The Fate of Princes Read online

  I thought of Russell, a man skilled in church and state yet his allegiance was now wavering. Above all, Buckingham. He who had supported Richard throughout. He was party to the seizure of the Princes; now he had changed, while his sinister agent, Percivalle, was busy as any farmer sowing seeds of discontent. The Princes must be dead; their murder had changed mens’ hearts and the King was tricking me. No, I lie. At that time, sitting in the shadows of the wood-panelled hall of Crosby Place, I believed the Princes were gone and half suspected Richard was their bloody abductor.

  I dismissed Belknap, sitting opposite me, his goblet half raised to his lips, watching me strangely. After a while I adjourned to my own chamber. I had bloody dreams that night, dreadful phantasms, horrid nightmares of being in an upper chamber in the Tower. I knew it was there, for through an open casement window I could hear the caw of the ravens and sounds from the river. Two young boys asleep on pallet beds. Above them, a shadowy figure, dagger in hand; in the other hand a soft, thick, velvet cushion which would block your mouth, cutting the breath off for ever. Time and again I called out for him to stop. Each time he turned I saw Richard’s face, pale, white, pinched, the green eyes staring malevolently at me, his red hair flaring out like the wings of a hawk as it closes in for the kill. God knows, I tossed and turned, wrestling with my fears. I was finally roused just after dawn by a servant, my eyes still heavy with sleep, my throat dry, my body covered in a sheen of sweat.

  The fellow declared that His Grace the Duke of Norfolk had arrived and was waiting for me below stairs in the buttery. I wrapped a cloak about me and, bellowing for Belknap, hurried down. I knew Norfolk well and liked him; God rest his soul and forgive the evil he did but, after such a night, I welcomed his arrival fondly, remembering this bustling, self-important man who enjoyed playing cards and chess and delighted in nothing better than a mummer’s play, or listening to skilled musicians. He was nonetheless a brave soldier, a shrewd general and one of the best sea captains England ever had. God bless the Jockey of Norfolk!

  The Duke was waiting for me in the buttery. He was dressed in a long gown of black satin lined with purple velvet over a satin doublet of a popinjay colour with hose to match, feet thrust into stout leather riding-boots. His thick, fat fingers were covered with rings, a collar of gold with roses and suns on a chain of black silk with a hanger of gold around his neck. He looked an incongruous sight. A mixture of yeoman and courtier, soldier and scholar, his huge frame seemed to fill the small room. In one hand he held a deep-bowled goblet of wine, in the other, some food snatched from the kitchen. He stood, like the sailor he was, legs apart as if commanding a cog against French or Scottish corsairs. His white leonine head was thrown back, his fleshy face wreathed in smiles, though his eyes were hard and watchful.

  ‘Lovell!’ he roared, putting the goblet on the table and tossing the food into a corner. Wiping his hands and mouth on his robe, he swept me up in one great bear hug so I could smell his sweat and perfume, as well as the gusts of wine-soaked breath as he kissed me hard on each cheek.

  ‘Be careful!’ he whispered. ‘Be very careful what you say! Belknap is behind you. Get rid of him!’ I smiled, stepped away and turned round. The Duke was right, Belknap lounged against the door; dressed completely in dark velvet, he looked like some bird of prey.

  ‘Thomas,’ I said softly. ‘Leave us for the moment.’ The man nodded and walked away. Norfolk, going after him, closed the door and this small gesture stirred my fears. When the Duke turned, his face was grim. We sat like two servant boys on stools facing each other.

  ‘His Grace has sent you,’ Norfolk began. I was about to stammer some polite reply but Norfolk clutched me tightly by the knee.

  ‘Francis, no lies! I have heard the rumours: in Cheapside, near the Standard, around St. Paul’s, in the villages and towns of Kent, men say the Princes have gone, been killed. They talk of conspiracy and rebellion.’

  ‘What if such rumours are true?’

  Norfolk turned and spat in the corner.

  ‘God’s teeth, man. What do I care about two puking bastards? Are we to sit on the ground and mourn for them? You have been in battle, Lovell. You were in Scotland with me when we were chasing King James’s bare-arsed soldiers across the heather. We took towns and sacked them. Young boys died then. Who weeps for them? Or the young Desmond boys?’ The Duke looked at me. ‘You remember the Irish earl. He told King Edward that he could have married better and the Woodville bitch never forgave him. She later had him killed and his young bairns with him.’ The Duke tossed his head. ‘I do not care for the Princes. I care for myself, Lovell. I am almost sixty years of age. I have been fighting for the House of York for almost a quarter of a century. I joined young Edward at the battle of Towton with a sword in one hand and a bag of gold in the other. Since then I have not looked back. I owe all to the House of York.’ He stopped and stared at the ground. ‘The fate of the Princes,’ he continued quietly, ‘wherever they may be, heaven or hell, Ireland or France, is only important if men can prove that they were killed by their uncle. That is what bothers me. The growing whispering campaign against our King. Everywhere I go I hear the same stories. How the King is a monster, born with hair and teeth, a crouchback. A hog. The despoiler of children. These rumours have been carefully sown and this business of the Princes might well be the fiery torch to the dry stubble.’

  ‘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.’

  Four

  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 clic
ked 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.’