“And my nephew now lies headless in a wood box in Salis-bury.”
“Harry Buckingham is dead?” Nell was incredulous.
“When Richard reached the town where he had taken refuge, Harry pleaded for an audience with the king.”
“Would he not grant it?” Nell asked.
“Richard of Gloucester is a spiteful man,” Margaret asserted.
Nell felt compelled to defend him. “Lord Buckingham did betray the king badly.”
“I think the king is weak-livered and sentimental. He remembered how strong was Harry Buckingham’s influence on him.
He’d led Gloucester round by the nose from the moment they met up in Northampton. He single-handedly placed Richard—a most reluctant king—onto the throne. He knew that if he saw Harry face-to-face he would forgive him. Pardon him. And Richard does not wish the world to see him as he really is. Thus, the refusal for an audience. Thus, the execution. Now go and help the scribes bring out the documents to burn.”
“Must
everything
be destroyed?”
“Perhaps ’tis not clear to you, Mistress Caxton, but I will shortly be arrested for my part in this insurrection, this ‘treason.’ The less they have of my plans committed to paper, the greater my chances of surviving with my head intact upon my body.”
“I understand.” Nell turned to go.
“Wait,” said Lady Margaret. Nell turned back. “What said Lady Bessie and her mother to our offer?”
“What
said
they?” Nell replied stupidly. She wondered what it could possibly matter, now that Henry Tudor’s rebellion had been stillborn.
“Out with it, girl. I do not pay you to repeat my questions like a silly child.”
“Forgive me. Lady Bessie and her mother were amenable to your son’s offer of marriage.”
It was the first sign of pleasure Nell had seen Margaret display.
The woman noticed Nell’s quizzical expression. “You wonder why it should matter now,” she said.
“I do wonder, Lady Margaret.”
“Because this is one small battle lost, and every day one lives and breathes brings new opportunities. My Henry is alive and well in Brittany. And he is destined to be King of England. His time will come, and when it does, the York princess will be his bride . . . Ah, Reggie!”
“My lady.”
As Reginald Bray appeared and knelt to kiss Margaret’s hand, Nell felt herself summarily dismissed. Four men carrying a huge casket of gold coins blocked her way, allowing her to linger long enough to hear Reggie say, “When do you wish me to leave for Barkley?” and Margaret’s reply: “This evening. I wish you to travel at night, arrive before dawn.”
The bearers having gone past, Nell was forced to move away and no more could be heard of Lady Margaret and Reginald Bray’s conversation.
But much sooner than she expected, Bray was off
to Barkley Manor, where no business went on except the captivity of the
princes of England. There could be no good end to his trip there
.
Nell moved through the motions of helping the scribes pull documents from the shelves, then carried them out, straining to hear what Margaret and Reggie Bray were saying, but their heads were close and they were whispering now. Nell could see a sinister smile playing about the man’s lips, and she imagined he was taking pleasure in the thought of snuffing out the lives of the two young Yorks.
She must delay his leaving!
It could not be long before she had word from her father of his plans. But if Reginald Bray arrived at Barkley Manor before Caxton’s rescue party, Edward and Dickon would surely be murdered.
Please, Father,
Nell silently prayed,
send word. Send it soon. Send it now!
How bad can the man be, after all?” said Elizabeth Woodville. She was beginning to lose her patience.
“Spawn of that midget woman, Lady Margaret,” Bessie replied with disgust. “He might be despicable. He might look like her!”
“That ‘midget woman’ is going to be your mother-in-law, my dear, so you’d best learn to love her and her son.”
“I’ll marry Henry Tudor, Mother, but if you expect me to—”
Without warning the sanctuary door flew open and two ladies, elegantly cloaked in velvet and ermine, hurried inside and shut the door behind them. They pushed their deep hoods back to reveal two girls whom Bessie instantly recognized as prostitutes from Totehill Street.
Bessie stood to greet them. “You’re Nell’s friends from the precinct,” she said. “Come in, come in.”
“What is the meaning of this?” said Elizabeth. “Who are these people, Bessie?”
“They’re whores, Mother.”
“That we are,” said the dark-haired one with not a little pride. “I’m Rose and this here’s me sister Lily.” As if suddenly remembering, she elbowed Lily, and they both curtsied, first to Bessie and then to her mother. “But today we’re somethin’ more, me and me sister. Today we’re—”
“But how did you get past the guards?” Elizabeth rudely interrupted.
“Oh, madam, you wouldn’t want the gory details,” Rose assured her.
“Maybe she would,” her sister said with a lascivious grin.
“Shut up, Lil. But the point is, good ladies, we’ve come from Master Caxton with news.”
“News!” Bessie turned excitedly to her mother. “We have had so few messages from outside.”
“How goes the rebellion?” Elizabeth had forgotten the lowly status of the couriers and came forward to hear them.
“The rebellion?” said Lily. “Oh, ’tis dead. Dead as Harry Buckin’am, cradlin’ his handsome head in his lap.”
“Buckingham is executed?” Elizabeth Woodville was trying to understand. “But what of the invasion? All those ships from Brittany?”
“That Tudor fella, he turned tail and sailed home to France,” Rose answered.
Bessie could hardly contain her joy.
“But listen now,” said Rose. “That ain’t the reason we’ve come.”
“Yes it is!” cried Lily.
“The
other
news,” Rose reminded her sister. “The
important
news.”
“What could be more important than news of the failed invasion?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Welll. . .” said Rose, drawing her answer out dramatically.
“You might think the young princes bein’ alive might be a tad more important.”
“My sons are alive?” Elizabeth sought her chair, for her knees had suddenly gone wobbly.
“I knew it,” said Bessie, her own body sagging with relief.
“Where are they? When can we see them?” She turned to Elizabeth. “Mother, they’re alive!”
The woman’s eyes were glazed over.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bessie shouted at her. “Edward and Dickon are alive!”
“Alive,” Elizabeth murmured, “but bastards still. Edward deposed. And Henry Tudor gone, his invasion failed.” Bessie turned on her mother with fury. “And I no longer a queen-to-be? Your precious plans in tatters? Has your heart turned entirely to stone?”
Elizabeth said nothing in reply.
“Go to the devil!” Bessie cried, then turned back to the streetwalkers. She took their hands in hers. “Tell me more,” she said. “Tell me all you know!”
Waiting for word from her father seemed an eternity, whilst the hours till Reggie Bray’s departure for Barkley flew by. She made an excuse to with-draw and had gone immediately to John. He had a strategy, he told her, but was unable to begin till it was known which vehicle or mount Margaret’s henchman would be using to travel north.
Now Lady Margaret was keeping Nell maddeningly busy in the office. The couriers were piling up outside the carven door, and when each, in turn, arrived bringing updates of King Richard’s movements, or Henry’s journey back across the Channel, their messages needed logging in and recording. Nell shared these duties with the first correspondence secretary, so frantic was the pace, and with Margaret’s “secret” revealed, Nell was privy to the contents of the documents received from the rebellions co-conspirators.
Bishop Morton sent word that after Harry Buckingham’s execution he was fleeing the country. It became apparent through his letters to Lady Margaret that during his “house arrest” at Buckingham’s Welsh estate, Morton had been instrumental in urging “poor Harry” to join forces with Henry Tudor.
“ ’Twas Bishop Morton who planted the idea of Harry rebelling in order to take the throne from Richard for
himself,
” Margaret muttered cynically. “Now the man would have me think he supported my son from the beginning. Does he really think me that naive?”
“I cannot imagine anyone thinking you naive, madam,” said Nell.
“Elizabeth Woodville’s kin are fleeing as well,” said Margaret offhandedly.
“Should you not attempt to leave yourself?” Nell inquired. “If the charge be treason—”
“My husband has done his job well,” Margaret replied with something like pride. “He stayed close to Richard through the entire uprising, always professing his loyalty. I shall be spared the ultimate punishment.”
“But how could the king have trusted Lord Stanley during the rebellion?” Nell wanted to know. “ ’Twas his own stepson, Henry Tudor, trying to usurp Richard’s throne . . . with Stanley’s wife’s backing!”
“My Thomas is a very clever man. Sometimes I think there is magic in his ability to inspire trust where none should be given.”
“Mistress Caxton?” The latest messenger to be admitted to the office stood before the desk.
“Yes?” Nell’s heart lurched.
Please God, be a message from my father,
she thought.
The young man handed her a folded parchment. It took every mote of control not to sigh with relief to see William Caxton’s distinctive wax seal closing it.
Nell looked to Margaret for permission to read it. She nodded her assent.
Nell’s hands shook, but as she read aloud—for she was sure Lady Margaret’s curiosity would require satisfaction—she calmed. Her father’s ruse was so clever. “ ‘Dear Nell, I am writing to you in private, for I do not wish that your father should know of this letter. He would be cross with me. But my master is ill, much more so than he will admit.’ ”
Nell looked to Margaret with a stricken expression. Margaret too looked alarmed, as she was sincerely fond of William Caxton.
“This is written by my father’s apprentice, Jan de Worde,” Nell said, then continued reading. “ ‘He would not like you to leave Lady Margaret’s service at so difficult a time for her, but I fear that if you do not hurry home quickly’ ”—Nell paused and clutched her throat before continuing in a wavering voice—
“ ‘he may not live long enough for you to see him alive again.
Your friend, Jan.’ ”
Nell quickly glanced at the page bottom to find her further instructions, but looked up quickly and fixed Margaret with pleading eyes.
“Well, of course you must go,” she said, barely able to contain her frustration.
“Thank you, Lady Margaret!” Nell began to turn away, then hesitated. “May I have John drive me? He has been—”
“Take whomever you like,” Margaret snapped, then added in a more kindly tone, “I will pray to Saint Stephen for your father’s recovery.”
ust before dark Nell found John in the stables, which Jwere, like the house, in a state of mad confusion, with many more horses and riders and carriages coming and going than could comfortably be accommodated by the stable hands.
“Where have you been, Nell?” John whispered urgently. “I’ve learned what carriage Reggie Bray will be taking to Barkley, but I need your help to—” He looked round them. “Come on.”
She followed him to the coach house, where Lady Margaret’s four rigs were in various states of readiness. A smith was pounding noisily on the metal undercarriage of a caravan, and liverymen were busy cleaning and polishing Lady Margaret’s conveyances inside and out.
John nodded silently in the direction of the very coach they had arrived in that morning.
“He’s taking that one?” she asked quietly.
John nodded. “Pretend we are talking together,” he said.
He moved to a position in which Nell’s skirts were blocking him in case anyone should look in their direction. “Have we received our instructions?” he said, bending over the coach’s steel-and-leather harness. A hammer and sharp chisel were suddenly produced, and as he and Nell continued their conversation, she advising him of their instructions, John would watch and wait for the smith to strike at the metal undercarriage, then himself strike at the harness’s central shaft in perfect syncopation.
It took six precisely placed blows before the driver stood and smiled at Nell. “Master Bray should make it ten miles or less before the shaft snaps. ’Twill create a goodly delay.”
“Brilliant! Now, what coach might
we
take?” John looked round them. “These are all spoken for.”
“Pity we cannot steal one.”
“We may have to ride. Are you able, Nell?”
“I do not ride all that well, but I can if I must.”
“I swear if I were a lady I would ride badly too, both legs slung over one side of the horse.” He thought for a moment. “If I give you a pair of breeches to wear under your skirts, you can ride like a man.”
“I like the sound of that,” she said. “Anything that will get us to Barkley before Reggie Bray.”
. . .
he way north had been so badly damaged that had they Tused a coach, the trip would have taken days. In many places, crews of men worked with saws and winches removing fallen trees that blocked the road. There were countless funeral processions, and whole villages crushed and leveled by the storm.
It was just before dawn when they reached the manor, but fearful of being spotted, they took the river path from Brentford Bridge, and at the Barkley dock and boathouse—thankfully unattended and set far back from the castle—they waited for the rest of the party to arrive.
Whilst the storm had clearly passed, the Thames was still running high and fast from the Westcountry toward London, and Nell worried that her father’s plan to use the river for transportation was ill conceived.
They peered downstream into the dark for hours, and Nell began to despair that the rescue would take place at all. Whilst Reggie Bray would surely have been impeded by John’s fouling of the carriage harness and the bad roads, the man, a loyal servant on so vital a mission, would surely find a way round all im-pediments.