Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (22 page)

When he asked Durian for his opinion on that question, he got the answer he expected from his loyal devoted servant and friend. “Entitled, sire? It is your birthright.”

It was that birthright he was ready to fight for, come what may.

Poor Isobel, ever the faithful wife, busy supervising his home, waiting to become pregnant, to give him the heir he wanted, was not the helpmeet he had hoped for. Somehow she lacked the fire he wanted in a wife. He sought someone to work alongside him, to stand with him against the tides of life that would take a man down if he did not stand strong against them. She supported his insurrection because her father was involved, not because she thought the cause was right and justified. She supported him because he was her husband, not because she believed in his cause. “Women!” he had declared to Peke, throwing a mazer across the room in anger. “Will they see no further than the end of the needle they sew with?”

“Your Grace,” Peke had begun but gave up when he saw the look George turned on him.

“I tell you, there are times I wish I were without the encumbrance of a wife and home, Peke! I wish I were an adventurer, out roaming the land, taking what I need when I need it. I wish-”

But then he fell silent, for he knew, deep in that part of him which held the truth, that he loved comfort, luxury and security and that would be denied him if he were such an adventurer.

Peke, ever the diplomat, was quietly busy with his papers, pretending the words needed no response. Nothing anyone could say would reach the duke when he was in that frame of mind. George knew it and accepted that no one would try and reason with him.

The memory of that last raging temper haunted him as he listened to Warwick planning to recruit this one and that, to move men here and send out an array there. He had realised that throwing temper fits like that got him nothing more than a violent headache which took hours, sometimes days, to leave him, headaches so bad they made him feel sick and rendered him hardly able to see. It was an object lesson in not losing his temper but sometimes he felt pushed beyond endurance and his only resort was violence, resulting in his throwing things, storming around his chambers and venting his anger on all who came within sight or sound of him. Later he would be found holding his head with both hands, calling for his physician to bring something, anything, to take the pain away. Isobel would sit with him, talking quietly and calmly, seeking to still the tensions racking his body and making the headache worse, putting cold wet cloths on his forehead, smoothing his hair and rubbing his hands. Sometimes he tolerated her ministrations, other times he bid her leave him and lay staring up at the hangings, visualising the pain as a series of groups of men-at-arms stamping their way across his skull, iron shod boots leaving their impression at every step, longing for it to go away.

I promise not to lose my temper again, he said silently, watching Warwick busy with papers and words, wondering all the time if this really was the opportunity they sought, if this really was the time when the tide would turn in their direction.

“Unfortunately my brother the king has the backing of so many,” he said carefully, dropping the words into an unusual gap in the non-stop torrent of words from Warwick.

“Your point is, George? My point is that your brother the king all but walked into our hands once. He could well do it again!”

“Yes, we had him in our hands, once, and allowed him to walk away.”

Warwick snorted. “He rode away! With Gloucester, Hastings and a virtual army to guard him! What could we do but let him go?”

“Fight back?” George suggested, knowing full well Warwick had no answer for that one. It earned him a look of utter disgust and contempt and he resolved not to say another word on the subject.

As Warwick resumed his litany of who could be called upon and when, George allowed himself to dwell on the thought that he wished for more congenial company. Warwick was intransigent, belligerent, over fond of his own voice and of food and wine, besotted with a sense of power and his own importance. He was not a comfortable companion and George longed for the freedom of his own home, where his staff knew his needs and desires and catered to them without his having to remind them of anything. There the days passed smoothly, no doubt due to Isobel’s constant efforts with the staff but that was part of her duties. He lived the life of a wealthy powerful duke. But here, in Warwick’s domain, he felt more like a callow youth, unable to make a sensible suggestion, unable to ask for wine when he wanted it, or time on his own when he needed it.

God grant that this time all goes to plan, he prayed fervently and silently, getting carefully to his feet and pleading the need for relief to stop Warwick in mid sentence.

Alone in the chamber set aside for him, George stood at the window, the cold wind biting into his skin, cleansing his thoughts. He knew he was afraid of the coming battles, afraid that he would win and it would cause injury or even death to members of his family and equally afraid he would lose and all would be lost, his wealth, his estates, his way of life. What man was ever caught in such a dilemma? Abruptly he turned and strode out of the room. He would confront Warwick now, still doubtless poring over the papers in his study, and tell him he was leaving for London. Time was getting short; if Ned was to be delayed, it had to be done now.

Suddenly the whole atmosphere, the conspiracy, the planning, was too much for him. He sought relief in action; his pent up restless energy would not permit him to remain acquiescent while Warwick continued his seemingly endless machinations.

It was time to be on the move. Much depended on what he could do. I am needed, he thought suddenly; I am essential to this whole plan. Now let me prove it!

Chapter 24

Ah, the days when I could do that, stride out of a chamber, demand that a horse brought for me, watch the men-at-arms scurry to find their mounts so we could ride out, are so long gone they are a distant and lonely memory.

Baynards Castle is a large imposing place, quite magnificent in every way. It is surprisingly small when you are there with a brother who shows his animosity in every word, every movement, even by his mere presence on the dais at meals. He sat far from me during the services we attended. My prayers were not as devout as they should have been; I seemed to spend the time watching my brother the king and wondering if he knew of my feelings, my plans, my ambitions. If he did, there was little revealed in his muttered words, mostly uttered for the sake of politeness and decorum, not of brotherly friendship or affection. I know my lady mother was distressed but she showed such small sign of it I doubt my brother the king noticed. He was far too busy being autocratic and overbearing to his little treacherous brother. It was almost too much to endure for two days but it was needed. Welles was pardoned and my brother the king was delayed, as planned. Such good plans!

I remember we, my brother the king and I, rode in silence for some distance the next day, then I returned to London and immediately set out again for Warwick. Freedom, that word that means so much to a prisoner, I rode, I went where I wanted! I wrote to my brother the king saying I was going to Warwick and would bring him to join the king’s army. I recall the honeyed words with which he responded. I recall feeling tremendously guilty at that, almost wishing it were true.

But, like all good plans, it all fell apart as letters were intercepted, apparently, as proclamations were issued and my brother the king issued his orders, including one to me to disband and join him. Warwick received the same order.

We had been close. Damn it to hell, Fate, whatever, we had been close, had we not? Were we not on the edge of success when it collapsed around us? To be ordered to disband our levies and rejoin the king was the ultimate insult to people who had almost, almost, managed to upset the balance of power and gain it for themselves. Once again that crown almost, but not quite, sat on my head.

This same head which right now is threatening to burst asunder with the pressure inside its bony casing. This same head which houses my thoughts, my dreams, my long lost ambitions and my sadness. Of a surety there are far too many of those!

Warwick suggested we pretend to submit whilst appealing for help. Warwick had many plans and most of them fell apart like cheap linen in the wash house when subjected to scrutiny. My brother the king was not of a mind to issue clemency and was determined on a battle. So we withdrew and made our way to the coast, defeated, heading for exile rather than confront an angry king who had just staved off an insurrection. Edward would not be in the best of humours. We decided to leave whilst we could. It was a sudden, instinctive reaction to the situation and although my cousin of Warwick declared it was not a defeat but a tactical withdrawal, I knew the truth. I could use the words and almost save some of my self-esteem but it was very low at that time. This I confess to these stone walls. None knew of it, for I never spoke of it, not then, not later. Such dreams as I had were fading fast, for despite the support I knew I could generate, geography, demography, Ned’s superior position and men’s weaknesses combined to ensure that I could not gather together a sufficiently strong and – more importantly – loyal group to do battle.

The biggest problem of all, one that never ever passed my lips, nor stayed in my conscious mind for longer than the flicker of a candle flame for fear of someone detecting it, was that I really did not wish to be there. I really did not wish to be fighting my brother the king. I was heartsick and stomach sick, food roiled and rebelled, turned sour and burned, rendering me incapable at times of being able to eat properly or rest easy in my bed at night. It was not supposed to be that way; a knight had a code of honour to uphold, chivalric standards to maintain, fearsome courage in the face of all opposition, laughing as he downs a goblet of fiery wine before charging into battle. Would that it were so! Would that my body could have followed the dictates of the code of the knight! Would that this poor helpless individual could have thrown off the fears, the terrors of the night, the dichotomy of loyalty one to the other, could have lost the sick apprehension of watching a battle plan fall apart through lack of support or simply through plans that were not good enough when actually in progress.

Who is there to offer a defence for me for that time? I was but twenty-one years of age, married, wealthy beyond most men’s dreams, fighting my own brother and his army for the sake of my own ambition, bolstered by my cousin of Warwick who doubtless had great plans for afterwards. I could not put from my mind the thoughts that he was making use of me, that he saw me as some kind of callow youth who could be bid to take part in insurrections for Warwick’s own ambitions, not always for mine. Mayhap he saw a better future for his daughter should the insurrection go our way, mayhap he just saw his own power growing in proportion to the hold he would maintain over me. Ever did I sense this worm of distrust and wondered why it was there, what was making me look to his motives more than I should or would otherwise have done. Was Durian right, was I truly fey?

Word was sent to my home: my heavily pregnant wife came to meet us at the port accompanied by her ladies, our servants bringing such supplies as we needed, such horses as were required, such money as we would need to see us through an indeterminate period of our lives.

Then we took ship for Calais.

The spies had been hard at work. Reports went back to London so fast I wonder they did not fly there of their own accord. How else could it have been that our tumultuous storm tossed journey ended with my own brother arranging for us to be denied landing in that port. Who does not know that my wife, no sailor in calm conditions, was so traumatised by the storm and the seas which tossed our craft to and fro that the child she birthed was dead when it arrived in this world? Who does not know – no, they know not for I have not spoken of it to a single living person – that my heart was torn out of me that day. It was torn out of me, wrapped in cloth and dropped over the side of the ship, along with all my hopes, dreams and ambitions. Isobel went into labour on the journey to the coast, the storm aided her not at all, the midwife was capable but overwhelmed by the conditions and my wife’s inability to fight the labour pains, or so she said. The blood loss was tremendous, the shrieking screams were agonising to hear when nothing could be done about it. I stalked the deck in fear for her life and, if that were spared, her sanity for she hated the sea and was terrified of the birth, that I knew well for she had confided it in our midnight talks when all the house was still. I thought her strong enough to carry a child, to my everlasting regret this son was still born, no breath, no beat of heart. Or so I was told. And so I believe it to be.

Finally we found harbour and sanctuary, for a while. Isobel was in need of a long period of recuperation. I could not be sure to give it to her.

Of a surety we caused many problems in France; we were fugitives, we had need of shelter, of sustenance and clothing and sought it where we could. Of a surety it was a time I would rather forget and, as these are my memories, oh shades and ghosts and those who haunt me at this sad desolate lonely time, be aware I will dismiss the thoughts that so trouble me.

I lie even to myself. Not all my hopes, dreams and ambitions were buried at sea along with my poor dead child who never saw my face or drew breath on this earth. My dreams truly died when Warwick arranged a marriage between the Prince of Wales and his younger daughter, Anne.