, fighting back her tears of outrage, “have courage!”

“Courage,” said Dickon.

Nell closed and locked the door behind her, then went to find John.

ong a man of the world, William Caxton nevertheless Lfound it impossible to disguise his shock and horror at Nell’s revelation.

Once leaving the grisly cellar at Barkley, she had dressed in her still-damp clothes, hurrying to the stables to wake John.

He’d had a difficult time believing that the princes were indeed alive, but more especially that his employer was capable of both the kidnapping and imprisonment in such ghastly circumstances. His father, he told Nell, had been a Yorkist sympathizer and had actually fought for Edward during Warwick’s rebellion at the battle of Barnet. John himself had celebrated in London when young Edward had ridden through Londongate just six months ago. The driver had trusted Nell’s unlikely story as much out of his respect for her as his joy that the little king was still alive and might one day be restored to the throne.

Now sitting at Caxton’s dining room table, her father, Jan de Worde, and John learned every detail of the boys’ present surroundings, their physical and mental condition. It was obvious to them all that something had to be done quickly, and the urgency was made all the greater with the most recent news from the Westcountry and the south of England.

“The Great Storm,” as it was now being called, had managed with its hurricane of winds and torrential rains to essentially change the course of the rebellion against King Richard.

On his first attempt to cross the Channel, Henry Tudor’s fleet had been beset by so wild a tempest that he’d been forced to return to Brittany, and whilst he and his fleet were, even now, making a second attempt at landing, Harry Buckingham’s army had been thwarted altogether. The Severn River had so extrava-gantly flooded its banks that the Welshmen had been unable to cross over it into southern England for their rendezvous with Tudor. Waterlogged and dispirited, his troops had dispersed, returning to their homes, leaving Buckingham alone and, if the rumors were to be believed, himself a fugitive on the run.

Whilst Nell and Caxton could not be sure how these events would modify Henry Tudor’s invasion, they worried that
any
deviation from Margaret Beaufort’s tightly organized operation might somehow affect the plans for her young prisoners, perhaps in a deadly fashion. Edward and Dickon needed to be rescued quickly and quietly from Barkley Manor and transported to safety. What was more, it could not appear that Nell or her father was in any way involved with their liberation.

“You must return immediately to Woking, Nell.” Caxton’s eyes were vague and unfocused as he spoke, but she knew him well, and this particular gaze was an indication that her father’s mind was working with furious intensity. “You will say that on John’s advice, you stayed the night at Barkley Manor, but left at dawn before the cook and steward awoke. At Kew you found the road washed out, and ’twas necessary to detour east again to . . .” Caxton hesitated.

“Chiswick,” John offered. “We had to detour east again at Chiswick before heading west back to Woking.” Caxton smiled appreciatively at John. “Thus the delay in your return.” Caxton turned to his apprentice. “How long ago was Edward Brampton in our shop?”

Jan thought for a moment. “Three days. He bought several volumes and asked that I have them delivered to his London lodgings within the week.”

“Good. Edward Brampton is a Portuguese businessman and adventurer,” Caxton told him. “A converted Jew and a Yorkist sympathizer. The elder King Edward, in fact, stood as godfather at the man’s baptism. When Edward died, Brampton moved back to Lisbon, but not before stopping off in Bruges to visit Edward’s sister Duchess Margaret of Burgundy. In mourning together for their lost king, they became close friends, and ’tis well known that their dearest wish is a restoral of the Yorkist bloodline.”

“But her brother is a York,” Nell reasoned.

“Of all her brothers, Richard was Margaret’s least favored.

Like young Edward, she chose to believe Gloucester responsible for the death of Clarence, who was, in fact, her
most
beloved sibling.”

“Would Margaret not support her own niece as queen?” Nell asked. “After all, Bessie is Edward’s natural daughter. Her blood—”

“I know Margaret of Burgundy well,” said Caxton. And whilst she is good-hearted in the deepest sense, she is driven first and foremost by her passions and her own strong beliefs.

Of course
’twas King Edward who was responsible for Clarence’s execution. Richard was merely following the orders of his master.
Of course
Bessie’s blood is as purely York as her brother Edward’s, but Margaret of Burgundy believes, as so many do, that the succession of kings should proceed through the
male
line. In her mind, her nephew Edward is England’s only true king.”

“So she would do anything to restore and preserve him?”

“I believe she would.”

“And Brampton?” Nell asked.

“Luck seems to be with us. You know he returns to England periodically on business and is here right now. I would wager my life that he would happily be Duchess Margaret’s instrument in this rescue.” Caxton spoke to his apprentice. “Jan, I would like you to be on the first possible ship sailing for Burgundy. You will carry a letter to Duchess Margaret from me. Nell—” He turned to his daughter and grasped her hand. “With great care you will hie to Woking.”

“I’ll look after her, sir,” John offered, his voice thick with loyalty and passion.

“I will go see Brampton myself,” Caxton continued. He looked to Nell and John. “When all the plans are in place, I will contact you at Woking. The winds of Fate are very changeable, so whilst a plan is necessary, we must all be prepared to fly where these winds take us.”

“I wish for Bessie to know that her brothers are alive,” said Nell.

“You cannot risk another meeting in sanctuary,” her father objected.

“Bessie must be told, Father. When all had given up hope, Bessie
knew
they lived. Knew Richard was innocent. I shall never doubt her again.” Nell thought for a moment. “When Rose and Lily and I left there, the girls had made close friends with two of the door guards. Perhaps ‘favor’ might be traded for ‘favor.’ A note—”

“If it fell into the wrong hands—”

“When I wrote to Antony in his prison, I devised a code of sorts. I should be able to convey the information so that no one but Bessie will be the wiser. And I trust that the girls will make it inside sanctuary.”

“All right,” Caxton relented. “Devise a message and I’ll find the sisters.”

Nell stood and hugged her father round the shoulders from behind. “I feel an idiot,” she said. “And a terrible judge of character. I work for Margaret Beaufort, see her every day. Yet had no inkling.”

“Then we are all idiots,” he said. “How could we ever have guessed she was capable of such an evil conspiracy?” He shook his head. “True, she is perfectly positioned. Harry Buckingham is her nephew, Constable of England, with access to the Tower, close confidant of the king. And Buckingham is a weak-ling compared to Lady Margaret, able to be controlled by his aunt. But Henry Tudor has been in exile so long, who would have suspected his mother to be so powerful and so desperate to see him king that she would perpetrate an outrage such as this?”

“How can I look her in the eye and pretend I don’t know?” said Nell.

“You must find a way. ’Tis imperative that you return to Woking before Henry’s invasion force lands. You must find out Lady Margaret’s plans for the boys.”

Nell felt tears welling. “It makes me ill to think of them in that place for even one hour more, suffering. Edward perhaps dying. And poor Dickon, he wondering if anyone will ever return to rescue them.”

Caxton stood and fixed his daughter with loving eyes. “You gave him your word. He knows to trust it. And you have my word that we will rescue them.”

“Father . . .”

They embraced, neither wishing to let go their hold on the other.

“Keep yourself safe, child,” he said. “You are all I have in the world.”

ell and John spoke hardly a word during the drive to NWoking. She could not tell whether her mind or heart was racing faster, and John, bless his soul, was intent on getting them there with the greatest speed and safety.

As they approached the lowered moat bridge, not one but
three
riders galloped out the gate and past the coach. The gate guards, normally friendly, waved John through without even a smile. With a signal that bespoke their collusion, John left Nell at the door and drove off to the stables. Nell, calming herself with a deep breath, entered the manor.

Servants rushed round in silent urgency, none meeting the others’ eyes. Many trunks and crates were piled by the door as if waiting to be removed, and more were being hauled down the broad stairs even now. Messengers—at least a dozen of them—milled about, impatiently waiting to be called inside the office.

It took all of Nell’s strength to put out of her mind the memory of Edward and Dickon in their hellhole, for otherwise there was no way she could face Margaret Beaufort without reaching out and strangling her. Instead, she directed all thought to the rebellion, the invasion, and the fate of Lady Margaret’s nephew and conspirator, Harry Buckingham.

She went immediately through the carven door to the offices.

What she had seen without made her sure of what was to be expected within. But the disorder and confusion with which she was confronted was much worse; it was barely controlled chaos.

The central hub was smoky, as a servant stood feeding a huge pile of documents, one by one, into a brazier. The two scribes were even now bringing more from their chamber to pile at his feet. Chests of gold and jewels were being carried by servants from the treasury room, and men of Margaret’s personal guard were emptying the armory of its contents.

Lady Margaret sat at her desk, back facing the door, as two messengers stood before her. Both were filthy and mud-splattered, and their faces were pained, both of them having clearly been the bearers of bad tidings to their mistress, who sat silent and ramrod straight in her chair, digesting the indi-gestible.

Finally she spoke, and Nell heard in her voice a cold fury mingled with disbelief.

“I was led to understand,” she said, “that after the tempest pushed Henry’s fleet back to Brittany, all fifteen of his ships finally reached the coast of Dorset.”

“No, madam,” said one of the couriers. “Only your son’s flag-ship and one other reached the harbor at Poole. He sent a small boat ashore to assess the conditions. Soldiers called out from land that all was well, the rebellion flourishing, and that the boatmen should land. But Tudor wisely disbelieved them and evaded the trap. The two ships then sailed westward.” The man looked to the other messenger to continue.

“I was in Plymouth when the two ships arrived. They hovered off the coast only long enough to learn that the rebellion had collapsed
entirely,
and that King Richard had traveled unop-posed from York all the way south to Exeter. ’Twas more, they said, like a Royal Progress than a war march.” This courier looked fearful, as though he believed his dire report would earn him a sword in his throat. But he finished bravely. “Your son sailed back to Brittany on four October.” Margaret dismissed both men with a wave of her hand, as though her voice would betray her. As they hurried out she sat stock-still at her desk. Nell straightened her own back and presented herself to her employer.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, Lady Margaret, but the river—”

“I know all about the rivers and the bridges, the wind and the rain and the fainthearted rebels,” she said, her voice flat. “My son’s invasion has failed because of them.”

“I’m very sorry, madam,” Nell lied, she hoped convincingly.