The Fate of Princes

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A bloody war. An infamous king. A legendary story. Paul Doherty explores the mystery of the Princes in the Tower in his unforgettable novel, The Fate of the Princes. Perfect for fans of C.J Sansom and Susanna Gregory. In this gripping novel, master historian Paul Doherty explores the iconic mystery of the Princes in the Tower. Did they die? Were they killed? Or did they escape? Paul Doherty offers a dramatic and intriguing solution, and an original interpretation of a well-known mystery. What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'An interesting take on the story - would definitely recommend this book' 'Mr. Doherty's research is only topped by his imagination ' 'Paul Doherty's books are a joy to read '

Release date: June 6, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 192

Sample

Fifteenth century England was dominated by a savage, bloody civil war between the Houses of York and Lancaster. The source of this conflict was the weak-willed, ineffectual Henry VI who had neither the energy nor aptitude for rule. Instead, the government was dominated by his strong-minded wife, Margaret of Anjou, aided and abetted by the Duke of Somerset, who held the kingdom in the hope that one day Henry VI’s young son, Edward, would continue the Lancastrian line.

In the 1450s the powerful Richard, Duke of York, supported by the Earl of Warwick and other Yorkist war lords, challenged the Lancastrian right to rule, putting forward his own claim to the throne. A series of vicious battles took place; Richard, Duke of York, was killed outside Wakefield but the war was continued by his able brood of sons: Edward (later Edward IV), George, (later Duke of Clarence) and Richard (later Duke of Gloucester and Richard III). Edward of York proved to be a brilliant general. Although he later quarrelled with Warwick (who went over to the House of Lancaster) Edward IV decisively destroyed Lancastrian fortunes in two great battles in 1471: at Barnet just north of London and Tewkesbury in the west. Margaret of Anjou was taken prisoner and her son killed at Tewkesbury, Warwick died at Barnet and Henry VI mysteriously perished in the Tower of London.

Edward settled down to rule. The only threats he faced were those posed by his younger brother George, Duke of Clarence, who resented the growing influence of Edward’s queen, Elizabeth Woodville. A widow, formerly married to Lord Grey, Elizabeth had sons by her first marriage and allowed her brother, Anthony Grey, Earl Rivers, and other members of her large, extended family to secure high office and sources of patronage, as well as Clarence’s downfall, for he was judiciously murdered in the Tower, leaving the Woodville faction supreme.

Although Edward IV had his mistresses, Elizabeth Woodville had borne him two young princes (Edward and Richard) and a bevy of daughters. Edward IV’s brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, continued to be loyal, serving his brother in the north and on the Scottish march. Suddenly, in April 1483, Edward IV died of a mysterious illness. The Woodvilles dominated the council whilst Elizabeth’s brother, Earl Rivers, controlled the young Prince Edward, the heir-apparent. Their only opponent was Richard of Gloucester who knew the Woodvilles hated him.

In the early summer of 1483 Richard, aided and abetted by Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, staged a brilliant coup d’état. They both invited Earl Rivers to a conference at Stony Stratford but there, Rivers and his companions were arrested and the young Prince Edward was taken by his Uncle Richard who now marched on London. The Woodvilles fled in panic, the Queen to Westminster Abbey, others more fortunate across the seas where the only remaining Lancastrian claimant, Henry Tudor, lived in penurious exile. Richard arrived in London with his own council. Any who opposed him were ruthlessly removed, including Lord William Hastings, Edward IV’s old friend and chamberlain. Richard then proclaimed how his dead brother’s marriage to Elizabeth Woodville was bigamous as his brother had been betrothed to Lady Eleanor Butler. Consequently, his own nephews were bastards and could not succeed to the throne; Richard had himself crowned whilst his young nephews disappeared into the cold fastness of the Tower of London.

The true nature of Richard’s character and the fate of these Princes has always fascinated historians. This dramatic novel, based on documentary evidence, solves not only these mysteries but that of Francis, Viscount Lovell, one of Richard’s closest friends, who was last seen fleeing the battle of East Stoke in 1487.

August-December 1483

Where do I begin? How does one describe and plumb the depths of an evil mystery? One which has grown wild like a briar bush up the walls, along the ground, ready to trip all who come close. So it is with my story. Perhaps it will not glimpse the light of day or have its truths proclaimed for the world to see and hear. I talk about the fate of princes, evil acts in dark, sombre places. Perhaps I should just sit and write while my strength lasts. I, Francis Lovell, Viscount, Chief Butler and Chamberlain of England, the friend and special envoy of Richard III; I, who fought for him at Bosworth and again at East Stoke. Now, locked in the darkness, the certainty of death facing me, I have no other task, no other duty but to tell the truth. But not with hindsight. Oh, no! Truthfully, as events unfurled, like one reads a manuscript, moving from one page to the next.

So where shall I begin? Perhaps here in Minster Lovell. In that late golden summer of 1483 with the early morning sun streaming through the windows of the great hall. I, still bleary-eyed, standing at the doorway, watching King Richard sitting before an empty fire, slouched in a high-backed chair, my favourite, with its black embroidered silk head and arm-rests. He just sat there in his dark-purple hose and red doublet, open at the neck, showing the lace of a cambric shirt, one hand, heavily jewelled, pressed against the russet hair. His face pale and pinched, with thin, bloodless lips, the King looked like some stealthy fox brought to bay by a huntsman. For some strange reason I felt vexed at the ease with which he slouched in my hall. I forgot he was crowned only a few weeks earlier, anointed with holy oil and adorned with crown, orb and sceptre, as he was proclaimed England’s new King amidst the heavy clouds of incense and the glorious chants of the choir of Westminster Abbey.

I could not, must not forget that Richard was now King of this realm. I must not think about Hastings’ body tossed beside a log in the Tower courtyard, the head rolled off like a ball, just lying there in a pool of dark crimson blood. No, I must not think of that. Or of the two Princes, his brother’s children, bastards maybe, but locked away in the cold Tower, and their mother, the witch bitch, Elizabeth Woodville, in sanctuary at Westminster. Yet, on that morning, despite the golden sun, I felt the hall was crowded by ghosts: Richard’s brother, gorgeous, golden-haired George of Clarence, mysteriously done to death, his body now mouldering beneath his marble tomb near the high altar of Tewkesbury Abbey; the Earl of Rivers, Woodville’s brother, the greatest knight of his age, the guardian of the two small princes – a man of fleshly lusts, who tried to curb them with a hair shirt but God was not appeased. Richard had Rivers arrested and sent to the headsman’s block. I had to remember Richard was King, that the death of Rivers and others was necessary. If not, the Woodvilles would have closed in like a pack of dogs and torn him to pieces. They say the dead live in another world, but I think they are constantly with us and Richard was never alone. His enemies were always with him. The living plagued his days and I believe at night the dead crowded round him to sing their mournful vespers.

I wondered if I should leave, return to Anne, my wife, warm and welcoming in our great bed in the chamber above. As I turned, the King called out:

‘Francis! Francis! You are not leaving without wishing me a fair day?’ I looked back. Richard’s face was now transformed by a lopsided smile. He was vulnerable, like the young boy I had played with at Middleham Castle. We were both pages to the great Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the soi-disant kingmaker, killed at Barnet, fleeing from a battle he never wished to fight.

‘Your Grace,’ I replied merrily, ‘you seem so sad?’ The King brought up his other hand, hidden on the far side of the chair, and I saw the slip of parchment which started our descent into hell.

‘What is it, your Grace?’

‘What is it, your Grace?’ Richard mimicked spitefully. His smile had not reached the hard green eyes, which blazed with a subdued fury. He lifted the parchment up again.

‘This, Francis, is our fate. The undoing of ourselves.’ He sighed and dropped the paper into his lap. ‘Francis, we are finished.’

‘What does it say, your Grace?’

‘Not much, but everything,’ Richard replied. ‘It’s from Brackenbury.’ I stared at the King. I knew Sir Robert well; small, dark, fierce, one of the King’s most loyal followers and also Constable of the Tower of London. The very thought made my throat go dry. My stomach lurched as it does when I see a dead man or some fearful phantasm of the night. Now the sunlight, as well as the warmth, disappeared. The hall became an icy stage and I and Richard III of England were the only creatures under the sun. The wheel of fortune, the whirl of politics, the hustle and bustle of unbounding ambition were reduced to this: two men in a hall and the nightmare between them, unspoken and indescribable. Is it not strange how the greatest terrors are those which cannot be explained? Yet they clutch your heart with an iron grip and threaten to stifle the breath in your throat.

‘What is it?’ I whispered hoarsely.

‘The Princes,’ Richard muttered, looking away. ‘They have gone!’

‘In God’s sweet name, Richard!’ I bellowed, forgetting all his honours and sacred titles. ‘What do you mean, gone? Where, for the sake of the sweet Christ, tell me?’

Richard turned, slowly, like a man does in a dream, or beneath the river when he swims against the current. Slowly. Dreadfully. I knew there was a lie, an abominable lie, in what he said.

‘The Princes have gone,’ he said quietly. ‘Vanished! No one knows where.’

I slumped onto a bench running alongside a trestle-table.

‘The Princes were guarded,’ I said bleakly. ‘Guarded by Brackenbury in the White Tower.’ My voice rose. ‘In God’s name, your Grace, they cannot vanish! Have you . . .?’ I stopped: the accusation hung between us aimed like some mythical dagger at the heart of Richard’s crown. The King glared back, one hand up in a threatening gesture, his green narrow eyes hooded and secretive.

‘Have I killed them? Is that what you’re saying, Francis? Will you join the whisperers? The secretive ones who skulk behind the arras of the chamber, the curtain of the hall, or the rood screen of the church? Those who gleefully murmur to this sickened world how I, the so-called crouchback, killed Henry of Lancaster, my own brothers George of Clarence and Edward the King, and, now I am on my throne, swim deeper in the innocent blood of my nephews?’ Richard laughed mirthlessly as if savouring some secret jest. Then he rose, kicked at one of the logs stacked to the side of the great canopied hearth. ‘It’s a lie, Francis. You lie. Your eyes lie. In God’s name, they all lie and you will be the person who sticks such lies in their throats!’ He raised his head and stared at me, biting his lower lip, all the time playing with a dagger, a small bejewelled affair, stuck in a small gold-encrusted scabbard in his belt, Richard’s favourite gesture when he was angry or nervous. ‘You are to London, Francis. You are to go there and find the truth of this. The whereabouts of my nephews.’ He glared viciously at me as if fighting some private inner demon.

‘You will have your letters and your warrants to search out the truth. If Brackenbury is guilty, I will have his head. His or any others, be it the highest in the land, even if it is Buckingham. He will hang from the stars of heaven!’ I stared coolly back. Buckingham, haughty Buckingham with his dark-red hair and his arrogant hawklike face, always dressed in purple, always hinting how he, too, had royal blood in his veins. Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham, was a man to watch. Richard and I stared at each other. Buckingham had helped Richard to the throne, sworn great oaths and made sweet promises, but Richard watched him, always on guard. The Duke had not followed our progress through the kingdom after Richard’s coronation. Instead, making excuses with kind words and honeyed phrases, he had hurried back to Brecon and his powerful fiefdom in the south-west.

Richard did not trust him. I did not like him. Had not the King given into Buckingham’s hands Bishop John Morton, that arch-plotter, that man of the church who hid a voracious hunger for temporal power? Morton, Henry Tudor’s greatest supporter in England. Richard and I had wanted Morton held fast in the Tower, but Buckingham with his sly ways and devious talk had persuaded the King to release Morton into his care. Worse, only two days previously Richard and I had listened to spies from Buckingham’s household. How the Duke was plotting mischief, conspiring with the King’s enemies. He was deep in conversation with that sanctimonious bitch, Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond and mother of Henry Tudor, a woman only allowed her liberty because of her second marriage to the powerful Lord Stanley.

Richard broke the silence, smiling secretively at me.

‘Even if it’s Buckingham,’ he whispered, ‘I will have his head! You are to leave no stone unturned, encounter no obstacle!’ Richard looked at me, touching me gently on the cheek before he stalked out of the hall, shouting for his grooms, huntsmen. He wanted to hunt and forget his cares. I just sat in that cold hall. Anne came down. Warm, sleepy-eyed. She clutched my hand and pressed her body against mine but I ignored her, so, wrapped in her heavy cloak, she went into the buttery at the far end of the hall to organise the servants. I watched her go, envying her absorption with ordinary daily tasks while I wondered if I had fastened my fortunes, and those of Anne, to a falling star? Bright and fiery but falling like Lucifer through the heavens. Richard Plantagenet, fourth son of Richard of York, the brother and uncle of kings, now wearing the crown himself. I tried to be cold, impassive, logical, forgetting the young boy I had grown up with, united by those deep bonds forged in childhood. But, who else could I follow? Two young boys, his brother’s sons, supposedly locked away in the Tower of London? Or the red dragon, Henry Tudor, the Welshman, now skulking in the chill bleak courts of Brittany? No, I was held fast to Richard of York.

But were the stories true? Was Richard a murderous assassin? Did he have the same cunning and lust for killing as the White Boar, his favourite emblem? Was Richard my master, now my King, the boy who had played in the dusty courtyards and reedy marshes of Middleham, a regicide? This prince, who founded chantries, loved music and learning, a bloodstained sinner in God’s eyes? The man who had knighted me on our campaigns against the Scots; created me a Viscount, Constable of Wallingford Castle, Chief Butler and Chamberlain of his household. Was he really a murderer? Only weeks earlier I had encouraged him to take the marble chair of King’s Bench, the symbol of royal justice in Westminster Hall. I had been there carrying the sword of state when Richard and his frail Queen, Anne, walked the broad ribbon of red cloth up to the high altar of the Abbey to be crowned with all the pomp and glory of church and state as Richard III of England.

Richard was my king, but, on that morning, I had to face the rumours and scandals I had so far ignored. His brother had died: Edward, King of England, golden-haired, standing over six feet, the champion of England, the destroyer of the House of Lancaster. He had seized the throne and held it fast, marrying the woman who caught his heart and satisfied his every lust, Elizabeth Woodville, a widow and, as so. . .