Dark queen watching, p.4
Dark Queen Watching, page 4
‘Mistress,’ Urswicke cleared his throat. ‘Mistress, we are waiting.’
‘Yes, yes we are. We all wait and watch, Christopher.’
She drew a deep breath.
‘My friends, what we say here might be deemed high treason, which could provoke all the dire, dreadful penalties of the law. Of course,’ Margaret’s voice turned sarcastic, ‘if what we plot is successful then it will not be treason. Remember that, my friends. If we fail, men will condemn us. If we succeed, those same men will applaud. So let us begin. Let us review what we face. Today is the fourth of November, the year of our Lord 1471, the feast of some saint or other – but to be quite honest, I have forgotten. Autumn has come and gone and the horrors of last summer with it. Here in this kingdom, the Brothers York reign supreme. Edward, our noble warrior King, is supported by his Woodville wife and a host of henchmen, be it his wife’s wolf pack or the likes of Hastings, Howard of Norfolk and the rest. So far Edward has kept the support of the city, the kingdom and, above all, Holy Mother Church, who views Edward as sitting on the right hand of the power, God’s anointed, vindicated by battle. In the meantime,’ Margaret tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, her raging anger against what was, when it should be so different, ‘We of the House of Lancaster, now eat the hard bread of disgrace. We sip the bitter wine of defeat. Lancaster has been devastated. My kinsman, Beaufort of Somerset and the rest are no more. The bloody defeat at Tewkesbury saw to that. The same is true of possible allies such as Neville, Earl of Warwick, the self-styled kingmaker, killed outright at Barnet. The legitimate King, my son Henry, now shelters in Brittany, the guest of Duke Francis who, I pray, will keep him safe. Yet dangers threaten him constantly.’ She sighed. ‘But what I say is true, yes?’
‘Undoubtedly, mistress,’ Bray replied. ‘Our enemies wax powerful.’
‘But York is not so strong,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘True, Edward is supported by his henchmen, in particular Richard of Gloucester, but the other brother,’ Urswicke smiled bleakly, ‘George of Clarence, is as treacherous as they come.’
‘True, true. We must watch him as we do the rest.’
‘You have news of your son, mistress?’
‘Yes, Brittany still protects him, but kinsman Jasper and the latter’s half-sister fear for him. They do wonder how long Brittany will support them.’
Margaret rubbed the side of her head.
‘I need,’ she whispered, ‘to see my beloved son. I feel new dangers are emerging. Fresh challenges and threats. I have lost my husband, so my ties to the Duke of Buckingham and the whole Stafford brood have been sorely weakened. Now I face attacks on my manor in Woking whilst filthy proclamations about me are posted throughout the city. Sir John Stafford, my brother-in-law, who lodges here with me, is also deeply worried. He has heard about these broadsheets,’ she paused at a knock on the door, ‘and this must be them.’
The door opened. The countess’s house guests, followed by Squire Lambert, swaggered into the chamber and took the proffered seats. Margaret shifted her gaze to the three guests now sitting expectantly at the far end of the table. Sir John Stafford, her brother-in-law, had a plump, rubicund, jolly face, framed by neatly clipped white hair, moustache and beard. A bon viveur who had supped deeply from the cup of life, Sir John now looked decidedly uneasy and anxious. Next to him, Sir John’s squire and body servant, the blond-haired, smooth faced Squire Lambert, was turned out so elegantly in his blue and gold jerkin with its high, silver-encrusted collar and puffed sleeves. Margaret noticed the rings and bracelets, which adorned his fingers and wrists to create a brilliant sheen around the squire whenever he moved his hands, as he did quite often. A young man, Margaret reflected, who found it difficult to keep still. Studying Squire Lambert’s slender, smooth face, Margaret wondered for the umpteenth time about the true relationship of Sir John with this very handsome young man. The third guest, sitting on Sir John’s right, was his personal physician, a graduate of the great medical faculty of Montpellier, Guido Verres. The physician was a close personal friend of Sir John’s, an old comrade who had stood next to him in the shield wall on a host of battlefields both here and abroad. Guido was clean-shaven; even his head was closely shorn, as the physician fervently believed that hair caught and carried a myriad of infections. A pleasant-looking, soft-eyed man, Guido, as customary, was garbed in black from neck to toe like some professional mourner at a funeral. He laughingly called these ‘the garb of Castile’ where he had been born.
Margaret glanced up at the ceiling. She had now finished the burial rites for her late husband, Sir Henry Stafford. Sir John and his friends had been her principal guests, enjoying their stay, until recently, in her luxurious manor of Woking. A self-proclaimed chronicler, Sir John had been keen to continue what he called his ‘magnum opus’, his great work on the history of the Stafford family. He was using his stay in England to study whatever records he could find. Perfect guests, until matters had taken a truly sinister turn.
‘Mistress,’ Urswicke whispered hoarsely, breaking into her reverie. ‘Shall I read the proclamation again?’
‘No!’ Margaret forced a smile to counter the sharpness of her voice. ‘I shall read it once again for all of you to hear.’
‘Mistress,’ Bray intervened. ‘It is …’
‘Hurtful? Very much so. But let’s read the atrocious lies again.’ She picked up the parchment before her, closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She crossed herself, opened her eyes, staring at the manuscript. ‘Know ye,’ she began, ‘know ye citizens of London that the widow Margaret Beaufort, who styles herself Countess of Richmond, the mother of the traitorous rebel Henry Tudor, now skulking and afeared, as he should be, at Rennes in Brittany. Yes, she with all her titles and pretensions is no more than a murderous whore. She is directly responsible for the untimely death of her husband, that paladin knight Sir Henry Stafford. The Beaufort bitch kept this man of honour a virtual prisoner at her opulent but desolate manor of Woking in Surrey, while she lasciviously cavorted in London with her two catamites whom she retains for her own illicit pleasure, namely Reginald Bray and Christopher Urswicke. Know ye also,’ Margaret kept her voice firm, ‘know ye also,’ she repeated, ‘that this Beaufort bitch has murderous designs on her late husband’s brother, Sir John, or so it is bruited throughout the city. A traitor, the wife of a dead traitor Edmund Tudor, the mother of a traitor Henry Tudor, and the daughter of the traitorous Beaufort who took the coward’s way out. This perfidious whore nurses horrid designs against our present glorious King, his family and his court. Know ye well, good citizens, the true nature of the woman you harbour so close to your loyal hearts. Remember, be on your guard. I shall return to you on this matter. However, for the moment, pax et bonum to you all. Given and sealed in the House of Truth, Merlin the Prophet, the Ancient of Days.’
Margaret let the proclamation slip from her hands. She simply sat staring down at the table.
Urswicke, clerk of her chancery, leaned over and picked up the parchment. He realised every word of these disgusting allegations was a lie, a poisoned arrow to his mistress’s heart. According to this perjured proclamation, all the men the countess had ever loved were damned and despised while she, who had lived a life above reproach, was depicted as a killer, an assassin, a cheap city whore. Even its signature at the end of the proclamation was a heinous insult, a nasty jibe at the way the Tudors proclaimed themselves to be the direct descendants of King Arthur, at whose court the magician Merlin had flourished.
‘Where were these proclamations posted?’ Bray asked.
‘At the Cross in St Paul’s Churchyard and the Standard along Cheapside,’ Urswicke replied. ‘I took both down but,’ he tapped the document, ‘copies have been made and distributed the length and breadth of the city. I am sure,’ he added bitterly, ‘that the King and his …’ Urswicke paused at a sharp kick under the table. He glanced quickly at his mistress. Margaret was warning him with her pale grey eyes. Urswicke nodded in agreement. He must not be rash; he must not say anything which could be used against them. He could only truly trust two people in this chamber. His mistress and his good friend and ally, Reginald Bray.
‘You were saying,’ Sir John barked. ‘Come on, Urswicke, who else knows about this? Indeed,’ he breathed out noisily, ‘I am sure everyone does – the King, his council. I also understand copies have been posted in Lambeth on the archbishop’s door, as well as outside St Stephen’s Chapel in Westminster. Who could do this?’
‘Easy enough to arrange,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘The perpetrator has probably hired some scrivener to provide good parchment and night-black ink. The letters are well formed, round and eye-catching. In truth, the malicious Merlin has prepared a poisonous brew for others to stir.’
‘Who?’ Margaret snapped.
‘Mistress, their name is legion for they are many. Clarence, or any of those at court who hate you.’
‘Why did they do this?’
‘Mistress, to besmirch your name, to drive a wedge between you and the powerful Stafford family. Sir Henry has died. Your relationship with Buckingham and others of the Stafford family has weakened. True, Sir John?’
‘True, true,’ the knight replied. ‘But it will not work. The head of our house, the Duke of Buckingham, knows the real value and worth of the Lady Margaret. He will view these for what they are: malicious, scurrilous lies.’
‘But why now?’
‘You are exposed,’ Urswicke replied. ‘You are a woman alone, a widow. You may wish to marry again so they malign your every marriage as well as yourself. You are depicted as some spider lurking in the dark. They hint that you are an assassin, a lecher. Oh, for the love of God,’ Urswicke faltered, ‘it’s obvious what they are implying and they heap hurt upon hurt.’
‘Lady Margaret.’ Sir John leaned against the table as he spread his hands towards the countess. ‘Squire Lambert, Guido and myself would go on solemn oath before any prince or prelate to defend your innocence in all these matters. Your husband, my late brother Sir Henry, was a truly sick man even before he was sorely wounded at the Barnet fight. After that battle, you took Henry to your exquisitely beautiful and most comfortable manor house of Woking. You provided every comfort and the best physicians possible.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Yes, Sir Guido?’ The physician nodded vigorously.
‘In the end, despite all this,’ Sir John continued, ‘my good brother died of his sickness, fortified by all the rites of Holy Mother Church. If you can use such a phrase, Sir Henry died a good Christian death. We are witnesses to this, as are the priests who came to shrive and anoint him.’
Lady Margaret tapped the table and smiled. ‘Sir John, I thank you for that but these present troubles …?’
‘They may well all be connected, my lady, to what happened at Woking.’
‘You had trouble at the manor house?’ Urswicke demanded. ‘After the funeral, we left all three of you at Woking, and then what?’
Sir John shook his head. ‘As I said earlier to Lady Margaret on our arrival here, at first nothing. When you visit Woking, ask your own retainers, who cared for us so well. For a while, all was calm, then the malevolent mysteries descended. Fire arrows loosed during the dead of night above the manor. A stag’s head impaled on the pillar of the main gate; that’s supposed to symbolise death and destruction, the emergence of dark forces, the presence of the demon lords of the air. The warning proved to be accurate. The rain of fire arrows continued. The corpses of dead animals were left around the manor, all discovered by servants. Ghastly gruesome sights: a dog with its head severed; a deer, its swollen belly ripped open. Matters turned from bad to worse. On one occasion we left the manor to hunt in the nearby woodlands. We were escorted by two of Lady Margaret’s verderers as well as your principal huntsman. We entered the trees, making our way to Elfin glade.’
‘Yes, yes, I know it well,’ Margaret murmured. ‘Most hunts gather there.’
‘Well, we’d scarcely entered the glade when we were attacked. A flight of arrows hissing through the trees. Fortunately, wounds were slight.’
‘Outlaws?’ Bray demanded.
‘We don’t know because nothing happened.’
‘What?’
‘As I said, a flight of arrows then silence. Of course, by then we’d all dismounted, using our horses as shields. We waited for a fresh assault but then nothing. The huntsmen, who had been slightly wounded, agreed with the verderers that the danger had passed. Birdsong returned, the usual forest noises. We were alone so we went back to the manor.’
‘And there was more?’ Bray demanded.
‘Four days after this, we left for Woking. The weather was freezing though the ground underfoot was hard and good for riding. We left the manor, taking the Woking road, when two of our horses were brought down by caltrops.’
‘Caltrops?’
‘Yes, Master Christopher. Someone had strewn barbed horse traps across our path. Two of our mounts stumbled and fell. I was thrown, so was Squire Lambert. Doctor Guido, riding behind us, managed to avoid the ambuscade. We were not injured, but two of our horses had to be given the mercy cut. My Lady, I am sorry for your loss. Two fine mounts from your stables.’
‘Never mind, never mind.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘How did your assailants know on two occasions when you would leave the manor and what direction you would take?’
‘Lady Margaret, we asked ourselves the same question. Perhaps our assailants had an informant in your household, someone they had suborned. Or they might have set up watches at the manor gates and acted accordingly. My Lady, in truth I cannot answer that.’
‘And yet,’ Urswicke cleared his throat, ‘despite all those preparations, the arrow attacks, the caltrops, the strange sights and sounds in the dead of night, no real harm was done.’
‘None, Master Christopher.’ Sir John scratched his head. ‘And that truly puzzles me. Strange sounds and shapes but nothing really substantial.’
‘I agree,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘As if someone was trying to frighten you, nothing more, nothing less. But what is truly dangerous are these anonymous proclamations, the rantings of this malevolent Merlin. He,’ Urswicke paused, ‘is trying to fashion a link between Henry’s death and you, Sir John. Because there is an implicit allegation that you are under threat and the attacks at Woking prove this.’
‘True, true,’ Sir John agreed. ‘Yet my health, like that of my two comrades here, is hale enough.’
‘And you intend to stay here.’
‘Yes, Master Bray, we do – at least for a while. As you know, I now live in Burgundy. In my younger days I campaigned in France, where I met Guido, who hails from Castile.’ Sir John’s smile widened whilst the physician beamed expansively. ‘We travelled to London to attend my good brother’s funeral, but we also hoped – and we were not disappointed – to be invited by my Lady to reside here in this splendid townhouse, and in her richly endowed manor at Woking. What wonderful places to celebrate Advent, Yuletide, Christmas and Twelfth Night.’
‘We have,’ the countess replied, ‘including your good selves, Sir John, been invited to court. His Grace the King, not to mention Queen Elizabeth and all the Yorkist princes, have insisted on that.’
‘Good, good.’ Sir John rubbed the side of his face.
‘But there’s something else, isn’t there?’ The countess’s voice took on a lighter tone. ‘We’ve referred to it already.’
‘You know, good sister, there is.’
‘Which is what?’ Urswicke asked.
‘Master Christopher, Master Bray.’ Sir John took a deep breath. ‘I am a scion of the red and gold retinue of Stafford. I am a member of a very powerful family. In my golden days, a knight banneret who has stood in the battle line of the royal array and,’ Sir John became more expansive, ‘as my good sister has said, and we have touched on this a little earlier, I style myself a chronicler. I have read, nay devoured, the great chronicles, copied carefully time and again for those who want to understand the past. You know the manuscripts – Lanercost, Scalacronica, Froissart, The Great Chronicle of London,’ he waved a hand, ‘and so on and so on.’
‘For what purpose?’ Urswicke, now intrigued, asked.
‘Why, Master Christopher, I want to draw up my own chronicle, a detailed history of the Staffords, with all our glories and,’ he shrugged, ‘all our family failures. London,’ he continued excitedly, ‘is a veritable treasure house of history. I have applied for licence to study the records and archives of the great offices of state, the chancery, the Exchequer and King’s Bench.’ Sir John bowed towards Lady Margaret. ‘And thanks to you sweet sister, I have also obtained licence to wander Westminster. Squire Lambert and Physician Guido will assist me. I do think—’ He broke off as loud banging, shouts and cries echoed through the chamber.
Urswicke and Bray sprang to their feet, snatching up warbelts and fastening them on. There was a pounding of feet along the gallery outside, a swift knock on the door, which was then flung open as Lady Margaret’s messenger Fleetfoot, accompanied by her new steward Hardyng, burst into the chamber.
‘My Lady,’ the steward gasped, ‘you’d best come. The Frenchman, the stranger who came to the door—’
‘Calm yourself, man.’ Urswicke resheathed his sword.
‘Hardyng,’ Urswicke patted the steward’s round, sweaty face, usually so cheerful, now twisted in concern. ‘Slowly now,’ Urswicke urged, gesturing both men to chairs around the table. ‘Sit and tell us what happened.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the steward gasped, mopping his face with a kerchief he plucked from under the cuff of his jerkin. ‘Fleetfoot and I were having morning ales in the buttery about an hour after your meeting began. A servant told me that a stranger – French, by the sound of him – was at the main door. Fleetfoot and myself went out. We brought the stranger into the house. He looked of sober appearance, fluent in the English tongue, though now and again he lapsed into French. I asked him his business; he replied that he needed to speak with you, my Lady, that it was urgent. I asked for his name, he said Bernard, then I asked him his business. He replied it was for the countess only. My Lady, I know from what you told me that you already had important affairs to deal with, so I asked him to wait. He said he would, so I put him in one of the waiting chambers. As a courtesy I brought him a goblet of wine and left him be. He seemed most respectable, orderly and law-abiding, he posed no danger. Now my Lady, as you know, our waiting chambers can be locked and bolted both within and without. I informed Bernard of that, adding for safety’s sake, I would lock and bolt the door from the outside and that he should do the same on the inner. He listened to me carefully, nodded and replied that, in the circumstances, that would be most prudent. I left him for a while. Indeed, I almost forgot him, then I remembered and decided to ensure all was well. I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I undid the clasps, turned the lock, but Bernard had bolted it from within. I called Fleetfoot for help.’ Hardyng gestured at the lanky, pale-faced courier. ‘We knocked and we knocked,’ Fleetfoot declared. ‘We shouted and yelled – you must have heard the commotion. The door remained sealed and locked with no sound from within. My Lady, there is something very wrong. We need your permission to break that door down.’
