The Woodville Connection Read online

  To Alastair and Amy with love and gratitude

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  PEN & SWORD FICTION

  An imprint of

  Pen & Sword Books Ltd

  47 Church Street

  Barnsley

  South Yorkshire

  S70 2AS

  Copyright © K. E. Martin, 2013

  HARDBACK ISBN: 978 1 78303 002 6

  PDF ISBN: 978 1 47383 117 9

  EPUB ISBN: 978 1 47383 001 1

  PRC ISBN: 978 1 47383 059 2

  The right of K. E. Martin to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in

  accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

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  information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the Publisher in writing.

  Printed and bound in England

  By CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CRO 4YY

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  Contents

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue: London

  Chapter 1: Arrival of a Weary Traveller

  Chapter 2: An Old Friend Tells His Tale

  Chapter 3: Embarking on a Journey

  Chapter 4: A Useful Encounter

  Chapter 5: Arrival at Plaincourt

  Chapter 6: Mistress Blanche

  Chapter 7: A Short History of the Plaincourt Family

  Chapter 8: Plaincourt Receives a Mighty Guest

  Chapter 9: Dinner with Lord Rivers

  Chapter 10: Cranley in Peril

  Chapter 11: A Nocturnal Visit

  Chapter 12: She Would Not Cavil

  Chapter 13: Time to Leave

  Chapter 14: A Grim Awakening

  Chapter 15: Fat Nell’s Gift

  Chapter 16: Three Promises

  Acknowledgements

  Dramatis Personae

  At Middleham Castle

  • Richard, Duke of Gloucester, youngest brother of King Edward IV; sometimes referred to as Dickon, Richard, Gloucester and my lord of Gloucester

  • Anne, Duchess of Gloucester, wife of Richard, youngest daughter of the late Earl of Warwick and sister of Isabel, wife of George of Clarence

  • Francis Cranley, musician and close friend of Richard of Gloucester, acceptable with a lute, excellent in a crisis; sometimes known as Frank

  • Smithkin, a Sergeant-at-Arms with a grudge

  • Fat Nell, a nursemaid and former beauty

  • Will Fielding, an old friend in trouble

  • Jack Conyers and Tom Tunstall, retainers of the Duke of Gloucester, both merry fellows

  • James Metcalfe, a reliably fast messenger

  At York

  • Master Pennicott, a wealthy and elderly wool merchant with close ties to the House of York

  • Mistress Pennicott, his lovely young wife

  At Plaincourt Manor

  • Sir Stephen Plaincourt, already master of the small manor of Ringthorpe and now also of Plaincourt Manor following the death of his nephew Geoffrey

  • Geoffrey Plaincourt, newly deceased, only child of William Plaincourt and his wife Alice, nee Lambert, both also deceased

  • Gervase Root, the manor steward, currently absent from Plaincourt

  • Blanche St Honorine du Flers, a waiting woman and skilled healer

  • Alan Rolf, an aged servant

  • Dulcy Rolf, the manor washerwoman and sister to Alan; a good Christian soul

  • Jem Flood, the manor cook

  • Letice Flood, the cook’s wife

  • Matthew, a kitchen boy with a peculiar talent

  • Cuckoo, a kitchen skivvy

  • Walt and John Tench, Sir Stephen’s loyal henchmen

  • Assorted servants and villagers including a kennelman, stable lads, grooms and messengers

  • Father Gregory, priest

  At Court and elsewhere

  • King Edward IV, known to his closest associates as Ned

  • Queen Elizabeth, his consort, born Elizabeth Woodville

  • Jacquetta, Dowager Duchess of Bedford, deceased; Queen Elizabeth’s mother

  • Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, the Queen’s brother, a Knight of the Garter and the King’s close friend

  • George, Duke of Clarence, brother to the King and Richard of Gloucester; fond of a drink

  • Cecily, Duchess of York, mother of the King, Clarence and Gloucester

  • John Skelton, a loyal friend to the House of York

  Prologue

  London

  February 1460

  The sound of heavy footsteps and urgent, low-pitched murmurings roused George from his troubled slumbers. Swords clanked against the dank stone walls outside the chamber and keys jangled and scraped against the door’s cumbersome metal lock. Terrified, the boy buried himself beneath the bed’s silken coverlet, reaching in the blackness for the comforting warmth of his little brother. As the door was flung open, flickering torchlight filled the chamber.

  “Rouse ’em quick, my lady,” urged a coarse, unfamiliar voice, “we must hasten if we’re to make the tide.”

  Peeping through the bedclothes, George sagged with relief as he identified his mother standing in the doorway, perplexingly in the company of two disreputable-looking, mud-splattered strangers. Tumbling from the bed he ran to her, clutching her crimson skirts against his face as he sought solace from the horrors that had devilled him. She placed a swift, soft kiss on top of his uncombed curls and then, to George’s incredulous dismay, pushed him gently towards one of the ruffians.

  “Go with Master Skelton,” she instructed, “he and his man Fielding are taking you and Dickon to a place of safety.

  “They are good men,” she continued, interrupting his anguished cry of protest, “and were loyal to your father, may God rest his soul. Now be brave and take care of Dickon for me. With God’s grace we shall be reunited in good time.”

  Too appalled to open his mouth, George watched as his mother passed a small bundle of clothes and a purse of money to the man called Skelton. Glancing momentarily towards the bed where Dickon slept on undisturbed, she hesitated, raising her fingers to her lips in a gesture midway between a blessing and a farewell. Then, mindful of the need for haste, she murmured a barely audible “Godspeed!” and fled to the lonely comfort of her quarters.

  Whilst she remained, George had been frozen to the spot; now he recovered and made a spirited dash for the doorway but Skelton anticipated the move. Catching the boy by the scruff of his neck, he flung him unceremoniously over his shoulder.

  “Take charge of the littl’un for me,” he ordered. “I’d best get this slippery young eel onto a saddle where I can keep an eye on him. Join us at the horses quick as you can.”

  Impervious to the feeble fists pounding impotently on his back and deaf to the threats and curses issuing from the purple-faced la
d, Skelton made his way to the stables, leaving Dickon alone with his silent companion.

  Through noise and disruption the seven year old boy had slept on with the tranquillity of unruffled innocence; now, the new silence of the chamber woke him more suddenly than the pealing of a dozen church bells. Opening his clear grey eyes onto the dimly lit room, he was surprised to see a gaunt-featured man standing by the side of the bed, looking down at him from a towering height. As consciousness returned from the peaceful depths of oblivion, Dickon became aware that George was no longer with him and that for no good reason he could think of, he was quite alone with a gigantic stone-faced stranger. He looked at the man’s pale blue eyes, his grim, unsmiling mouth and huge, weather-roughened hands. A large, brutal-looking sword hung at the stranger’s side and the stains and tears on his clothing told tales of hardship, battle and recent bloodshed.

  Dickon knew he should feel afraid and marvelled at his own composure as he was plucked from the warm quilts and arranged carefully in strong, muscle-bound arms. With instinctive trust, he threw a slender arm around the man’s broad shoulder and clutched him tightly as he was carried from the chamber. The gesture seemed to gratify the stranger and he smiled fleetingly, revealing teeth large, yellow and wolfish, and breath redolent of meat and strong ale.

  “Where are you taking me?” Dickon murmured, as they passed through unfamiliar corridors and dripping back-staircases.

  “Where none shall harm you,” the wolfman replied and Dickon nodded, now quite satisfied that he was dreaming still. Resting his head against the wolfman’s chest he closed his eyes and slept once more, confident that soon he would awaken in his own bed, with George at his side and this strange creature no more than a memory from a puzzling yet not unpleasant dream.

  ***

  They had been riding for hours and George was feeling sore and sick when Skelton finally slowed his horse’s furious pace. It was still dark but daylight threatened to break, the murky emptiness of night giving way to a greyish pre-dawn. The small party dismounted hurriedly and picked their way with caution down the greasy steps leading to the quayside. Skelton ushered an unprotesting George into a small rowing boat moored by the steps while Will Fielding unpacked the saddle-bags. Dickon lay on the ground wrapped in a fustian blanket, half awake and half asleep, fully aware now that this was no dream but too drowsy to fret.

  Gazing dreamily into the shadows, he spied four figures emerge stealthily from the gloom with swords drawn and murderous intent writ plain on their grim features. With lurching stomach, he realised that these men were his enemy, come to kill him and his brother. For the first time in his young life he was truly afraid. Will stood with his back to the oncoming threat, whistling a merry tune. Dickon felt sure the big man was unconscious of the attackers’ approach. He opened his mouth to raise the alarm but the words caught in his throat, mingling with the bitter taste of terror. He watched, helpless and aghast as one of the quartet veered off in his direction while the remainder continued their advance on Fielding.

  Clenching his fists for courage, Dickon gazed up to meet his doom and saw the assassin’s look of triumph change to one of astonishment and then agony as Skelton’s throwing knife caught him cleanly between the shoulder blades. Dropping to his knees, the man raised his arms as if in supplication towards his intended victim, then pitched forward and lay still.

  Pinned beneath the bulk of the dead man, Dickon watched in horrified fascination as the other three assailants hurled themselves at Fielding. The speedy resolution of the encounter recalled to him the early nickname he had given Fielding, for there was indeed something wolf-like in the way he despatched his foe. The seasoned soldier had been well aware of the approaching enemy and his whistling had been a pre-arranged alarm for Skelton. When the attackers were within a hair’s breadth of reaching him, Fielding had spun around and decapitated the leader with one fluid motion of his sword. Stumbling back in temporary disarray, the two survivors met Skelton advancing toward them. They lunged at him with a savageness born of desperation but Skelton had the advantage and he dodged neatly to their right whilst thrusting his sword deeply into the side of his nearest assailant. Fielding finished the job with nonchalant ease, running the final attacker through on his grisly weapon from back to front so that the blade protruded from the unfortunate’s belly.

  “Clifford’s men,” he grunted, slicing the livery badge from his fallen foe’s sleeve and wiping his sword on it. “Worthless whoresons, making war on helpless children.”

  To emphasise his disgust for such unworthy opponents, he cleared his throat and spat magnificently, the foamy spittle describing a triumphant arc before landing neatly between the staring eyes of a bodiless head. Sheathing his weapon, he ventured to comfort the shivering Dickon whilst Skelton ran to investigate a curious sound emanating from the direction of the rowing boat. There he discovered George in a dismal condition. Having witnessed the attack with a certain fatalistic stoicism, he now celebrated his narrow escape from violent death by vomiting over the oars.

  Left alone with his own frail charge for a few moments, Fielding abandoned his habitual air of soldierly gruffness, replacing it with a clumsy, fatherly concern. Gathering the white-faced child into his gore-splattered arms, he held him close against his chest and gently wiped a salty tear from the boy’s trembling cheek.

  “Hush now, little lordling,” he whispered softly. “All’s well now and ever will be, for none shall harm you so long as Will Fielding’s by your side.”

  ***

  In London their mother spent long, anguished hours on her knees, praying for the news that would announce the safe arrival of her youngest boys in the Low Countries. Racked with misery over the recent killing of her beloved husband and second son, and riven with anxiety for another son who had boldly assumed the mantle of the family cause, still she trembled with fear for the safety of George and Dickon. At last word arrived from Skelton, advising her that all was well and the boys safely lodged in the town of Utrecht. When she read of the attempt on their lives and their escape thanks to the good offices of Skelton and Fielding, Cecily, Duchess of York fell once more on her knees to give grateful thanks to Almighty God for her sons’ deliverance.

  Amidst her fervent prayers and rejoicing, the Duchess also found time to make a solemn vow that when the fortunes of the House of York were once more in the ascendancy, Skelton and Fielding would not be forgotten for their services to her precious boys in their flight to safety.

  Chapter 1

  Arrival of a Weary Traveller

  My name is Francis Cranley. I am an old man now, bent and withered so that the fresh-faced doxies of the village sit close to me and peck my crumbling cheeks with no fear for their virtue. Oh, my pretty chicks, it was a different story once.

  I am comfortable here in this place where I am tolerated by my stolid farm lads and their buxom wenches. When they wish to humour me, they come to my house to feast on meat and ale while I regale them with tales from the old century. They smile and stifle yawns as I speak of the glory days of my youth, the days when I served my long dead friend and master whose name is now reviled throughout the Christian world. False accusations and foul calumny be-slime the reputation of Richard, one time Duke of Gloucester, Plantagenet lion and last true King of England.

  I am an ancient, doddering fool. My sight began fading some years since and I dare say my wits are soon to follow. It is over ten years that I last played my lute and near twice as long since I shared my bed with aught more enticing than a flea-ridden hound. My memory is failing. I cannot remember how I broke my fast yesterday morn but I recall with blinding clarity the events of over fifty years ago. But then, why should I forget a time when I was young and lusty, and in my arrogance thought I would stay that way forever?

  There are many stories with which I weary my greedy visitors but there is one I never shall tell. While it pleases me to confide this tale to my good friends quill and parchment, I have instructed the stout, dumpling-cheeke
d widow who sees to the comfort of my house to feed my scribblings to the flames the moment I breathe my last. I do not doubt she will obey my order since I have bought her loyalty with gold and soft words; in any case, the woman is unlettered and has little interest in my ramblings. Thus I would have it. I am the last survivor of those who took part in the Plaincourt Manor affair and for reasons of my own I have vowed to take that secret to my grave.

  How well I remember that cold December morn that brought with it the promise of Christmas, and a succulent mystery ripe and ready for the solving. We were at Middleham Castle then and my lord of Gloucester had just embarked on what was perhaps the happiest period of his brief and turbulent life. His bride of less than a twelve-month, the gentle Duchess Anne, was enceinte and the Duke was near beside himself with delight at the prospect of his first legitimate child.

  Christmas at Middleham in the year of our lord 1472 promised to be a merry occasion. Returning from Westminster at the close of Parliament that December, the Duke came laden with bolts of sumptuous fabrics and precious jewels for his beloved wife and costly wall hangings to bring comfort and colour to the castle’s great hall.

  At Middleham he was pleased to discover that the dour northerners were warming to his wise and generous leadership. One by one they were pledging him their allegiance, sealing their fidelity by sending him their sons to serve in his retinue. This meant much to the Duke, for the love and loyalty of honest people was ever more important to him than the esteem of self-seeking courtiers.

  In this happy atmosphere of hope and goodwill, and secure in the favour of his brother Edward, fourth king of that name, my lord chose to overlook the storm clouds that threatened his tranquil existence. The bothersome Woodville clan, close to the King by means of his ill-considered marriage to the beautiful but scheming Elizabeth Woodville, were known to detest upright, decent Gloucester and longed to shatter his influence over the King.

  Powerful as the Woodvilles were, however, their poisoned tentacles had not yet the length to reach into the north and so, for the time being, they remained content as long as Gloucester was absent from Court. Closer to home and much more disturbing to the Duke was the deepening rift between himself and his brother George, Duke of Clarence.