Tudor Agent

Book 0: Wars of the Roses

by Robert Farrington

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1485: Richard III lies dead, and the Wars of the Roses are reaching a murderous end The Battle of Bosworth Field is over, and Richard III's right-hand man, Henry Morane, faces hanging at the hands of the traitor Sir William Stanley. Eyes closed, awaiting an arrow through the heart that never comes, Morane receives an eleventh-hour reprieve from an unlikely source. With all his friends dead, Morane has no choice but to work for the Lancastrian victor and first Tudor monarch: King Henry VII. In order to win this fair king's trust, Morane must become part of the new English espionage network under spymaster Christopher Urswick. But the first two years of Henry's reign will prove to be violent, and the road to victory in the Wars of the Roses will climax in one final battle of bloody attrition. With the mystery of C.J. Sansom and the epic adventure of Conn Iggulden, Robert Farrington's thrilling novel continues the story begun in The Killing of Richard III

Release date: January 2, 2014

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 400

Sample

Readers of The Killing of Richard the Third will remember how Henry Morane, that resourceful clerk in the King’s court, described the perilous assignments he was required to carry out, ending at last in defeat and capture at the battle of Bosworth Field. Although he was lucky to escape instant hanging at the hands of Sir William Stanley, even he, as a prisoner and an enemy agent, could not dare think he would live much longer. How he did so, and how he managed to survive further demanding and hazardous assignments under Christopher Urswick, creator of the English espionage system for the Tudors, are told in this second volume of his narrative, which covers the first two violent years of the reign of Henry the Seventh.

But readers who come fresh to the story may like to have a brief summary of the events that led up to the fateful encounter at Bosworth. Henry Tudor, whom Morane had not long before tried to kidnap in Brittany, had landed in Wales and advanced with an army of some seven thousand men, mostly untrained levies. This should have been no match for King Richard’s force of nine thousand seasoned troops. But Richard suffered from the defection of Henry Percy, fourth earl of Northumberland who, at the last moment, failed to bring his division forward into the battle. Sir William Stanley and his brother, Lord Stanley, had kept their troops on the flanks, waiting to see which side would win. When Richard, desperate at the sudden lack of support from Northumberland, made his last, furious charge straight at where Henry Tudor stood, it was Sir William Stanley who, seeing his treacherous opportunity, attacked from his side, killing Richard and his bodyguard almost to a man. The only important commander of the Yorkists to survive the battle was Thomas Howard, earl of Surrey, who was taken prisoner. Now let Henry Morane himself continue the story. But first, it may be helpful to note, in the order in which they appear, the few characters whose names have not been recorded in history before:

Adelard—servant to Christopher Urswick

Pitt—a soldier in Lord Stanley’s forces

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

Matilda—whose house was near the Wall Brook. Once mistress of the cultured Sir William Bourchier, who taught her to read and write, now wife of Henry Morane, and serving-woman to Elizabeth of York

Mehmet—a Saracen with a shop on London Bridge and a horse-trading establishment in the next street

Ali—his nephew

John Benbo—steward of Francis, Viscount Lovell

Will Hartshorn—illicit deer-hunter, and his companion King William the Second—as red as Rufus, his namesake

A SLOW smile spread across Sir William Stanley’s hawkish features. He beckoned to his men. “Take him over to that tree and hang him,” he ordered.

As they rushed forward he suddenly held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, “I have a better scheme.” He looked round at the white-hooded archers among them. “You men,” he sneered, “shot badly today. You should have more practice. Tie him to the tree instead and let me see if you can do better at a closer target.”

They grinned at that and, knocking me to the ground, stripped me of my armour and dragged me across the grass. In a moment I was bound tightly to the trunk. They stepped back and twanged their bowstrings. But I did not care. Everyone I knew was dead. There was nothing left for me. I closed my eyes tightly to keep the tears in check.

It seemed to be an interminable time before the first arrow tore through my chest. I wondered, dimly, if there would be much pain, and started to pray that it would be short. But I found I did not know who to pray to, for there did not seem to be a God any more. Yet the arrows did not come, and I opened my eyes to see why they had not.

There, in front of the archers, their bows already taut, was the slight figure of Christopher Urswick, hands on hips, frowning up at Sir William Stanley.

“I tell you, sir,” he was saying, “that this man is the King’s prisoner.”

The King? I thought. But King Richard is dead. Cut up like an ox on a butcher’s slab.

“You are in error, sir,” Sir William Stanley replied haughtily. “The man is mine. Taken in battle.”

“I repeat, Sir William, that he is wanted alive. If harm comes to him before the King questions him you will answer for it.”

There it was again, “The King!” I shook my head violently.

“And after that?” Sir William sneered.

“No doubt he will be returned to you if you press the point.”

Sir William Stanley turned his horse slowly and looked me up and down. I glared back at him, at which he shrugged and returned to Urswick.

TA–A*

“As you wish, sir,” he said at last. “But I will not forget your impertinence.” He dug a spur into his horse and galloped away through the bushes.

They untied me while Christopher Urswick held his sword-point at my throat. When I was free he ordered them to bind my hands behind me, and waved his weapon at a hillock not far away. “Over there, Henry Morane,” he said. “And let us see if the new King has any use for you.”

* * *

The rays of the August sun, still not at the top of its circle across the sky, burned hot through the rents of my shirt. It was quieter now, for the main battle was over, although there was still fighting going on where small groups of men continued to hold out among the bushes of Ambion Hill and on the grassy hummocks of the plain to the north. They fought on with desperation, even though they had seen their leaders killed or captured, for they had little hope of mercy from the victors. And over the field riderless horses, some wounded, and all crazed by the smell of blood, careered aimlessly in wide circles until exhaustion brought them to a flaring standstill, to become terrified captives of a battle-drunk soldiery.

As to the wounded, I knew too well from the fields of Barnet and of Tewkesbury what their lot would be. Those who could crawl away would do so, to hide within the nearest thicket regardless of its thorns and spikes, praying not to be found and dragged out by their triumphant captors. Others, too hurt to move, would be despatched summarily and left until the burial pits were dug. A wounded man is a burden on the victors, and even if he were to recover he would become in turn a burden on his community, a painful creature, tormented by flies, dragging himself along the roadside and whining for alms from every passer-by.

I swore out loud, and began to walk with heavy steps towards the top of the hillock. It was there that Henry Tudor and his bodyguard had been standing during the battle. And it was there that King Richard had tried to reach in his last desperate charge, only to be cut to pieces by the treacherous attack on his flank by Sir William Stanley’s division. I cursed Sir William, I cursed his brother, his nephew and the whole Stanley clan. But I felt no better for it. And then I saw that my captor had stopped and was trying to sheathe his sword.

It was a heavy weapon, and he was a little man, so that he had some difficulty fitting the point to the scabbard. I stood quietly and watched him, for in spite of his size I was no threat to him with my hands tied behind my back. I might have tried to run away, but I had not the spirit left, and in any case I should not have got very far with the whole countryside round us filled with groups of armed men.

Christopher Urswick finally pushed the weapon home and looked up at me with a slight smile. “So, Henry Morane,” he said, “the day is finally settled, then? Tell me, how is it that you alone survived of those who rode with Richard of Gloucester?” He would not call him King, I noticed.

“A blow on the head,” I told him shortly. “It unsaddled me, and when I regained my senses it was too late to help him.”

“A blow on the head? From another horseman?”

“No, sir,” I replied. “There was no mark on my helmet. It must have been the wind of a missile from one of those cannon of yours.”

“Indeed?” He gave a wry smile. “It was not our intention when we fired them that one of their shots should save a life. But … ah, well, I trust you have given thanks for your deliverance?”

“Deliverance?” I said bitterly. “From being a prisoner about to be hanged by Sir William Stanley to being dismembered in public on a tudor scaffold?”

He clicked his tongue. “At least it gives you time for your case to be considered. That was why I relieved Sir William of you. As well as the fact that he has no right to hang prisoners.”

“No?” I inquired. “And what of those poor fellows out there still trying to fight? Will they be spared?”

“We shall see,” he replied primly. “There is a new authority in the realm now. One that has more mercy than the last.”

I studied him. I knew he meant what he said. There was no equivocation about his loyalty to the Tudors, yet he had saved me from choking out my life at the end of a Stanley rope. Whatever respect there had been between us in the past no sentiment would have led him to save me now, unless he considered that I could be of service to his masters. I looked past him, down to where the remains of King Richard and his bodyguard lay in the meadow. Swarms of butterflies had found them, the yellow of their soft wings contrasting hideously with the blood-spattered grass and the glittering pieces of broken armour that lay strewn over it. Here and there the crimson coats of Sir William Stanley’s men stooped over them as they looted the bodies, giving triumphant cries as they found something of value, so that the butterflies, driven away at their approach, fluttered across to the greater sweetness of the mangled horses.

“Come now,” Urswick said, seeing the direction of my gaze. “It is too late for remorse. All past loyalties are dead.”

“Are they?” I said.

“It will be better for you if they were,” he replied shortly.

“Maybe,” I agreed. “But they need not be forgotten.”

He eyed me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Perhaps that is as it should be. But Richard of Gloucester and all those close to him are no more …”

“Not so,” I interrupted. “Lord Lovell made his escape. He tried to help Dickon, but his way was barred by pikes. I saw him wave his hand in a regretful salute as he rode away.” I paused. “And there is Sir William Catesby, whatever he is worth. He did not ride with us. Dickon had sent him back to see to George Stanley, who was held as a hostage for his father’s good behaviour.”

“George Stanley? You refer to Lord Strange?”

“The same. Another of the Stanleys, whatever his title.”

“And Richard of Gloucester ordered him killed?”

“Aye. But as to whether the order has been carried out will depend on Sir William Catesby. And if I know him he will wait to see the outcome of the battle first.”

Christopher Urswick’s eyes were as dull as pebbles unwashed by the sea. “I hope that your estimation is correct, Henry Morane, and that Lord Strange still lives. He is Lord Stanley’s favourite son.”

But not Sir William Stanley’s favourite nephew, I said to myself, especially if he were to find out that Strange had denounced him as a traitor to King Richard. And while it is true that the young man had been spread-eagled on the rack at the time, it is also true that the instrument had not been turned. And I was, apart from Lord Lovell who had probably been caught and slaughtered by now, the only one left live who had heard it. If Lord Strange survived he would not look upon my continued existence with much favour, I told myself grimly.

“Yet if Lord Strange survives,” Urswick said, “it may not sit well with you, Henry Morane.”

I looked at him with astonishment. It was as if he had been reading my thoughts.

“No,” he went on, “for Catesby will know that you are a witness to his disobedience, even if his orders were given to him by …”

“Catesby?” I snarled. “He is the least of my concerns! It is the other Sir William. Sir William Stanley, who has been cheated out of hanging me, and will look to remedy that once I am free of your custody. And then there is Lord Stanley himself, to whom I carried a summons to join Dickon if he valued his son’s life. His resentment at such a messenger had to be curbed at the time, but now there is nothing to stop it taking more active form.”

Christopher Urswick clicked his tongue. “You seem to have acquired some powerful enemies, Henry Morane.”

“Aye,” I agreed. “And all my friends are dead.”

“But Lord Lovell escaped, you say?”

“He was no friend of mine.”

He considered me carefully, and for an instant a gleam came into his eyes, as sea-pebbles suddenly feeling the tide. “Indeed?” he said at length. “Well, at least Lovell will not escape. There will be no more trouble from him.” But in that prediction Christopher Urswick was far from being correct.

The top of the hillock was bare of trees and bushes, and, apart from the marks of many men and horses, there was no sign of Henry Tudor and his entourage. I looked across the fields and saw the great banner of Cadwallader, with its scarlet dragon on a white and green ground, moving south-westwards towards the village of Shenton. In front of the village were other flags and pennants coming forward to meet him. Among them were those of Lord Stanley, who had taken up station well to the south, away from the battle.

Between them and where we stood were Oxford’s men, marching in disciplined array under his banner of the Star with Stripes. They had been resting after the battle and were now returning towards us, but seemed to be intent upon assisting the Welsh to clear up the remnants of King Richard’s men. Behind us, on Ambion Hill, their white hoods conspicuous among the green bushes, Sir John Savage’s men were despatching the survivors of the Duke of Norfolk’s division, and the screams for mercy carried across the valley as if they had been at our feet.

“Over there!” Christopher Urswick pointed. “There is King Henry!”

He was watching me. “King Henry by the Grace of God,” he said devoutly. “The Seventh of that name.”

“Until the next battle,” I said obstinately.

“There will be no more battles, Henry Morane. The Lancastrian cause, in the person of Henry Tudor, is now supreme. This is the end of the civil wars, Praise be to God!”

And in that prediction Christopher Urswick was mistaken too.

A mounted man appeared from the bushes on the other side of the rise. The half-armour he wore was that of an attendant, and when he saw us he dismounted rapidly, leading the horse towards us with quick steps.

“Master Urswick,” he said urgently. “The Earl of Richmond … er … Lord Henry Tudor …” He stopped, trying to find the correct title.

“His Grace, King Henry,” Urswick corrected, taking the reins. “What is it, Adelard?”

Adelard cleared his throat noisily and spat on the grass. “His Grace,” he said thickly, clearing his throat again. “His Grace is asking about your welfare, sir. It was rumoured that you were killed, but I told him … said … that you had gone on foot to see to a prisoner …” He looked me up and down. “You had bidden me wait, Sir, but when the earl, the King, moved towards Shenton …”

“Yes, yes, Adelard,” Urswick said. “You have a message from His Grace the King, is that it?”

His servant nodded vigorously. “The King and Lord Jasper Tudor are concerned for your safety, and would have you bring that assurance personally and forthwith.” He spoke as one reciting what he had been told by rote.

Christopher Urswick stood high in their favour, evidently. But that was not a matter for surprise, for it had been he who had warned them of my expedition to Brittany, allowing them to escape across the border into France. I watched while he put his foot into the stirrup, and, with his servant’s help, hoist himself creaking into the saddle. Then, taking the pommel in both hands, he looked down at me.

“Master Morane,” he said, “you will follow under the escort of Adelard. Whatever your past actions I know you for a man of integrity. Therefore, if you will swear to remain as my prisoner, I will allow him to loosen your arms to enable you to walk more quickly.”

My wrists were aching and my hands were sore. There was nowhere for me to run. I gave him my word.

He went on looking at me for a few moments, then drew his sword and threw it down on the grass by Adelard. “Cut his bonds,” he ordered, “and bring him after me, wasting no time.” He looked round, but there was no one else on the flat hillock. “If you meet anyone tell them that you escort my prisoner, and show him that you have my sword.” Then he noticed that Sir William Stanley’s men were still in the valley below us. “And,” he added, “if you meet a man-at-arms or a lord, say the same, but in such case it were better you were concealed before encountering him and did not have to answer searching questions.” There was a faint smile on his face as he turned back to me, and I knew he was thinking of the Stanleys.

When he had gone Adelard turned round and inspected me. He was a burly fellow with brown hair hanging down to his shoulders, and the mindless appearance of a horse-gelder’s apprentice. I nodded at him, but his eyebrows drew together.

“A Yorkist, eh?” he observed, scratching at his smooth-shaven chin. “For two hours we slaughter the likes of you, and now I am told to preserve your skin. Only the Good Lord knows the reasoning in the mind of my masters. But if you are an enemy then you would have been better dead, I think.” He stooped down and picked up the sword.

I kept very still as he moved behind me. And even when the bonds fell away from my arms I stayed quiet until he was in front of me again. Then I brought my hands together and rubbed them very hard, while he stood frowning at me. He cleared his throat and spat again, then muttered something about not being able to stick a sword through a man while his hands were tied. As my arms were now free I felt that it was a train of thought better interrupted.

I said, “Come on. You heard your master order us to follow.” As he continued to grip the sword and eye me as if I were a prospective gelding, I added, “You also heard me give my word not to try to escape.” He still made no move. “Besides,” I pointed out, “you have the weapon, and in any case are bigger than I.”

He grinned at that. “Aye,” he agreed. “The second part of what you say is true.” He waved the heavy blade. “Go on, then, Master prisoner Morane, and see that you tread carefully.”

I walked slowly across to the other side of the hillock and saw that gorse and brambles covered the slope. There were ways between, much pitted by the tracks of sheep, but the herdsmen, warned of the approach of rival armies, had removed their charges long before. The only mutton now was the results of battle.

Adelard was close behind me, and I could feel his breath. He had been eating onions not long before. “Go on,” he ordered. “Quickly, quickly. Down into the open fields where I can see you better.” The point of his sword dug into my buttocks. Then I heard the sound of horsemen coming up the path.

A horse meant that it was more than a common soldier approaching. I stopped, turned round slowly to avoid his weapon, and made a gesture of silence. He raised his eyebrows, and I answered, “We are to conceal ourselves if we encounter mounted men.”

He stood, undecided, for several moments, then cleared his throat and spat into a bush.

“In there!” I snarled, and, sweeping the flat of his blade aside, bundled him into the undergrowth.

There were two riders coming along the narrow track, one behind the other. At the bottom of the slope, still some distance away, followed their escort of foot, making their presence known by the screech of thorns on steel and much loud swearing. The horsemen stopped at the top of the slope and waited for them. I peered out through the brambles and saw the portly shape of Thomas, Lord Stanley, and beside him, beginning to dismount, was his hawk-faced brother, Sir William.

THE two brothers, Thomas and William Stanley, were the most powerful magnates in the land after the king. Between them they held most of the north-western part of England, and part of north Wales. Each could put an army of nearly three thousand men into the field at short notice. They were thus a factor to be reckoned with by whoever sat the throne. During the civil wars they had changed sides so often that it was difficult to remember for whom they had fought at any particular battle, and of this past behaviour Dickon had been well aware. Moreover, I had reported to him what had passed at the secret conference at Atherstone two days before the battle, when they had met the Tudors and each had pledged his loyalty to the Tudor cause. It had seemed to me then that Henry Tudor and his uncle, Jasper Tudor, had not been entirely convinced by their protestations, but now no doubt all would be forgiven. Yet the Tudors could scarcely overlook the fact the Stanleys had remained aloof until the outcome of the battle had become certain.

Lord Stanley, his fifty years of age betrayed by his waistline, had emerged from the civil wars as King Edward’s privy councillor and Lord Steward of the Household. During that reign he had fought with Dickon against the Scots, and when Dickon had become king he had been further rewarded by being created Knight of the Garter and Constable of England. He had also recently become the third husband of the Lady Margaret Beaufort, a woman with forty-two years of religious devotion behind her, and yet who, at the early age of fourteen, had given birth to Henry Tudor. Lord Stanley was thus the stepfather of the new king, and I wondered if Henry the Seventh would be allowed to forget it.

Sir William Stanley was a younger version of his brother, his face bearing a resemblance to those angular designs that builders draw on parchment, and his manner was endearing to no one. Like his brother, though, he too knew which side of his venison was the better turned. It was said that the astrologers he consulted were always correct as to which army was going to win, but I was sure it was due to his own prescience, for all the astrologers I had ever encountered had been no better than a coney-catcher who gains the confidence of his victim. Be that as it may, Sir William could afford all the astrologers in the kingdom had he wished, for of the two Stanleys he had the more substance, and was reputed to be the wealthiest man in England, save for the King.

He nodded at his brother, laughed, and pointed down the slope. “What’s left of Dickon is down there,” he said. “Stripped clean by now, I’ll wager. I told them to leave him naked as the day he was born.”

“Was that necesary?” his brother asked. “Naked, he may not be recognized. Whereas in his own armour …” His voice trailed away as he peered down.

Sir William shrugged. “Would you have the broken armour put back on?” he said airily. “And his battle-crown, which my men found for you to place on the Tudor’s head? Remember that that was an honour I gave you, brother, even though you took no part in the battle.”

Lord Stanley turned round slowly. His eyes were narrow with rage. “I’ll thank you not to speak to me that way, Sir William. Do not forget that you were only engaged because the fighting moved in your direction, and you had no choice, whereas my men had to march all the way from Stoke Golding …”

“While you rode ahead to reassure Henry Tudor of their coming, eh? And in case the battle …” Sir William Stanley saw the look in his brother’s eye and stopped.

There was a long pause while they glared at each other, and then Lord Stanley swung his horse towards the path they had come up. “My men will be here soon, and relieve yours,” he said. “They will take Dickon’s body to Leicester for display, so that all can see that King Richard the Third is dead …”

“That is customary, is it not?”

“… and then,” Lord Stanley went on, ignoring the interruption, “we will ride back and pay our homage to the new King.”

“I have paid mine.”

“You have paid your respect, the same as I. He will now demand formal homage.”

Sir William Stanley smiled. “I trust that this stepson of yours will reward us handsomely, eh? For you, the earldom of Derby, for me … who knows? Perhaps that of Chester. He must not be allowed to forget that it was through us he achieved the throne.” He laughed outright. “He will have to be more compliant than Dickon was.” He waved a hand down the slope. “At least Dickon got his deserts.”

Lord Stanley put his hands on his saddle-bow and looked his brother up and down. “Whatever deserts Dickon got I will not forget that he and I fought the Scots together. And no one will assert in front of me that he was not a good soldier …” I thanked Lord Stanley silently for that. “… but as to you, brother,” he went on, and his voice was harsh, “it would be better if you were to curb your ambitions, or at least the tongue that speaks of them. Henry Tudor … King Henry now, may be a young man, but he has a task before him I would not relish.”

“With the multitude of advisers that surround him he will not find it too onerous. Bishop Morton, Richard Foxe, Bray, Urswick …” He stopped. “Yes, Urswick,” he repeated. “I have a score with him.”

That drew no comment, and Sir William went on, “He took a prisoner from me, using the King’s name, when I was about to hang him.”

“A prisoner of importance?”

“No. A scrivener, clerk to Dickon’s secretary.”

“Then why concern yourself?”

“The man had crossed my path before. One of Dickon’s spies.”

“Is that all? Dickon must have had countless spies. Urswick no doubt wishes to question him before disposing of him …” Aye, I said to myself, he probably does. “You seem to give too much importance to trivial matters, brother. It is the Tudors we have to concern ourselves with now.”

“Aye,” Sir William laughed. “Or, better, it is with us that the Tudors will have to be concerned.” He held up a hand. “Yes, yes, Thomas, I will heed your advice about my tongue. Have no fear of that.”

“I do not. For I will see to it that I do not suffer for any of your indiscretions. And of that you may have no fear either.”

Another silence ensued. Adelard, lying in the thicket beside me, stirred a little. He had been so absorbed in the conversation of such mighty barons that he had lost all count of where he was. But now his circumstances came slowly back to him, and he turned his head to make sure I had not escaped while his attention had been distracted. Seeing me still there he nodded with satisfaction and, as if what he had heard had been in a dream, started to get to his feet. I reached out to hold him down, but it was too late. He cleared his throat like a trumpet and spat into the bushes.

I SWORE under my breath and eased backwards into the thicket. There was a ring of steel as a sword was drawn, and then the shadow of a horseman loomed over us.

“Come out, you!” It was the voice of Lord Stanley.

Adelard, half way to his feet, parted the undergrowth so that his head became visible.

“You!” It was Sir William Stanley this time. “Come here!”

Adelard reached out to pull me up with him, but I was not where he expected me to be. Before he had fully regained his balance I shoved him forward hard, sending him stumbling out on to the grass in front of Lord Stanley’s horse.

“Who are you?”

The wretched man picked himself to his feet. “Adelard, sir,” he answered, digging his sword point into the ground as a gesture of submission. “I am retainer to Master Christopher Urswick.”

“Urswick, eh?” Lord Stanley said. “I was told that Christopher Urswick was dead.”

“No, no,” his brother corrected. “There was a rumour, but it is false. I told you just now …” He stopped suddenly and turned to the retainer. “Why are you not with your master?”

Adelard drew himself up. He was trying to remember what he had been told to say. As he began to speak I looked round frantically for some means of escape.

“Wait!” Lord Stanley said suddenly. “Did you hear what passed between us?” He waved a hand at his brother.

I could see Sir William, and his eyes widened as he swung round. “By God!”. . .