The Fate of Princes (9 page)

‘I merely mention this to show how impossible it is to approach the King or his Court. The French King is absorbed with death, using his vast wealth to fend it off. He has sent presents to the church of St. Martin le Tours and gold chalices to Rome. He has brought a holy man to live in the palace entrusted with the task of interceding constantly wth God on the French King’s behalf. I mean no disrespect but Louis has a low opinion of our King. I was surprised to hear, even in France, how rumours about the Princes’ death are common gossip, but there is nothing about escape, abduction or the Princes hiding here or anywhere else.

‘I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news but my secret advice is that most people regard the young princes as murdered and our gracious King as their assassin. I only repeat what I have heard and trust you
will act on it accordingly. I wish you health and good fortune. I am sending this letter by trusted carrier and when I return will talk to you personally on this matter. God keep you. Thomas Belknap Esquire – 22nd August 1483.’

Belknap’s letter proved of little comfort and I kept it amongst my private papers, not daring to show it to the King. Indeed, I secretly chided Belknap in his absence for sealing his letter with sentiments which could be described as treasonable, at a time when treason was common coin. Richard, myself, and the rest of the Court were still waiting for news about Buckingham and it came to us fast. A horseman from London, his mount lathered with sweat, the rider covered in white dust so that he looked like the pale figure of death from the book of the Apocalypse, reached us while we were at Lincoln. He breathlessly informed us how the south had risen in revolt: Kent, Sussex and the West Country. There were many branches but only one root – Buckingham. When Richard heard this, his face became ashen and tight-lipped. He drew his dagger and, time and again, dug the blade into the table-top, gouging it with savage creases.

‘Buckingham,’ he muttered. ‘He who should have been so true.’ And, unable to contain his anger any further, he stalked out of the council chamber. Only then did I realise that Richard had not really believed me, Norfolk, or even his own Chancellor. He had deluded himself into believing Buckingham was merely sulking but never treasonable.

Further news deepened the King’s anger: the rebels openly proclaimed that Richard had murdered his nephews and, worse, both they and Buckingham publicly rejected him in favour of the Welsh adventurer, Henry Tudor. Richard’s rage was terrible to see: eyes blazing, lips curled, his usual pale, sallow complexion flushed with red spots of anger.

Richard had no troops with him so he travelled to Grantham to assemble them. I commandeered the spacious, dark-timbered tavern ‘The Angel’, setting up the chancery so the King could issue writs and receive the Great Seal. All the time our spies kept us informed. We waited for the usual proclamations which might describe in detail the allegation that Richard had barbarously murdered his nephews, but, apart from the usual invective, there was nothing. The King, to bide his time, retaliated, calling the rebels traitors, adulterers, bawds. This war of words continued as each side collected forces. Richard was particularly keen to keep up clear communications with Norfolk. The Duke’s purpose was to protect the capital and drive a wedge between the rebels in East Anglia and those to the west of London.

The weather changed. Rain-clouds, thick and black, swept over the flat fields of Lincolnshire and the downpour began. We cursed it then but later thanked God, for the elements saved our cause. By the middle of October we had learnt how Buckingham had publicly unfurled his standard, sending his formal repudiation of homage to Richard, declaring him a usurper. At the same time the Duke sent his spies into all the counties, appealing to the gentry to rise in arms against Richard. I captured one of these, hanging him from the branch of an elm tree after ransacking his wallet and pockets for letters. There were many, all written in the rebellious Duke’s name. I studied them carefully, the rain from my soaked hair splashing on the letters, turning the blue/green words to damp splodges. Finally, I threw the papers away for they told me nothing about the Princes or provided any clue to their whereabouts, be it in this life or the next.

I journeyed on to Banbury, hoping to meet up with Sir John Stonor and others I had summoned to the King’s standard. The levies were to assemble at a
crossroads outside the town and I cursed all the way there for the rain fell in sheets, turning the roads and tracks into muddy rivers which clogged the wheels of our carts and weakened our horses. My men, summoned earlier from South Yorkshire, walked in quiet files, their leather hose and jerkins a soaking mess. Those who had brought arms, breastplates, basinets and other harness, had doffed them into the wagons where leather sheets protected them from rust. At last we reached the agreed meeting-place and waited in the drenching rain for Stonor. A scout was sent out.

He returned in less than an hour to report that a party of horsemen and foot-soldiers were approaching, but he couldn’t describe the insignia on their banners. My anxiety about Sir John’s loyalty, who had not replied to earlier letters, only grew. I sent the scout back with another man. Only one returned, bloodied and dishevelled, to describe how they had met the outriders, Stonor’s men all right, but their banners were Buckingham’s.

I asked for their number and despaired when I realised they almost equalled my own. Pulling back my chain-mail coif, the wind-lashed rain beating into my face, I screamed orders, kicking, shoving my men, to turn the carts and wagons into a defensive ring. The soldiers grumbled and swore in their broad flat accents, but we managed to achieve it, men slipping and groaning in the mud, horses neighing and rearing, bucking in their traces. The wagons were emptied, the soldiers drawing bows, quivers, pikes, axes and daggers. My serjeant-at-arms bullied them into some form of battle-line: pikemen just behind the wagons, archers next to the knights, and mounted men-at-arms in the centre of the ring. Stonor’s men came on slowly through the driving rain. Armed and helmeted, they resembled spectres out of a nightmare. I espied Stonor, clear in his colours, and cursed him loudly for a traitor. My
serjeants took this as a signal. ‘Loose!’ they shouted and a dark cloud of arrows whirred towards the oncoming force. Most of the arrows fell short. I was glad, I knew Stonor and rather liked him; I had carried the christening robe for one of his children, whilst Anne and his wife, whenever they met, would link arms and go off giggling like two young maids. Now, in the rain and filthy mud of war, all such memories disappeared. I drew my sword, my serjeants rapped out orders, and a second volley of arrows rose up from our circle. Some reached their targets, and two or three of the foot-soldiers fell screaming and kicking in the mire. The enemy line stopped. I climbed onto a wagon and shouted through the rain:

‘Stonor, for God’s sake put an end to this nonsense! Take your wounded and withdraw!’

I thought he was about to ignore me, but I saw a banner furled and the enemy line fell back. I allowed them to carry their wounded away and we watched their retreat before turning back to join the main force.

Richard moved his army to Coventry; I found him and his council in good spirits. Norfolk had proved loyal; despite his age and lumbering gait, the Duke had moved swiftly and deadly as any cat. He had sent out reconnoitring parties to occupy Gravesend and the river passages across the Thames, whilst browbeating the citizens to prepare the defences of London. He had despatched a force to Reigate and managed to throw a protective circle around London, vigorously snapping the links between the rebels in Surrey and East Anglia. Sir John Fogge attempted to attack Gravesend but the Duke’s men beat them off. Richard now ordered a general advance into the south-west. He proclaimed one thousand pounds reward for Buckingham, dead or alive, and appointed Sir Ralph Assheton as Vice-Constable of England with powers to try all rebels and mete out summary justice. As we advanced south, Assheton took his new office seriously, hanging rebels, even rolling prisoners down hills in barrels with spikes inside. Richard attempted to curb this ferocious enthusiasm but the bloodlust of the royal army was aroused, whetted by the news of Buckingham’s revolt being on the wane. The rebel duke had tried to move eastwards from Brecon but he had been constantly harassed by the Vaughan family, chieftains in that area; they cut off his communications with the rest of Wales, attacking the rebel force, even raiding Brecon Castle
itself. Elsewhere, his inveterate enemies, the Staffords, systematically wrecked bridges, leaving parties of men to attack Buckingham’s force whenever they thought fit.

Richard continued his march into the south-west and we reached Salisbury; the fields and meadows outside the town were soon covered by the silken pavilions of the nobles and the straw-coloured bothies of the common soldiers. The King moved into the city, taking over the episcopal palace of Lionel Woodville; he had supported the rebels but, after Buckingham’s revolt collapsed, escaped across the Channel. Belknap rejoined me here, tired and mud-stained after his ride from Dover. I intended to reprove him but changed my mind after one look at his grey, exhausted face.

Later the same evening, both Belknap and myself were aroused by a royal serjeant-at-arms who whispered that the King wished to see me in the Bishop’s council chamber. I found Richard excited, his face wreathed in smiles, so pleased he could scarcely stand still but paced up and down the room exclaiming to those members of the secret council who joined him that Buckingham had been taken.

‘I do not wish to see him!’ he shouted. ‘I do not wish to hear that ingrate’s voice!’ He went up and clapped a hand on Catesby’s shoulder. ‘William, let Sir Ralph Assheton deal with Buckingham; say I do not wish the Duke’s head to be still on his shoulders come Monday morning!’ He turned to Ratcliffe: ‘Sir Richard, you are to take a convoy of mounted men-at-arms and pursue that episcopal lump, Sir John Morton. Our spies inform us he has fled. He may well escape to the Fens, reach Ely and use his friends and wealth to secure passage abroad.’

‘Your Grace!’ I turned in surprise to find Belknap behind me. Normally a guard would have barred his entrance but, in the excitement, he had been let through. ‘Your Grace,’ Belknap repeated. Richard looked questioningly at me.

‘Thomas Belknap, your Grace,’ I answered. ‘My steward.’

‘Well,’ the King replied. ‘What does Thomas Belknap, your steward, wish to say to me?’

‘Sire,’ Belknap answered coolly, ‘I know the Fens well, I once served in Bishop Morton’s household. I could be of service to Sir Richard in bringing that old fox to earth.’ Richard grinned. He nodded his consent and Belknap, without a by-your-leave, followed Ratcliffe out of the council chamber. At the time, I was not surprised; Belknap’s hatred for Morton was as important to him as the fate of the Princes was to me. Devious Belknap, cool and hard. The perfect snake in the grass!

Richard watched them leave before approaching me.

‘Buckingham is outside the city!’ he hissed. ‘I do not wish to see him. You are to go there, Francis. Find out what evils he plotted and who helped him. You will do that?’ I agreed, watching Richard’s eyes, wondering why the King seemed so relieved at not having to see Buckingham.

The rebellious Duke had been concealed in a tavern just under the castle walls, a dark, dingy place with ragstone walls and blackened wooden beams. The rushes on the floor looked as if they had not been changed for years, the smell was rank, and I glimpsed a dead cat in the far corner. The place was ringed by knights of the royal household in full armour, with more inside; they sat beneath the flickering cresset torches, silent and menacing. In the centre of the room, the reason for their presence, Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, Constable and Grand Chamberlain of England, now adjudged a traitor, was chained and padlocked to a wooden pillar. I had last seen him in his blue and gold gown at Richard’s coronation but now his greatness was gone. His clothes were in tatters, his blond hair dirty and bedraggled; his proud face was a mass of bruises and raised welts, the lower lip swollen, one eye
half-closed. The captain of the guard stopped me as soon as I entered and, even though he knew me, insisted that I tell him why I had come. Much to my annoyance he searched me for any hidden arms.

‘I am sorry, my Lord,’ he muttered, ‘but the King has authorised this. He is afraid the Duke may seize a knife, despatch himself, and so escape the full rigours of the law.’ Once done, the captain let me through. The Duke stirred as he heard me, peering through his one good eye, turning slightly to glimpse me in the poor light.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘it’s Lovell the dog! Has the King’s cur come to gloat?’

‘Not gloat, my Lord,’ I said. ‘I wish we could have met in more honourable circumstances.’ I knelt down, crouching beside him.

‘Will the King see me?’ Buckingham whispered. I shook my head.

‘You will have a priest and, before the day is out, you will appear before Sir Ralph Assheton.’ Buckingham’s face, despite its horrible bruises, betrayed his fear.

‘I am to die?’ he said hoarsely.

‘Yes, my Lord, you are.’

I could see no point in giving the condemned man false hopes. Buckingham pulled himself up and leaned against the pillar.

‘So, what do you want, Lovell?’

‘The Princes.’

‘Ah!’ Buckingham’s bloodied mouth opened and, if he could he would have grinned. ‘You know the truth, Lovell?’ he whispered. ‘Oh, I have heard how you were digging amongst the filth in London, but you know, Brackenbury knows, Richard knows, God knows, and soon all the kingdom,’ he spat out, ‘will realise our usurper is also an assassin!’

‘Not necessarily, my Lord,’ I replied. ‘You were the last to see the Princes alive. I believe you suborned Slaughter and he killed the Princes on your orders.’
Buckingham threw his head back, the laughter cackling in his throat. He coughed and spluttered, a look of pure malevolence in his one good eye.

‘Your family emblem is well named, Lovell!’ he hissed. ‘You are a dog. You follow your master, nose to the ground. I did not kill Slaughter nor did I kill the Princes. I was never party to that. When I saw them in the royal apartments of the Tower, they were alive and in good health.’ He lunged forward, his bruised face close against mine. ‘Go on, dog! Go and tell your master he is an assassin!’ He spat full in my face.