Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (29 page)

Where would this distrust, this dispute, this family disunity had gone had I not had my friend Thomas Burdet taken from me? Would we have healed the breach?

I know, of a surety I know, I have not mentioned many names to you, shades of darkness, for you have no need of names. You know my staff, my family, my retainers, my servants, my squires, my friends as well as I do. Why should I bother with names when you know them better than I at times, for at times my head was so dislocated from my body and the brain within it that I knew not who was standing before me. Drunken foolish Clarence. I have heard it said. I know it to be false, I know I had the mind and the sharpness of wit and clarity of vision to be a good ruler, to be a good duke, to be a trusted and loyal subject of His Grace King Edward IV of England and everywhere. I even feel I could have been cleverer than he, could have ruled better than he, could have conducted campaigns better than he but never got the chance to prove it to anyone, let alone myself.

Why then do I state my friend’s name so clearly? Because it was the beginning of the end. My end. His beginning, my end. His move in the game and playe of chesse, to bring about my downfall. It is not something I will know but it is how I perceive it.

Did I know my friend dabbled in alchemy? I did but I also knew my brother the king had more than a passing interest in alchemy, too. He had books, he had alchemists he consulted, he had knowledge and I do not doubt he used it to suit himself. My sorrow when my friend was hanged for an act of necromancy is beyond belief. It came at a time when my heart was heavy with sadness for my wife, for my son, for the wasted lives I took – for what reason? - for the loss of friendship with my brother the king, when my own health was seriously undermined by –

If I were not seeing it with my own eyes, I would not believe it. Before me is a shadow, a moving shadow. It resembles a man and the sense coming from it is one of great compassion. I know not who it is or what it is and yet I am not afeared of it. I now know that the shades of death are indeed in the room with me, I now know to whom I speak, mind to mind, heart to heart and I feel the great depth of understanding. This is one who has lived my kind of life and who knows my innermost heart. Whoever you are, I give you thanks for comforting me in these final hours.

I wanted to protest Thomas’s innocence. I wanted it protested in the highest place, the council. I did not want – I lie. I did want but my voice was betraying me at that time, it stuttered, it halted, it refused to enunciate the words properly. I could not stand up in the council and read a declaration of innocence for a man I trusted and liked without sounding like a fool. I chose a friend, a friar, to do it for me. I chose a day when my brother the king was not there. This was deliberate; I did not wish to provoke a public row with the King but wished it set on record that I believed in the innocence of those wrongfully hanged. What better way was there to do this than to have it announced in council and so recorded for the future? Or so I thought. It was also my way of saying ‘I am still here, do not dismiss me!’

It was thrown back at me that I had arranged for others to be unlawfully hanged. They were right. I had. And where were those who would stand up and speak of their innocence? None ever did. I make that statement now to the shadows around me: they were innocent. Their deaths are on my conscience. Their lives were terminated by my insanity. It is another part of the confession I will need to make when the time comes. Oh God, in thy great mercy, make it soon! I cannot stand this waiting, this agonising, this pain any longer! If it be thy will, allow me to walk through the door marked Death and end this miserable existence which is no life for a duke used to luxury, used to commanding men, used to everything that being a prince of the royal blood entitles him to.

I now ask the question that has haunted me since I arrived here. Did my brother summon me to appear before him that fateful June, knowing he would commit me for trial for treason, or did he commit me for trial to teach me a lesson so that I would bow to his wishes in future? If it was the latter, what made him change his mind and bring a charge of treason against me?

Chapter 31

The mayor of London and the aldermen who sat in council the day George was summoned to attend looked at him with eyes that expressed curiosity, mild amusement and contempt that a royal prince should be brought before the King in such a manner. Edward’s demeanour was entirely different. He literally seethed with anger; it spilled from him in his jerky movements, his reddened face and his heightened sense of regal behaviour. He wore his crown, rather than a circlet, he gestured with hands laden with expensive glittering rings. It took all of George’s courage and determination to stand tall whilst his brother lashed out with vicious words, accusing him of disrupting the judicial system, of attempting to thwart the actions of legally appointed courts and of defying commands issued by the king himself. George stared at the figure before him, now growing large due to his love of fine foods and wine and seeming lack of exercise. He stared and told himself that this was not the brother who had once loved him and sent instructions that he and Dickon should be rescued from the imprisonment of the duchess of Buckingham and given succour and tuition at the Archbishop’s home, the brother who visited him every day and lit up his life with his presence. The golden brother was being smothered under the weight of the heavy featured angry king who shouted, gesticulated, lectured, did everything to goad him into responding but he refused to do so.

It came as no real surprise to George when the men at arms were ordered to arrest him and convey him to the Tower but it was still unpleasant. He watched as a ripple of genuine surprise and shock ran through the gathered council at the words but no one raised a hand or uttered a word in his defence. All he could do was walk away with the men, proud, head held high, not looking back, not giving his king the satisfaction of knowing that his heart was leaden inside his chest, a heart that ached with sadness and bitter loneliness that threatened to eat away at the last remaining part of his sanity.

The journey was one fraught with emotion, for George at least. The men acted as if it was an everyday thing to escort the King’s brother to the Tower of London, there to be imprisoned, awaiting trial. George felt as if every bone in his body was screaming ‘This Is Wrong!’ but none could hear it and if they could, what would they have done? No more than those who heard the command in the first place. Every step the horse took was a step nearer confinement and a step away from freedom. The grey looming walls drew ever nearer, nearer, then they were through the gate, into the courtyard and handing over the horses to stable hands. The escort closed in, as if he would run anywhere, as if he had anywhere to run to, and he finally walked into the Tower itself and was escorted to the rooms seemingly already allocated for him. George wondered for a moment whether the whole farcical situation had been arranged in advance, whether Edward had known precisely what he would do and how he would do it. Why else would no one question which rooms to take him to, or express with even so much as a lifted eyebrow why the Duke of Clarence should be incarcerated in the Tower?

And, the ever present question, would he ever walk free again? Would he ever know the relief of living his own life, making his own decisions, walking in his own gardens, again? Did Edward really mean to finish him? The question hung in the air, unspoken, unacknowledged, as the door slammed shut and he was left to contemplate grey thick cold all enclosing walls.

Confinement was cruelty in itself. He had paper and quills, he had access to his staff to make arrangements for the care and custody of his two children, of the running of the estates which would soon enough be taken back into Treasury hands, to be given out to Wydevilles or anyone else Edward wanted to honour at that time. He had no freedom. For someone used to riding, hawking, hunting, walking in his beautiful gardens, attending services throughout the day, of consulting with tailors and cooks, of choosing his meals and entertainment, to be shut up alone was unbelievably hard. It gave him much time to think and in the thinking came great sorrow, heartbreak and, at times, overwhelming grief.

Throughout the time he grew more and more certain that Edward planned to have him executed. There was no other reason for the imprisonment that was ongoing, endless, utterly enervating and totally disheartening. How could he allow his wayward brother to walk free once again, to take up the reins of his life and carry on? It was inconceivable. With that in mind he made arrangements for the distribution of his jewellery, his wardrobe, his books and other favoured possessions, asking only for a few items to be brought to him in the Tower. He also arranged to make his peace with Earl Rivers, to calm that part of his uneasy conscience. He knew that he was very possibly going to die. The only question left was when.

George asked, but no word was brought to him of his brother of Gloucester’s reaction to his arrest and imprisonment. He could not gain knowledge of the king’s intentions, either. It seemed his spy network had shut down with his incarceration and no one was prepared to risk the wrath of the king in attempting to convey messages to him. So much for loyalty, he told himself, so much for devotion. Damn it to hell, Durian, why did you have to die? Of a surety you would have found a way to get word to me of what was going on, so I would not be here in a state of wonderment! How am I to die? Is this really my end? Is Ned so angry with me that he will terminate my life, me, a prince of the royal blood? Where is my lady mother in all this? Why does she not get word to Ned that he should be merciful to me? Captive thoughts, spinning wildly round and round in his mind, never ending, never giving him a moment of peace. Over and over he thought of what he should have said, what he should have done, shouted aloud the words that he wanted so much to say to those gathered to witness the proceedings whilst knowing deep in his heart that nothing could have been said to change the outcome in any way. He knew, by the whole elaborate way it had been carried out, that Edward had thought about it for some time, had planned it and finally carried it out. Maybe it was giving him intense pleasure to know George was under lock and key, away from life so that he could not get involved in any more problems, or again repeat the bastardy claim that had so infuriated Edward. It did not matter that George did not believe a single word of it, what mattered was that it was another weapon to use against the king, another opportunity to fire darts into that smiling countenance and see it change. But it had not been smiling when George had been escorted into the council chamber. Then the countenance had been truly regal, if puffy with excess weight and good living, severe and determined. Remembering that look, George knew full well all his protestations and arguments would have been to no avail. Edward had decided and the family knew that when that happened, there was no turning back.

The days dragged into weeks and the weeks dragged into months. George could do nothing but visualise the espaliered fruit trees heavy with their burdens ripe for plucking and envy others the chance to eat the fine fruits, think of the Autumn flowers in their glory and resent others enjoying their beauty, imagine his favourite chestnut stallion being ridden by others whilst recalling his own breakneck rides through forests, risking life limb and sanity by setting the horse at ditches or fences without knowing what was on the other side. He visualised his favourite hawk soaring above the forest, quivering, waiting for prey and wished he had the strength of mind to send his own spirit soaring outside the unbreachable walls of the Tower into freedom. He wanted to weep for his loss of freedom, for the loss of all he held dear but would not allow himself the luxury of tears. Who knew when someone would walk into his chamber, see his frailty and weakness and report it back to the king? That would not do. Ned had to believe he was defiant and strong to the very end. God willing, he would do it.

Day by day the pain grew fractionally worse, day by day he fought to hold on to the ability to speak, to stand tall, to walk. He knew sooner or later there would be a trial and he wished to defend himself well, not allow the king to walk over him and direct him to eternity without a fight. It would not do to walk away from such an eventuality, to have it known that at the end the duke of Clarence gave way without so much as a raised word in his own defence.

It would have to be his own defence for he knew well, from careful questions posed to those who brought food, wine and comforts for him, that no one was prepared to stand for him or with him. It took all his willpower and strength to practice speaking clearly and concisely, endlessly wondering how long it would be before it all came to its inevitable end. There was no physician available now to hand him the draughts of painkilling liquids, no one knew of his agony and he was determined no one would. Weakness would not be revealed, no matter what it took.

Autumn moved inevitably into winter, without word of what was to happen to him. Christmas was a bleak, lonely festival, food and wine was brought to him and the servers hastily departed, having their own festivities to attend. His priest came to say Mass but that was the only relief in a long endless cold isolated season. He imagined the revelries in court, wondered who had been appointed Lord of Misrule, thought of colour, light, movement, music, food and knew without knowing that his days were truly numbered. Sadness verging on grief consumed him so that the hours were long and the days even longer.

The New Year arrived unheralded and unnoticed in his lonely prison in the Tower. There was no word from Ned as to his intentions; George had no way of knowing how much longer his imprisonment would last. He was putting on even more weight through enforced inactivity; he grew a beard for ease and convenience, less time spent on himself when there was no longer any reason to be proud of his appearance. It also took from him the fear that in his shaking, someone would cut him, for he was beginning to shake like a man with palsy. His prayers were personal and directed to God, no intermediaries, he was done with intermediaries. He would talk to the Lord God himself, not ask someone to convey the message for him for fear of it not being delivered. He asked over and over again for the agony to be ended.