The Fate of Princes Read Free Page B

heat, still wore their skullcapsand gold-fringed robes. I was the King’s Chamberlain; many who worked there, whether they be servants, stable-boys or singing children from the royal chapel of St. Stephen, were really under my jurisdiction. I approached a steward and, swearing him to secrecy, made him take me through winding passages and up flights of stairs to the office of the Star Chamber where John Russell, Richard’s Chancellor and Bishop of Lincoln, kept state.
    I was ushered in through a side door and walked across, my boots rapping noisily on the lozenge-shaped black and white tiles, so smooth and polished you felt you were walking across a mirror. Around me the deep, blue-coated walls were covered with small gold stars which gave the room its name. Russell, a diminutive figure, sat enthroned in a high-backed chair, swathed in costly purple and gold robes. All around him, their table-tops littered with parchment, wax, pens and inkpots, sat perspiring clerks, each working on some letter or document the Chancellor wished despatched. The Bishop looked up as I entered but continued dictating quietly to a clerk until finished. He clapped his hands softly and murmured something; the clerks immediately smiled, rose and hurriedly left. Once the room was empty, Russell waved me to a chair beside him.
    ‘Lord Lovell,’ he murmured, not even bothering to stir himself. ‘You are most welcome. I did not know you were coming.’
    ‘In haste,’ I replied. ‘His Grace is still in Oxfordshire and despatched me immediately.’
    ‘His Grace is well?’ The small, pebble-black eyes scrutinised me.
    ‘His Grace is well,’ I answered, noticing the slight flicker of Russell’s small, pursed lips. I did not like the Bishop, nor he me. He did not serve Richard well, but what does that matter now? We were not served welland we paid for our stupidity. Nevertheless, I respected Russell and observed the civilities. After all, on that hot summer afternoon we both knew why I was in London. I leaned across the table and handed him a small scroll.
    ‘His Grace has sent you this,’ I said. Russell looked at it before placing it unopened to one side.
    ‘I know what it says,’ he smiled. ‘And so do you!’
    ‘The Princes?’
    Russell coughed, dry, like the lawyer he was, preparing to make a speech.
    ‘You mean the illegitimate issue of King Edward IV?’
    ‘I mean the Princes,’ I said. ‘Where are they?’
    The Bishop spread thin, skeletal, vein-rimmed hands.
    ‘How do I know? They were in the royal apartments in the Tower and were then moved.’ He looked up at the wooden carved ceiling. ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘A few weeks after the King’s coronation, first to the Garden Tower and then to the upper storey of the White Tower. After that . . .’ His dry voice trailed off. He looked away as if studying the colour-glazed windows of the room.
    ‘You have been to the Tower?’ I asked accusingly.
    ‘No.’
    ‘So, how do you know?’
    ‘Sir Robert Brackenbury came to see me.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘Very little. The fellow was agitated. He said the Princes were gone,’ Russell replied.
    ‘When was this?’
    Russell bit his lower lip.
    ‘Brackenbury came about five days ago. The morning of August 2nd.’
    ‘Did you question him about the details?’
    ‘A little. I asked him when he had last checked on his prisoners. He replied the week previously.’
    ‘A week previously?’ I shouted.
    Russell grinned mirthlessly.
    ‘I said the same.’
    ‘Did you immediately order a search?’
    Russell glared at me.
    ‘That is not my responsibility, Lord Lovell. I cannot act on this matter without His Grace’s express command.’ He leaned across the table, steepling his fingers. ‘The Princes are gone,’ he explained patiently. ‘The King is only a few weeks crowned. Around us men plot in covens, conspiracies and confederations, secret meetings at the dead of night. For God’s sake, Lovell, what am I to do? Say the