Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (2 page)

But what of my actions over the years, what of my treason? Was my brother the king not right in all he said and did against me? My thoughts endlessly charge at one another, knights in a joust, the one trying to knock the other from position. He was right – he was not right. In reality, it does not matter for it is too late. There is no going back. There is no undoing that which has been done, written, said aloud to the Court. My brother the king would not – could not - reverse his decision now. It would show weakness and he would never allow that.

Of my dreams - let me return to my dreams – I say this.

The dream of the crown was taken from me.

Fotheringhay waits. I will not go there again.

My marriage lasted just seven years.

Of my children, just two are left to the world.

He who supported me, the Kingmaker, was killed.

I always felt like an outsider within my own family.

As for old age, I am 28 but will not live to celebrate the occasion of my becoming 29.

So, do I regret anything? Yes, much. Spending so much time in dispute with my brother of Gloucester. Spending so much time away from my brother of March when he was so good to me. Arranging the demise of the unfortunate Ankarette Twynho for no other reason than she was the perfect scapegoat, she with her herbs and her potions and her shining covetous eyes. I needed a scapegoat, needed to blame someone for taking my wife from me. Too much to admit Isobel died of a natural condition, my distorted mind – I freely confess this now – would not accept a rational, sensible human answer. I sought a solution in witchcraft, in sorcery and alchemy. I regret those who died with her. I know now my son died because he was not strong enough to live, not because he had been poisoned. Fool, Clarence; perfect fool.

I could go on but the paper would soon be used and there is no one to call for a further supply. I also have to ask myself if I want to spend the rest of my life, short as it is likely to be, writing of regrets. No, I need not write of them; I can sit here before the fire – this February is bitterly cold, at least here in the Tower – and go back in memory instead.

Let me then ask the question; what do I most yearn for? Answer: a restoration of family life, that is, to be with my lady mother, my brother of March and my brother of Gloucester. My children? I know them not as people, I yearn right now to be with people I know and once loved. Did they in turn once love me? It is too late to ask. It is too late to seek their forgiveness, their understanding, their absolution for that which I have done. It is too late for many things.

It is not too late to be shriven. I pray the priest will come soon. There is much to confess and my knees will ache with cold from the floor and the pressure of my not unsubstantial weight long before I am through. I will not go to my Maker, my God, He who sees all, with the sins I carry right now on my soul.

Twenty eight years. It seems but a blink of an eyelid since I became aware of the castle of Fotheringhay, of my sister Margaret and the many servants who took care of us, of the child born after me who became at times what I perceived to be my bitterest enemy but I know not if that was all in my head.

Dear God, this pain! Will it not let me rest before I am sent to my eternal rest?

What have I achieved in my time? What will history make of me? How will I be perceived by those who are to come after me? How will my children remember me? How will my brothers remember me?

I have no answers. I have only questions – and now doubts, too. If there is a heaven, if there is Purgatory, then my pure Isobel is long since passed through it and is in the glory that is the domain of God. So I ask and will ask of my priest, when he comes - pray that it be soon and I unload this burden of sin! - how long will I spend in Purgatory, how long before I can be reunited with Isobel, how long before I see the glory of heaven? Or is it all a story given to keep us kneeling at the altar rail in the hope that partaking of the Body of Christ will help us be a little more pure in our thinking and in our hearts?

God forgive me for these thoughts! I will add them to my confession. Of a surety there are hours of confession to come. But Almighty God, look down on this sinner and know that he – I – am suffering much pain, much agony of body as well as mind. Knowing it is all to be ended is in itself a hurt, a pain that is hard to bear, that every minute that ticks by is a minute less for me to live.

How foolish are these thoughts! How foolish is it to think in this way! From the moment we take our first breath in this life the days are counting down to our death, whether it be on the battlefield with full honours of a soldier’s demise or trying to escape the battlefield and being hacked down, whether it be coughing up blood and expiring through inability to breathe any more or falling from a rearing horse and breaking a spine or as I am, under a double sentence of death, signed by my brother’s own bold hand with a fine freshly cut quill and from that which is in my head and even now pressing, pressing, pressing until I could scream aloud with the pressure that is grinding my skull into small pieces. They know not that I drop things, that my hands are unsure, that my balance is disturbed, that I cannot think straight any more, for these things happen when none are here. I make well sure of that. When they come, those who attend me, I do not attempt to stand unless it is with help, I do not attempt to hold things. I have no need of that when they are there to do it for me and I do not need to think when in their presence. I keep quiet for who would wish to willingly attend someone under sentence of death? None. My squires attend me by order of the Constable of the Tower and they go. They come because they must; they go as soon as they can. It is as if I have some contagious disease. If they knew the truth – that if left here I will die without my brother’s command – what would they say, how would they show their pity to me? Would they show their pity to me, or would embarrassment at being in the presence of someone who is dying cause them to leave even sooner than they do? Such questions have no answers.

From my viewpoint it is as well they do not know. My speech is affected now and they would not understand me. Even more foolish then is my desire to ask the priest how long I would spend in Purgatory for he would not understand a word I utter. Would it help to have the thoughts of someone who does not know? He would only guess and that would not help me. I will have to find out by going there myself, presenting myself to the Avenging Angel or whoever is in charge of Purgatory and saying ‘here I am, traitorous, deceiving, drunken Clarence, do with me as you will.’

As far as the squires are concerned, I pretend I cannot be bothered to speak. I gesture to them and they understand I wish to be bathed, dressed, fed – and wined, for it does dull if not kill the pain. Eventually.

How do I know my speech is affected? I have shouted my anger at my fate and heard the sounds that issued from the mouth which once spoke honeyed words, or so Isobel told me. Like honey, she said, my words of love were like honey. Now they are no more than pips and stones as in the fruit I devour as if there is nothing else to eat. The words stop, the words crash over one another, the words make no sense.

I will write this page and I will burn it, for the ink is smudged with tears. I have no control over my tears now, either. I will write it for it is in part helping me to release that which is within me, a huge stone, a boulder sitting somewhere behind my ribs, behind that which continues to pump the malmsey wine around my body. For how long is another guess, an hour, a day or a week? How long before that which eats my brain stops the process of living? Or will the men come at my brother the king’s command and stop the process of living before that happens?

And the final question, the unanswerable one, no matter how much I think on it: which would I prefer?

I do not know: I will not know.

Chapter 2

There was a scent of fresh strewn rushes, a perfume somewhere between cut grass and summer, rose into the air of the birthing room as the embroidered slippers of the ladies, servants and midwife crushed them underfoot. The women seemed endlessly on the move, tending the great fire, heating water and sponging the face of the duchess as the contractions rippled through her body. The midwife hovered, encouraging, checking on progress. Perfumes mingled with the pungent oils massaged into the duchess’s wildly distended stomach to help the birth process, the smell of smoke from the burning logs mingled with the herbs sprinkled into bowls of water. The room was full of colour, smells and movement; silks and braids flickered their shining glory under the candles and the flames from the fire as the elaborately jewelled and decorated gowns moved with the women who swayed back and forth and the smoke, the oils and the rushes combined to make a scent like no other. And there was noise, the crackle of logs, the voices, the bubbling water, the groans of the duchess as she tried to assist the birth, the midwife murmuring to the child fighting its way into the over-heated room and an uncertain life. Beyond the door to the chamber came the chant of prayers from the priest and his acolytes, asking for a safe delivery. Further away, but distinct, came the sound of metal on metal as halberds clashed and armed guards took up their positions around the castle.

The angel had most of the senses: she could see, hear and smell but touch and speech were beyond her. She could do nothing but hover, unseen, unnoticed, by the great arras covering the stone walls of the room set aside in Dublin Castle, to watch as the movements of the women stirred the tapestry, sent the shining lance of St George stabbing into the snarling death-ridden dragon. She admired the dichotomy: on the walls, death, on the bed, life.

With a triumphant shriek from the duchess, the baby emerged to the great joy and excitement of those gathered around her.

“A boy, my lady! Another son for the Yorks!” The midwife cleared the baby’s mouth and instantly a loud wail was heard, causing smiles all round.

“A healthy son! God be praised!”

The smell of blood and perspiration added to the miasma in the room but none seemed aware of it although it was as palpable as an Autumn mist and as ethereal. Someone coughed but no one commented on it.

The duchess appeared to melt into the down mattress, all tension fleeing from her body and all anxiety draining from her face. She smiled weakly at the congratulations and fussing comments from her attendants and watched as the child was cleaned and wrapped in swaddling bands. She looked for a moment as if she wanted to reach out and take the baby but instead her gaze followed the child as he was laid in a cradle in the corner, away from the lights, away from the crush of people. She closed her eyes.

‘Send a messenger to my Lord husband the duke of York: tell him I am newly delivered of another son for the House of York and that the child is strong and well.’ This message was passed through the open door to a page waiting on the other side. The chanting priest and his attendants halted their dirge and for a moment there was silence, apart from the rustle of rushes and the crackling of the logs. In that moment of total peace the angel could, had she wished, have spoken to the newborn, the one to whom she had chosen to devote herself as his guardian angel. She decided to stay silent. The child would have problems enough in this age when infant mortality was a given state and where superstitious people would have condemned him as being from the Devil himself had such an occurrence taken place and any become aware of it. But oh, what mischief was there in her heart and mind that made her wish she could do it!

Instead she watched from her vantage point beside the elaborate and expensive arras and wondered what her duties would be like, guarding and protecting this new arrival. Wondered if he would ever become aware of her or whether she would spend her time in isolation; no word or thought from the one she guarded and protected; no recognition of the work. Not that they sought it, those who were guardian angels, but it was always good when the guarded one recognised they were there, it made it easier to whisper, to guide, to advise, to counsel. Without that recognition, it was more a question of attempting to work in semi-darkness and hoping the guarded one finally realised what was being impressed on them, that it would be better to do it this way, if you don’t mind, for that way led to disaster…

This was Dublin, in the fair land of Ireland. He would carry no memory of that, this fine healthy York, but the angel would, in time, whisper in his ear that was his birthplace and he could be proud to be a son of Ireland as well as a son of York. If she said nothing else to him as his guardian angel, she would at least do that.

“A fine boy, my lady!” The midwife burned the placenta, washed her bloody hands in one of the bowls of herb scented water and wiped them on a piece of cloth. “What will you call him?” Ingratiating herself, seeking a bigger reward than that offered for a safe delivery.

The duchess’s eyes opened and she looked up at the great wall hangings. “George,” she said with a weak smile. “Of a surety St George watched over me as I gave birth. He will slay many dragons, this son of York.”

“God grant it be so,” muttered one of the ladies, looking into the cradle. “Your son, my lady, is bonny.”

“I am glad. Pray God that this one lives!”

The ladies crossed themselves superstitiously as the midwife then burned the bloody rags in the fire.

Does a newborn baby think? Are there active thoughts in the mind, or is it all instinctual survival, the need for food, for water, for strength? The angel had many skills, many gifts to bring to the new one but getting into his mind was not part of the deal, it would seem. She tried, she wished to know, but all she met was blankness. She wondered if she had tried too hard, if she had caused damage but everything said no, it was just that he was too young to have thoughts. It was all down to survival and nothing more. She watched closely as his eyes closed and then opened, closed and opened once more as he attempted, even at that young age, to focus on that around him. Finally the eyes closed and for a while he lost himself in sleep. Soon enough the demands for sustenance would wake him, he would howl with his mighty lungs for someone to feed him, clean him, attend to his many needs, not the least of which would be attention.