The Traitors of Bosworth

Book 0: Wars of the Roses

by Robert Farrington

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1487: Wars of the Roses are over, but for one man the battle burns on The battle of Stoke Field is won. With the help of his spy and Richard III's one-time right-hand man Henry Morane, King Henry VII has quashed the rebels and now turns to the defence of the realm as England's spy network extends its fingers. His life as ever, in the balance, Morane is sent to York, Bristol and Flanders by the King to thwart the threat of invasion, led secretly by Richard III's sister, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, while a full-scale rebellion brews at home. But Morane has his own plans: revenge on those who betrayed him and Richard at the battle of Bosworth Field. Manipulating events to his ends, Morane will bring the wrath of God down on those who killed his master. With the mystery of C.J. Sansom and the epic adventure of Conn Iggulden, Robert Farrington's thrilling novel concludes the series begun with The Killing of Richard III

Release date: January 2, 2014

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 400

Sample

The betrayal and killing of Richard the Third at Bosworth Field was the work of two men. The first, Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland, in command of the reserve, refused to come to Richard’s aid when called upon, leaving him to be overwhelmed. The second took a more active part. Sir William Stanley, his three thousand men likewise mustered for the defence of the realm, was secretly pledged to the Tudor invader. Keeping his red-coated division out of the battle until he could see which way it was going, he charged in, breaking up King Richard’s final, desperate attack, and hacking to pieces the last Englishman ever to sit the throne of his own country.

Yet these treacheries were unconnected. Each man was out for his own ends, and seized his opportunity as it arose. Two years later there was to be another battle — at Stoke Field — in which neither took part, and thus survived to be dealt with as is here related. While the facts are in the history books, it is also true that many attributed those facts to Divine Intervention, for was it not the Lord who said, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay’? Yet perhaps even He was nudged by one Henry Morane, who had some account of his own to collect, and who was a firm believer in the old adage that ‘God helps those who help themselves.’

This, then, continues Henry Morane’s narrative of what took place following Stoke Field, the last battle of what later became known as the Wars of the Roses, and, as in the previous narratives, it may be helpful to note the other characters who play their part, but whose names have not been recorded in those history books:

JOSEPH ANDERSON — captain of archers, and a Lincolnshire man. Morane’s companion on previous assignments.

MATILDA — once mistress of the cultured William Bourchier. Now serving-woman to Queen Elizabeth of York, and wife of Henry Morane.

ROGER LEOPOLD — an obliging astrologer.

JAMES HERRING — master silversmith, with his shop in the Strand.

MATTHEW COOMBE — James Herring’s apprentice, and Matilda’s nephew.

RANDOLF EU — military retainer to Sir William Stanley.

MEHMET — a Saracen with a horse-trading establishment near London Bridge.

ALI — his nephew.

MARTIN CAILLOU — former chaplain to the Earl of Surrey.

JOHN MAN — ex-soldier of Brabant.

ANDROMEDA — who kept an establishment of ‘geese’.

AS I rode slowly away from Stoke Field along the gnarled stones of the Fosse Way I heard cymbals and trumpets on the hill behind me. The battle was over, the rebel leaders had been killed, and the boy they had tried to set up as king was cowering inside the royal tent. But would this be the end of our troubles? In the two years since Dickon had been killed at Bosworth there had been little but trouble in the realm. And it seemed to me that this affair of Lambert Simnel could not be the last while there were still Yorkists left to dispute the issue, and the most implacable of them all, Dickon’s sister, out of reach in Flanders.

They were singing now, up there on the hill. The Welsh liked their music, and none more so than this Tudor king. He himself had seized my arm in a gesture of gratitude for my capture of the boy Simnel, and had promised to see to the matter of the bond I had been forced to sign as a pledge of loyalty after Bosworth. Loyalty? Mine was to the realm and the authority over it. Yet this new authority did seem as if he might act as a king should, restoring order in the countryside and imposing the law. But as a man? I did not know. Dickon had been a man first, and then a king, and my loyalty to him had been absolute. He had demanded none that could be measured in gold like this Tudor.

I rode alone, although all round me on the thousand-year-old Roman road were shouts and swearing as tents were being set up, tents for those magnates who had arrived too late to fight. The Stanleys would be among them, as at Bosworth, where Sir William’s men had hacked Dickon to pieces as I watched, appalled. A lump came into my throat at the memory, and then as suddenly went as I saw his banner, the all too familiar Hart’s Head, drooping over his tent, and a red-coated sentry leaning on his pike outside. I stopped and swore aloud, and in that moment would have forced my way in and killed him then and there, taking the consequences. But loud voices were coming from inside. Lord Stanley was in there too, and a bitter quarrel was going on.

Saluting the sentry, who nodded his indifference, I rode on until I was behind the expanse of silk and gilded canvas, and then dropped quietly from the saddle.

‘I tell you, brother, I will have no part in such a business!’

It was Lord Thomas Stanley. He was another of those who had tried to predict the outcome of events to his own advantage, veering from one side to another in the recent civil wars. Yet not long previously I had heard him voice his respect for Dickon and, as he had had no direct part in his murder, I did not feel the same resentment for him as I did towards his brother.

‘But then, you,’ another voice said, and it was harsh with the arrogance I knew so well, ‘you have now the earldom of Derby, whereas I, brother Thomas, still lack that of Chester.’

‘And you think treason will achieve it?’

‘Treason? When treason is successful it is not called by that name. Besides, it will not be imputed to me. Thomas Howard of Surrey will hang for it, not I.’

Surrey? I listened more avidly. Thomas Howard still lay in the Tower. Taken captive after Bosworth, I had come to know him well, being his servant there for part of the time. Thomas Howard, though no longer the earl of Surrey, was not a man I wished to see hanged for treason, or for anything else.

There had been a pause. ‘So you think that by sending a false message to London of King Henry’s defeat here today … that it will cause Surrey to act treasonably?’

Sir William Stanley laughed. ‘The lieutenant of the Tower is my man. When the news reaches him he will offer Surrey the keys of the fortress. And that worthy, if I know him, will not miss the opportunity of making his escape and raising forces against the Tudor. And if the forces that he raises seem to have enough strength, why then we shall join him and upset this present regime. If not, then our own men, unjaded by this recent battle, will move swiftly to take him prisoner to King Henry. Either way our rewards will be great.’ He laughed. ‘But I forget that you have already received your reward, my respected brother.’

‘Aye, and if you wish to receive yours you will not meddle in this.’

‘Then you will not join me?’

‘I have already said that I will not.’

‘Or oppose me?’

A long silence followed. At length his brother spoke. ‘I will not oppose you, William, for the sake of the family. But take care …’ he lowered his voice ‘… lest it be said I knew of this.’

‘Then I will see to it myself. I have three thousand men camped out there, enough for the purpose …’

‘And a sentry out there, too. If his ears have been big his tongue may be bigger.’

Sir William Stanley chuckled. It was not a pleasant noise. Then he spoke quietly. ‘He will have no need to keep either now.’

It was time for me to go. Surrey had to be warned. I moved away quickly, the soft grass deadening any sounds I made.

Three days later, when the Lieutenant of the Tower told him that King Henry Tudor had been defeated and killed at Stoke and offered him his liberty, Surrey refused outright, saying that he had been imprisoned by the proper authority of the realm, to which his loyalty was pledged, and until King Henry, or a new authority, granted him his freedom he would remain where he was.

That was the end of the matter, or so I thought, for nothing was heard of it for two more years, and then King Henry Tudor decided to release the earl of Surrey from his confinement in the Tower.

SEEN from any direction, the Tower of London stands as a grim, grey pile. But from the muddy end of Thames Street on a February afternoon, with the sky overhead the colour of rotting flesh, it seemed as if it were the very outpost of Hell. The wall along the moat was streaked with rain, and the stench from the moat itself was only exceeded by that of the Royal Menagerie. Damp lions and sodden bears growled white puffs of vapour through the wooden bars of their cages, but they would not have long to wait. Their food was on the way. A herd of oxen was being driven down past the scaffold posts on Tower Hill. I gave a long sigh. Two years had passed since Thomas Howard had refused the freedom offered him by the Lieutenant, yet he was still confined inside. But at least on this occasion my black-bearded escort was not taking me there as a prisoner. I told him this, and he laughed.

‘You think not? Wait till you are inside, Henry Morane. The Lieutenant in there has a score to settle, if I remember.’

‘Not with these warrants,’ I said, waving them confidently.

The sentries of the Tower-at-the-Gate passed us across the moat causeway to those at the Middle Tower. I showed the warrant again, and they were impressed. So was the Lieutenant, until he saw who carried it.

He had come running, and was breathing hard. ‘Morane, eh?’ he said. ‘I thought I had seen the last of you.’ His eyes went to my escort. ‘And you too … Anderson, the archer-captain.’

‘Of the King’s Own Company of Yeomen,’ Joseph Anderson put in.

I held the paper under the Lieutenant’s well-curled moustache. ‘The signet seal is attested by Richard Foxe, secretary to his highness Henry the Seventh, King of England, Ireland and France, and …’

‘Yes, yes, I can see that as well as you.’ He ran his eye down it. ‘You carry another warrant as well?’

‘For the earl of Surrey. And I will deliver it myself.’

‘There is no earl of Surrey here. I have in my charge one Thomas Howard, formerly of that title. And any communication for him will first be delivered to me.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Indeed, Sir Oswald? Then am I to return to Richard Foxe with that message?’

He glared at me and muttered something about presumptuous clerks, then stood aside and waved us toward the stair that led up to the battlement. I heard his boots on the stonework as he followed.

Thomas Howard, a saddle-faced veteran of forty-five years, most of which had been spent in war, was at the distant end of the walk by Saint Thomas’s Tower, under which his servants huddled for shelter, barely distinguishable in the mist that crept up over the wall from the river.

‘Buttocks of God!’ he exclaimed. ‘Henry Morane, my old servant.’ Then he clapped Anderson on the shoulder. ‘So you’re bringing him back again, hey? What devilry has Morane been up to this time?’

‘None at all, my lord,’ I said with a bow. ‘I bring you a warrant from King Henry Tudor.’

‘A warrant, hey?’ The grey eyes narrowed. ‘So he has finally made up his mind to dispose of me?’ He looked across at the White Tower, whose ramparts stood in the gloom. ‘Although I have not yet heard the carpenters banging away at a scaffold.’

It was a noise well-known for its encouragement during the last hours of doomed prisoners. He took the paper, and when he saw the superscription he gave me a quick glance before breaking the seal.

I watched him as he read. Taken prisoner after fighting for King Richard at Bosworth, he had been in the Tower now for four years. However, after the more recent battle at Stoke Field he had been pardoned, given more comfortable quarters and his own servants, as well as two pounds every week for his board, and allowed the liberty of the Tower precincts. But he had still remained a prisoner.

For two pounds every week, and lodgings, I thought, I too could have lived like an earl … but Surrey had folded the paper and was looking at me.

‘You know its contents, Master Morane?’

‘Aye, my lord. Your earldom is restored, and you are at liberty again …’

‘What’s this?’ the Lieutenant demanded, taking the warrant. He read it carefully, first wiping the dew off his moustache.

‘Free!’ Anderson exclaimed. ‘My lord of Surrey is free!’

Yet while Thomas Howard’s liberty and his title were restored, his estates were not. He was only to be allowed the income from those of his wife. But his stewards, although they had new masters, had all this time been manipulating their accounts so that their former earl had not suffered too greatly, as witnessed by the supper he provided for us in his Tower apartment, a supper on dishes of silver, and wines in cups of pure glass veined with gold … The Lieutenant had sent beer from the Tower brewery, and even two swans from the Constable’s store. As the Constable of the Tower was the earl of Oxford, and no friend of Surrey’s, the Lieutenant might have some explaining to do when that officer made his next inspection, but no doubt he wished to ingratiate himself with his former prisoner.

When he had eaten, and the remains taken back to the kitchens for the servants and hungry dogs, Thomas Howard turned to me.

‘What of the country, Master Morane? I receive little news here in the Tower. Has all been quiet since Stoke Field? Were the rebels all killed?’

‘All of them, except the Irish lord, Kildare, who was pardoned.’

‘And the lad they set up as usurper, Lambert Simnel,’ Anderson said, ‘is spit-boy in the royal kitchens now.’

‘So all his dreams of glory now bubble in a cooking pot,’ Surrey laughed. ‘And the country has been at peace these two years?’

At peace? No rebels these two years; no imposters claiming the throne, no foreign enemies invading our shores. All that was true. Yet the courts of Europe were restless with ambition, and King Henry’s business was to ensure that his small country, weakened after thirty years of civil wars, was not swallowed up by a mightier power such as France, whose eyes were known to be turning northwards. He had no ships of his own, and few soldiers other than those provided by his barons and magnates, while across the Channel stood a royal army with the most powerful train of artillery in Europe, guns which had blown us out of France thirty five years before. But the immediate threat was to Brittany which, if it fell, would give France the whole of the opposite coastline except for Calais, which bastion he would find it hard to retain if it came to war. It was a state of affairs no English king could tolerate. Yet that same king had an obligation to France for her support of his venture to seize the crown at Bosworth, and no less a debt to Brittany for giving him asylum during his years of exile.

An ambassador had been sent to Paris and to Brittany to promote peace between them. That ambassador was Christopher Urswick, King Henry’s confessor and Dean of York, to whom my services were retained.

All this I recounted to Thomas Howard of Surrey, whose first question was as to how I had such information. I told him that, as Urswick’s agent, and from conversations heard at Court, it was possible to piece together the state of affairs.

‘Then there is likely to be war with France, hey?’

‘Not if King Henry can avoid it, sir. It is too expensive. But now Duke Francis of Brittany has died, leaving only his daughter Anne, of fourteen years, and Charles of France has announced his intention of marrying her and acquiring the dukedom in his own right. The Breton nobles have called upon King Henry for help.’

‘He cannot avoid it, then,’ Surrey decided.

‘I do not know. He continues to talk of peace. Yet a great council has been called, and parliament summoned to impose new taxes. And in all counties musters of archers are being made.’

‘Then it must be war.’

‘If the country will pay the taxes, my lord.’

The logs in the chimney place had burned low, and a chill began to sweep the room. Surrey pushed his mug across the board and eyed me.

‘Morane,’ he said, ‘why at this particular moment am I restored in title and given my liberty? Has any especial event occurred to cause it?’

‘I do not know, sir. But if there is to be war the King will need men of experience. Also,’ I smiled, ‘he has learnt that your eldest son, young Thomas, has eyes for no one but the princess Anne, sister of the Queen. It would be better, then, if he were heir to the earldom of Surrey, would it not?’

That made him laugh. ‘Thomas, eh? So the boy has ceased whoring then? Ah well, it comes to all of us. But tell me, Morane, how is it that you, a scrivener, have been charged to bring this warrant for my release? Have you risen high in the King’s service since we last met?’

I shook my head. ‘No, sir. Archbishop Morton and Richard Foxe see to it that I keep my station. I asked audience of the king and gained the privilege. I reminded him that I was your servant here, and of the false news of his defeat at Stoke that had been sent to London, when the Lieutenant out there …’ I waved a hand at the arras over the entrance ‘… offered you the keys of the Tower and your freedom.’

Anderson laughed and went across to the pissing gutter by the wall. ‘Aye, my lord,’ he called back, ‘and Morane sent me back hot-foot from there to warn you that the news was false.’

‘And so,’ I went on, ‘I urged that, while you might think even a Royal Warrant had been tampered with, you would believe the man who brought it.’

‘You spoke directly, Henry Morane.’

‘Aye,’ Anderson agreed. ‘It will hang him yet.’

‘It also served to remind the king of what occurred two years ago,’ I pointed out.

Surrey tugged at his beard. ‘And yet,’ he mused, ‘the Lieutenant still keeps his post here.’

‘Why yes, my lord. He explained away his action as a test of loyalty.’

‘He did, eh? Did he know who sent the report?’

‘Of course. He is Sir William Stanley’s man.’

‘Him?’ Surrey’s face grew hard. ‘Dickon’s murderer. I shall not forget … yet what advantage was there in spreading a report of King Henry’s defeat and death?’

‘He was sure you would escape and raise the standard of the Yorkish succession. Probably that of the young earl of Warwick.’

‘Warwick? The boy still prisoned here in the Tower?’

‘The same. He is after all Clarence’s son. Dickon’s nephew.’

‘I know that. But …’ he shook his head ‘… he would never do for a king. Fourteen years of age and still plays with dolls,’ Surrey ended with disgust.

‘He needs some of the Malmsey his father was drowned in,’ Anderson suggested.

‘You seem very sure, Morane. How do you know it?’

‘It is better not spoken of, my lord, since Stanley remains Lord Chamberlain, although not earl of Chester which he considers his rightful reward after Bosworth.’

‘And he hoped to obtain it that way?’

‘He did. He would have gained favour by putting down your rising, and giving the king the excuse of chopping off Warwick’s head, removing one more of the Yorkist line. And then of course you would have been hanged too.’

Surrey laughed. ‘Well then, Morane, now that I am free I shall have to tread warily, hey? And from what I once heard I believe Sir William Stanley would appreciate your demise as well.’

Anderson turned back. ‘Aye,’ he agreed, ‘and even more so if he knew that Morane had disparaged his report of the king’s death.’

‘Then speak not so loud, Captain Anderson.’ Surrey pointed past him. ‘Those walls have mice. And mice have ears.’

‘Ears or not,’ I laughed, ‘they tasted well enough when you and I were starving in the dungeon here, my lord.’

But Joseph Anderson was not laughing. He drew his dagger and stepped quickly across to the arras. Brushing the fabric aside with the blade, he leapt through. I heard footsteps pattering away along the stonework outside.

‘You were right, my lord,’ he growled when he came back. ‘There were two of them. Little mice that scuttled away in the darkness.’

I put my ale-mug down and got to my feet. ‘Then those little mice of yours will soon be recounting to the Lieutenant how I disparaged Sir William Stanley’s report.’ I glared at him. ‘And how long will it be before Sir William himself hears of it, do you think?’

MATILDA turned on to her side and put her chin in her hand. Her deep blue eyes regarded me reproachfully. ‘Two years have passed since you were a danger to Sir William Stanley. Yet now you must arouse his enmity again, just when the Queen is to move from here to West Minster and join the King, and Stanley may be there.’

‘As Lord Chamberlain he dare not be otherwise,’ I said, pulling the coverlet over me, for the servants’ quarters at Sheen Manor were chill with damp. ‘But if there is to be enmity it will at least keep King Henry’s curiosity alive as to who sent the false report. Although there is little likelihood of it expiring if I know him.’

‘Know him? Who does? Not even his wife. Possibly the Lady Margaret Beaufort, but even she as his own mother does not have his full confidence.’ She sighed. ‘But what advantage is there?’

‘It is part of the reckoning, my sweet apple. Sir William murdered Dickon by treachery …’

‘But not a crime King Henry will hold him accountable for.’

‘And his endeavours to kill me, three times …’

‘The first of which …’ she touched the scars on my chest and back ‘… brought you to me.’

‘Maybe.’ I smiled at her. ‘But he will pay for the others.’

‘I cannot see how. Unless it is by the intervention of God.’

‘Then God will intervene,’ I said confidently.

‘If so, I hope there will be no part for you.’

‘There was one when Lord Francis Lovell so nearly killed you.’

At that she shut her eyes quickly, and tears came. I felt as if I had struck a child, and reached out to comfort her. ‘There now,’ I told her. ‘That is two years past as well.’

‘Aye, and you have not spoken a word of it since!’

‘Should I have, my poppet? It was a matter between him and me, now settled. I do not wish to hang for it,’ I concluded grimly.

She put her head on my shoulder and cried. ‘But could I ever have a child now, after what he did?’

‘Why not? The surgeons say so.’

A smile came through her tears. ‘Aye, and the astrologer. You know him? The old man with one eye who lives near Charing?’

I knew him. I had taken him by the throat and threatened to break all his fingers if he had said otherwise.

‘It was strange,’ she went on. ‘I had come out from praying to the Holy Virgin for a child, when I saw him drop a silver coin. When I helped him pick it up he was so full of gratitude he said it would bring me good fort. . .