The Fate of Princes (7 page)

I promptly sought an interview with the Duke of Norfolk, now finishing his preparations to leave the capital. He greeted my arrival with obvious annoyance. He was tired of answering questions about a matter he did not give a fig for whilst, as he said, all around us were seething hotbeds of conspiracy.

‘My Lord,’ I explained, ‘I realise this matter does not concern you but it does me and, I must remind you, also the King. Is there anyone in your household, one of your retinue besides yourself, who could recognise Slaughter?’

‘Why?’ The Duke ceased whatever he was doing and came close. ‘Why, Lovell? What is the matter?’

‘I have examined the coroners’ rolls and believe I have found the corpse of a man who matches Slaughter’s description. He was found on the night of August 2nd near Cheapside and has been interred in a pauper’s grave in St. Botolph’s churchyard outside Newgate. I intend to exhume that body, my Lord, and I want someone to view the corpse.’

Norfolk shrugged, and calling his servant, asked him to send for John Howstead, the sub-controller of the
household. Howstead was a young, dour, bitter-faced fellow who greeted my request with dark looks and bitter muttering. However, when the Duke rapped out an order, the fellow grudgingly agreed to accompany me.

I remember it was a hot day. The streets were packed and the stench was so offensive I kept a nosegay to my face, as much to ward the smells off as provide a disguise. I had also arranged for two workmen from Crosby Hall to accompany three of my retainers, placed a good few paces behind me as protection against any attack. It was a long, hot walk, down Cheapside through the offal and rubbish of the Shambles, past Newgate prison to St. Botolph’s Church. A dark area of the city. Many of the prostitutes who plied their trade in the locality stood in darkened doorways, hair dyed, faces heavily painted, calling out lewd invitations to us as we passed. Howstead, his face plum-coloured with embarrassment, kept up muttered complaints but eventually shut up when I stopped and glared menacingly at him.

The priest of St. Botolph’s answered my pounding at his door. At first he was going to refuse, his poxed, sallow features suffused with righteous indignation. He scratched his shoulder-length, greasy hair and considered my request. Finally, I produced both my dagger and the general warrant from the King. The fellow quickly agreed and, after consulting a book he brought back to the doorway, led me and my companions across the overgrown churchyard to a desolate, shady spot beneath a huge overhanging elm tree.

‘The fellow was buried here,’ he mumbled. ‘I forget exactly where.’ He smiled, showing a row of blackened
teeth. ‘I remember the grave was shallow for the ground was hard to break up. It will be even harder now.’ I gestured to the workmen to begin digging. The priest was right, the ground was iron-hard, and the labourers quietly cursed each other, the task, and, with angry glances at me, high and mighty lords. Time and again they uncovered some pathetic sight, the coffin of a small baby or the yellowing skeleton of some derelict. Howstead, unable to bear these sights, walked away. After a while so did I, standing in the cool porch of the church until the shouts and cries of the priest brought me back.

‘They have found your corpse, my Lord,’ the fellow observed sardonically. ‘Come! Have a look!’ I moved over, noticing the face of one of the workmen was almost a whitish-green. They had disinterred a shapeless canvas bundle. I took my dagger and, holding the nosegay over my nose and mouth, cut the cheap canvas covering. The corpse lay as it had been buried, naked except for a loincloth, any clothes or jewellery having been stripped by either the priest or those who had buried the body. The stench, even after a few days, was rank and offensive and I had to stop myself gagging. The eyes were shut but the mouth yawned open, the skin dirty, puffy-white and damp; from ear to ear ran a long purple gash. I called Howstead over. He took one look, turned away to vomit, nodding his head in recognition.

‘That’s Slaughter!’ he gasped. ‘God damn you but that is Slaughter!’ I patted him gently on the shoulder, tossing coins to both the priest and the labourers.

‘Take care of the corpse,’ I said. ‘Howstead, come with me.’

Outside the churchyard I questioned Howstead carefully. Satisfied with the information, I dismissed him and ordered my three retainers who were waiting there, to follow me at a safe distance. I was glad to be
free of that evil churchyard and Howstead’s mournful company, pleased to be in the sun even though I had to make my way through narrow streets, dirty, greasy and darkened by the houses packed next to each other. The upper tiers were gilted and gabled, jutting out to block the sunlight, built according to chance and hazard rather than any set plan.

I thought of Anne, fresh-faced, vivacious, the cool chambers of Minster Lovell and the lush greenness of its meadowlands. I was tired of London, quietly cursing the King’s task. At last we were back into Cheapside, amongst the stalls, booths, the shop fronts lowered, hanging by chains, the constant din of the tradesmen behind me.

‘Fresh fish!’ ‘Sweet plums!’ ‘Apples fresh off the branch!’ ‘Portions of hot meat!’ ‘Wines from Alsace!’ Apprentices plucked at my arm, trying to inveigle my custom, but I kept my head down and they let me go with strange oaths and cries of ‘Go, by cock!’

Sitting here alone, I realise the contrariness of human nature. Then, I wished to be in Minster Lovell, now I desire to be back in Cheapside with the sun blazing above me and the press of people about me so great I found it difficult to walk. I am sorry – I break my pledge not to look back with the great wisdom of hindsight. At that time I was afraid of being attacked so I kept my face down, taking care to avoid the lords, the young gallants in their silk doublets with fiercely padded shoulders and high waists, their sleeves puffed out in concoctions of velvet, damask and satin. Such men were dangerous; one of them might have recognised me and not every courtier in London, as Norfolk and I knew, was loyal to King Richard. At last I turned off Cheapside, down a number of side-streets, past houses fair and foul. I skirted the Poultry, where the stench of offal from the slaughter-houses made me feel nauseous as I remembered the corpse I had just viewed.

I entered Farringdon Ward, crossing the great stinking cattle-market of Smithfield and into the cool darkness of the tavern, the one Howstead had directed me to, ‘The Sun in Splendour’. The landlord came bustling up, one calloused hand combing back his dank, rat-tailed hair. I looked at his watery eyes and yellow buckteeth and wished to God the business was over and I was gone. I ordered a pot of ale and asked to see his daughter. The man grinned and was about to nudge me as if I was some fellow-conspirator but I glared at him and moved away to sit in a corner. His daughter, Isabella, was a pleasing contrast, tidily dressed, her dark hair pinned up under her veil. She was sweet-faced, eager to please until I mentioned Slaughter’s name. She was about to move away but I ordered her to sit down.

‘I mean you no harm, mistress,’ I said. ‘But you were sweet on Master Slaughter, or Black Will as he was known?’ The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘Why do you say “was”, Sir?’ she asked. ‘Has anything happened to him?’

‘No. No,’ I lied. ‘You were the only person he talked to?’ She nodded. ‘Did he ever tell you about his tasks?’ She shook her head. ‘When did you see him last?’ I asked gently. The girl looked down at her hands.

‘Ten, twelve days ago,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I remember, the 1st of August. It was the beginning of the month. In the evening. He came here, furtive and restless. He left and I have not seen him since.’ I looked into her childlike grey eyes and believed that of all the people I had questioned in London, she was telling the truth. I dug into my purse and, taking out a gold coin, pressed it into the palm of her hand. She thanked me with her eyes.

‘Sir,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know where Slaughter is? Will he return?’

‘No,’ I lied, not bothering to turn. ‘No, I do not know where he is, but I do not think he will ever return.’

I returned to Crosby Hall convinced that Slaughter’s death had something to do with the Princes’ disappearance. I also felt my work in London was finished. Any further stay would only endanger myself and raise more questions. Norfolk left London on the 11th, Belknap had already gone, so I ordered my retainers to pack and on the 14th left London, riding hard and fast along the old Roman road, on to the country lanes past Banbury to Minster Lovell. I was pleased to be free of the city. The summer had been long and golden, the corn was ready for harvest and the birdsong on the clear air warmed my heart. After two days of travel I entered the green lush fields of my manor. I glimpsed the red-tiled roof and yellow bricked walls of the Minster and heard the sweet gurgling sound of the Windrush as it flowed between green banks down to turn the wheel of an old cornmill.

Anne was waiting for me as I had sent a retainer ahead. She came running into the yard, her long hair streaming in the soft breeze, throwing her arms round my neck before I had scarcely dismounted. Poor Anne! Sweet Anne! If we had only known the terrors which lay ahead of us. The church is right to condemn and castigate those who attempt to divine the future.

I am sure that if we knew we would lose the will to live. Nonetheless, these days of dalliance at Minster Lovell were some of the sweetest in my life. Anne had used my new-found wealth to decorate and beautify the hall: new beeswax candles in the candlebeams, diamond-shaped glass in the windows of our chamber, a huge new bed standing on a dais with four gilt posts and draped by a cloth of velvet and gold, embroidered with the silver dogs of my escutcheon. We used the bed soon enough, laughing and teasing one another. Anne pointed out the new drapes she had bought, the cloth of red-gold arras depicting the scene from the Bible, ‘Susannah and the Judges’, as well as the new chairs
covered with red leather bearing the silver-white dog of the Lovells. I teased Anne for being a spendthrift but she only laughed all the more, claiming she had bought most of the materials before I left Minster Lovell. She had kept them hidden, wanting to surprise me.

We spent days walking in the huge garden which lies at the back of the manor, sitting on the bank of the Windrush, the fragrance of white lilies, marjoram and wine-dark roses as sweet as any perfume about us. Other times I helped her in the herb garden. She taught me the difference between lavender, hyssop, pennyroyal, camomile and other sweet-smelling flowers and herbs. At night, long banquets with only the two of us as guests, as we ate young porpoise, salted hart, lampreys, quails, venison pastries, baked quinces and goblet after goblet of different wines. She would tease me all the time, especially with riddles. Now, seated near the great hall where she and I loved and kissed, I can almost hear her voice, bubbling with laughter, calling out her favourite riddle:

She would not tell me the answer, but now, the tears wet on my cheeks, I smile for I knew she referred to the eye.

I had not told Anne about the King’s task. I did not
wish to trouble her with the sludge and filth of the Court, but at times her gaiety was brittle. I would catch her looking at me, carefully, guardedly. I would smile and she would chatter on about her father, Lord Fitzhugh, or the business and affairs of her sisters. One night as we lay beneath the red-gold canopy of the bed, she turned, stroking my face, and asked:

‘Francis, I know there is something wrong.’ She propped herself up on her elbow. ‘It is the King,’ she said, looking down at me. ‘I have heard the rumours and gossip, Francis,’ she continued. ‘Men plot and conspire constantly against him. I do not worry about Richard, but should he fall he will take you with him.’

‘Yet the King has raised me up,’ I replied. ‘Our family emblem is a dog, but one which hunts, not runs at the slightest sign of danger,’ and, gathering her into my arms, I refused to talk any further.

The following day I prepared to leave, discussing with Anne the different accounts of the manor and our other holdings in Yorkshire and Nottingham. I refused to fix a date for my return. I remembered our conversation the previous evening and gave her strict instructions that if things went untoward, she was to flee Minster Lovell and seek sanctuary with her father. Once I knew she had left the hall on some errand or other, I went to my secret chamber built behind the great fireplace. My father had devised this place when rebuilding the hall, a small room behind the great hearth where I kept a number of valuables, private papers and documents. There, in a coffer, I placed the memoranda I had drawn up in London about the King’s secret task.

I left Minster Lovell late that same afternoon and, accompanied by my retainers, travelled to the King at Pontefract where he was preparing for his great entrance into the city of York. His Grace’s love of York was well-known and he looked forward to his visits as
any child does to a mummer’s play at Christmas. He was too busy and excited to converse with me. His wife, Anne (the young Neville heiress), and his only son, Edward, had also joined him but when I saw these I secretly despaired. The Queen was thin, emaciated, her once rounded face was white, almost sallow and she was constantly racked by convulsive fits of coughing. The young prince was no better; a pale shadow of his father, he was weak, listless, and had to be conveyed everywhere in a specially constructed horse-litter. There were others of the Court present: William Catesby, Sir Richard Ratcliffe and Sir James Tyrrell. The latter looked at me strangely and I suspected the smiles on their fox-like faces hid a deep curiosity about my whereabouts. The only person beside the King who seemed genuinely joyful was Richard’s ubiquitous and loyal secretary, John Kendall; he informed me how the burgesses of York had been preparing for a month to welcome Richard, how the mayor and aldermen had already sent the King gifts of wine, cygnets, herons and rabbits.