The Fate of Princes (4 page)

‘You have heard of Percivalle?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I have.’ The Duke snorted with laughter. ‘And if I catch him, I will hang him as high as the spire of St. Paul’s!’

‘And my Lord of Buckingham?’ I asked curiously.

‘My Lord of Buckingham is a popinjay. Who knows?’ The Duke pursed his lips.

‘Who knows what?’

‘Buckingham claims he has royal blood, claiming descent from Edward III’s son, Edmund of Woodstock. He has even the right to bear his arms. He is also kin to the Beauforts and they have never been friends of the House of York.’

‘Do you think Buckingham aims so high?’

Norfolk shrugged. ‘Perhaps he sees himself as kingmaker. God knows.’

‘And the Princes?’

Norfolk grasped both my hands in his. ‘I know nothing of them but I tell you, Francis, for the love of the sweet God, the only way to stop these rumours is to find the Princes and produce them alive and well.’

I decided to grasp the nettle firmly.

‘Have you visited Brackenbury in the Tower?’

Norfolk shook his head and gave the same answer as Russell. On this matter he dare not speak without the King’s special permission.

‘Do you think,’ I said slowly, ‘that His Grace would have the boys murdered?’ I saw the anger flare in the old man’s eyes. ‘I am,’ I continued smoothly, ‘as close a friend to the King as you are.’

Norfolk smiled.

‘I do not think Richard has killed the Princes,’ he answered. ‘Why should he? If he had wanted them to disappear why not move them to some forlorn castle, as happened to their forebears, Edward II and Richard II? No, I do not think the King killed them and I know Sir Robert Brackenbury too well. He would not have innocent blood on his hands.’

‘I am to see Brackenbury later.’

‘Good,’ Norfolk replied. ‘And now these conspiracies?’

Our conversation turned to what Norfolk had learnt, which reflected the same warnings I had gathered from Russell’s spy: the southern counties, particularly Kent and Devon, were seething hotbeds of conspiracy. Norfolk announced what preparations he was making, declining to move against Buckingham until he had positive proof. After that he left as abruptly as he came.

I poured some wine, calling Belknap into the buttery to join me.

‘My Duke of Norfolk,’ Belknap commented, ‘seems not to like me.’

‘My Duke of Norfolk,’ I mimicked in reply, ‘likes nobody but himself. He has risen fast,’ I continued. ‘Richard’s premier general and duke, the recipient of our King’s lavish generosity.’

‘He was also,’ Belknap drily interrupted, ‘until recently one of those who had access to the Tower. If the young Duke of York is dead, as rumour has it, then my Lord the Duke will benefit.’

‘What do you mean?’

Belknap turned, making sure the door was closed.

‘I mean, my Lord, that before we left Minster Lovell,
you told me the general lines of this business. Like any good dog, I keep my ear to the ground. The city and the palace abound with rumours of how the Princes may be gone. Perhaps dead. I am right, am I not?’

‘Yes, Belknap, you are correct. But what has that to do with Howard?’

‘Three things. First, until July 17th past my Lord of Norfolk had access to the Tower. Secondly, he gave his word when the young Duke of York was handed over by Elizabeth Woodville on June 20th last, that no harm would come to the boy. Finally, the young duke was married to the Mowbray heiress. The duke has always claimed that inheritance.’

I stared at Belknap, that most knowledgeable of men.

‘If you are a good dog, Belknap, then still keep your ear hard to the ground.’ I went closer to him. ‘I would be gratified if you could pursue this matter yourself by stealth and secrecy.’

Once Belknap had left, I hurriedly dressed and, cloaked and hooded, made my way back to the riverside where I hired a skiff to take me upstream to the Tower. It was still early morning and a thick mist hung over the river, sealing it in silence and obscuring the buildings along the banks. Despite its reputation as a palace, a royal menagerie and treasury of the Crown, I always found the Tower a bleak, lonely place. On that morning, with the fog swirling round as I disembarked on the gravel quayside, I found it as sombre as ever, the huge, yellow-beaked ravens greeting my arrival with their raucous cawing as I made my way up into the entrance. An officer wearing the royal livery greeted me.

There were the usual interminable questions and checks from the guards as we entered the darkness of the gateways which controlled the entrances to the concentric ring of towers.

Eventually we came to the royal apartments. Brackenbury was waiting, ushering me into a luxurious, spacious room, with clean rushes on the floor. I remember it well with its blood-red drapes, huge bed covered by a blue and gold canopy and the chests stacked high, some open, spilling out clothes, belts, hose and other apparel. A stark contrast to the buildings I had just passed through.

Sir Robert Brackenbury was small, stout, deep-chested, with huge, long arms which made him an
excellent swordsman. His face was swarthy, bearded, his dark hair hung in ringlets which he constantly wore gathered behind his head. He was a northerner, born near Baynards Castle, and had served as Richard’s treasurer. On any other occasion we would have greeted each other most civilly for we were on friendly if not cordial terms. On that particular morning, however, he greeted me as an enemy. He dismissed the officer, showing me to a chair. He did not bother to offer a goblet of wine or the tray of pastry doucettes I saw standing on the table.

‘I received your message, Lord Lovell.’ His voice was curt, betraying a northern burr.

I waited until he had sat down, and leaned across.

‘Sir Robert, we have known each other what, eight, ten years?’ He stared unblinkingly back. ‘Sir Robert,’ I persisted, ‘I am not an inquisitor. The King has received your news.’ I shrugged. ‘Naturally, there are questions to ask.’

‘Naturally,’ Brackenbury sardonically replied. ‘But it is the answers which I find hard.’

‘Sir Robert,’ I began, realising that any attempt at tact or diplomacy was proving fruitless. ‘You were appointed as Constable on 17 July last?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘You took up office immediately?’

‘I did.’

‘And you checked on your charges, the young Princes?’

‘The bastard lords, Edward and Richard?’ Brackenbury was quick to reply. ‘Yes, twice,’ he continued. ‘The Princes were in the Garden Tower overlooking the river. The King had instructed me, for reasons of security, to remove them deeper into the Tower and to stop them playing in the gardens.’

‘Why was that?’

‘There were rumours of plans to free the Princes. An
attack from the riverside would have been easy to achieve. They would not be the first captives to escape from the Tower.’

‘And where were they moved to?’

‘To one of the turrets in the White Tower.’

I thought quickly about what I knew of the fortress. Brackenbury’s answer made sense. The White Tower was a huge donjon; it could only be stormed once the rest of the Tower had been taken. There were two floors, the upper containing the Chapel of St. John and other royal offices, but there were chambers in each of the four turrets.

‘You checked the Princes? When again?’

‘About two weeks later. I did my formal round tour of the Tower. I went to the Princes’ chamber but it was deserted.’ Brackenbury stopped speaking and chewed his lower lip. ‘No gaoler, no boys. Nothing seemed touched. Clothing, bolsters, blankets. Nothing was missing except a set of garments for each of the boys.’

‘And the previous time?’

‘You mean the second time I saw them?’

‘How were the children? You saw them?’

‘They seemed well enough. Happy enough in the circumstances.’

‘What do you mean?’

Sir Robert positively squirmed in his chair, his face paler, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.

‘In the circumstances,’ he said bleakly. ‘For God’s sake, man, they were mere bairns. They missed their mother, their sisters. They were frightened.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of what might happen to them.’ Brackenbury heaved a sigh. ‘That is why I kept my visits so rare. They were secure enough. I could not help them. I am a soldier, not a gaoler. I excused myself under the pretence that there was more in the Tower than just two princes who were well looked after.’ Sir Robert paused
and wiped his brow with the cuff of his jerkin before continuing. ‘I hated visiting them.’

‘They were kept well?’

‘Of course. They wanted for nothing.’

‘Except their freedom?’

‘Except their freedom,’ Brackenbury snapped back. ‘But I was under orders.’ He leaned forward. ‘Remember, Lovell, we both serve the King. It was Richard who ordered his nephews kept close.’

‘Their servants?’ I said coolly, ignoring his distress.

‘Once they had been moved from the Garden Tower, before I became Constable, their servants were dismissed?’

‘So who looked after them?’

‘A varlet named William Slaughter.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I do not know. I simply received instructions from the King that all their servants were dismissed except for Slaughter, or Black Will as he was commonly called.’

‘An ominous name.’

‘Oh, he was friendly enough. A young man, in about his twentieth summer. Small, rather plump, sandy-haired and cheery-faced. His appearance belied his name.’

‘So why the Black?’

‘He constantly wore black clothing. An affectation, but the young princes seemed to like him well enough.’

‘Was Slaughter from the Tower garrison?’

‘No,’ Brackenbury replied. He rose and wiped his face with a damp towel. Only then did he pour me a goblet of wine, thick, red and heady. I sipped it gratefully, allowing Brackenbury some respite from my constant questioning.

‘Slaughter,’ Brackenbury continued, ‘was from one of the household retinues.’

‘Whose?’ I asked. ‘The King’s? Buckingham’s?’

Brackenbury rose again and went to a small leather
coffer, one of many stacked against the far wall. He opened it, pulled out a roll of vellum which he unfolded and studied for a while.

‘No,’ he replied slowly. ‘From the accounts of the Treasurer here, Slaughter had been in the retinue of the Duke of Norfolk.’ Brackenbury clicked his fingers. ‘Yes, he was Howard’s man. I remember the children used to mimic his countrified tongue and strange accent.’ Brackenbury shrugged. ‘But Slaughter, too, has disappeared.’

I sipped again from the wine-cup. Brackenbury was obviously agitated. Indeed, up to his violent death he remained a distressed, anxious man, wrestling with his own nightmares. Now I only wished he had been truthful then and not left it too late. Perhaps something could have been done. Yet, he was a brave swordsman. He was one of the last to die. God save his soul!

On that mist-laden morning, however, neither of us had a glimpse of the future, even though what we were discussing would be the harbinger of all our fates. I remember asking Brackenbury about any visitors seeing the young boys.

‘Only two,’ Brackenbury replied. ‘The first was the Duke of Norfolk, shortly after the coronation. He came to see the Duke of York.’

‘You attended the meeting?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘It was before I took up office.’

‘And the second visitor?’

‘The Duke of Buckingham,’ Brackenbury snapped, making no attempt to disguise his contempt for the man.

‘When did he come?’

‘The day before my last visit,’ Brackenbury replied. ‘He arrived with a massive concourse of retainers, claiming he was preparing to leave London to meet His Grace at Gloucester. I remember objecting to the large numbers of retainers in the Tower. They drew on our
supplies and, with their wandering about, hampered my guardianship.’

‘Did Buckingham see the Princes alone?

Brackenbury smiled thinly.

‘No. He wanted to, but I insisted that Slaughter be present. His conversation with the two princes was nothing but ordinary chitter-chatter. After that, he left the Tower. I was glad to see him gone.’

‘Slaughter,’ I said. ‘Did you see him after that?’

‘No, I did not. He was espied on the day after Buckingham left but, after that, he disappeared like some will-o’-the-wisp. I have searched for him,’ Brackenbury concluded, ‘as I have for the two princes, sending my best scurriers and most discreet spies to the main ports. I have also taken careful scrutiny of what is happening in the city. There is no sign or trace of any of them.’

‘Has the castle garrison noticed anything amiss?’

‘Nothing.’ Brackenbury heaved a sigh. ‘Some of them do not even know the Princes are gone.’ I extended my cup and Brackenbury slopped more wine into it.

‘Sir Robert,’ I said. ‘Has any other member of the King’s household besides myself, henchmen such as Catesby, Ratcliffe or Tyrrell, visited the Tower?’

Brackenbury’s eyes slid away.

‘Sir James Tyrrell,’ he replied softly. ‘The King’s Master of Horse. He came just before I found the boys had disappeared. But he never saw them or approached their apartments. He only came to draw stores for the King’s progress in the north. Buckingham was the last. It was only after he left that I checked on them and found them gone.’

‘And what then?’ I asked.

‘I have told you. I immediately ordered searches and sent my fastest scurrier north with a letter for the King.’

‘Then there is nothing else?’

‘Nothing,’ Brackenbury replied. ‘There were groups
of men who used to assemble on the far bank. I had them watched but they were not a menace, only bully boys and felons from the city alleyways. About three days ago such groups disappeared.’

‘My Duke of Buckingham?’ I asked.

‘He has not returned nor made any attempt to communicate with me or anyone within the Tower.’ I nodded and studied the intricate design on the Persian carpet Brackenbury had laid down in his chamber. The shadow of an idea was beginning to form. Brackenbury was nervous, agitated. He was hiding something, concealing something terrible. But at the same time I sensed the man was innocent. Brackenbury was what he died, a faithful soldier, ready to carry out to the death any order issued by the King. I only wish he had told me the truth. Perhaps greater evil might have been avoided.