We Speak No Treason Vol 1 (14 page)

‘But you do not marry them,’ I said in a whisper. By rank far distant, and by riches further apart than the topmost star. Elysande swam back into my vision.

‘Fools, I mean.’

‘Well, sweet, he is a man,’ she said, laughing, and I saw suddenly the use of this silly delusion, and caught at it gladly.

‘Yes, he is. He is, indeed,’ I said, feigning coyness, and she looked hard at me, as if unsure of her own mind.

She was hard to fathom, Elysande. French in descent, she gave away little in confidence, never lost her temper through weariness as did the others, and she seemed to know many at court, some of noble birth. I had seen her only lately having fair speech with a woman, the strangest little person I had ever seen. She was even lower in stature than I, not a deal higher than the comic dwarfs King Edward kept for his pleasure, to juggle and ride the great hounds around the Hall. Far from well-favoured was this tiny lady, with a face all bones and sharply defined as an axe, small flashing eyes and hollow cheeks. Yet she had had two husbands, Elysande told me, for this was Lady Margaret Beaufort. Daughter of the Lancastrian Duke of Somerset, she had first wedded Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, when she was thirteen, bearing a son, Henry, two months after the death of her knight.

Patch plagued me with tales of these Tudors; he seemed to know all their history. They were some kind of distant cousin to the King. He had witnessed a rare scene, had Patch, in Hereford, the town where he was born.

‘I can see it now,’ he said, more than once. ‘Old Owen Tudor, kneeling in the market square—one blow, and he lacked a head... then came this madwoman...’

‘And combed his hair and stroked his face and wept and lighted candles all around him,’ I said wearily.

‘I was but a little knave,’ he said, uncaring. ‘Jesu, that woman must have loved him sore. Then, if a Queen loved him, why not a witless wench?’

Surprised, I murmured: ‘Did a Queen love him?’

‘Yea, Queen Katherine, widow of Harry the Fifth—Harry of Agincourt. That is why they smote off his head, I vow. Slain for love,’ he said romantically and sighed, rolling his eyes at me and conveniently contriving to forget all about old Owen’s Lancastrian loyalties.

‘Edmund Tudor was their bastard issue,’ he maundered. ‘Jasper and Owen and Edmund, Margaret Beaufort’s first husband. Maiden, think you she has heard my tale of high romance and sorrow? Mayhap one day I will seek to interest her with it,’ he said happily.

‘I doubt not she is well familiar with it, Patch, as are we all.’ I sighed and turned up my eyes to make him cease. And then I realized it was nearing dusk, and Tudors and Lady Beaufort fled from my mind. For they were all but as the pastry figures fashioned by cooks for the subtleties at the King’s table, and my thoughts all drew together and ran to meet Richard, as I prayed for night to come swiftly.

I vowed I would wait for him until dawn. I donned the Duchess’s gift as soon as she was safely below. Elysande brushed out my hair, as if I were a noble lady. The other women played at dice, casting resigned looks in our direction as we murmured and shook with mirth, though there were some who smiled to themselves, having faint remembrance of their own youth; they were all past thirty.

‘They think you
lack-wit to love a fool
,’ Elysande whispered, and we clutched each other and wept with our laughter. And I laughed more merrily than she at the secret jest which I enjoyed, until a sudden thought shattered my joy. In truth, I had likened Patch to a troublesome fly before, but this night, if my lord came and spoke with me, and bewitched me with his steady gaze and the clasp of his hand, the fool might prove more dangerous; a fly? nay, a hornet, with sharp jealous sting. I fell to gnawing my nails, and when Elysande asked me, sighing
what ailed me now,
I could not answer her.

She snuffed a few candles, and the chamber grew large and dark with this new riddle peering at me from the shadows. Two of the women already slept, and their quiet breathing mingled with the rattling dice and the faint music coming from below. I sat motionless.

‘Your sweetheart will be looking for you,’ Elysande whispered. ‘Take your cloak, it is colder tonight.’

I drew the hood up over my hair.

‘Why do you dally?’ she hissed, holding the door open. A chill breath from the passage crept in. ‘If you don’t go soon, you’ll not be back when my lady returns.’

‘Ah, Jesu, Elysande,’ I whispered. ‘Will she return soon, think you?’

She smiled. ‘Nay, child, she’s in fine fettle tonight. From the way she spoke, she rued slumbering through the gaiety last evening.’

The door closed softly behind me. Shaken by a trembling that had naught to do with the cold, I moved vixen-silent through the familiar darkness. Around the corner, the flickering torch burned high, beckoning me with its elf-light. I heard the music and the raised voices, which by now I could almost tell apart. The King’s laugh was a mighty sound, rich and golden as he, and I recognized Clarence’s bibulous chuckle. Tenderly, I bent my body against the pillar, greeting the carved faces with my fingers, and looked down. I was safe from Patch for a time in any event, for a figure, all blazing yellow and red, jingling bells, leaped witlessly about before the royal dais. He had possessed himself of the gold carcanet from the neck of some knight, and was skipping with it in the manner of a young child. He will need to be careful, I thought. His glory of last night makes him wax stout and proud. For his sake, I hoped that the lord he had robbed was cup-shotten and careless.

The Woodvilles dominated the Hall. They were all gathered, and tonight also there was Lionel Woodville, lately made Bishop of Salisbury. In fine robes, he nodded and smiled at the wholesome folly before him. There was Lord Hastings, looking sour. Lord Stanley and his brother William. Katherine of Desmond, Dick and Thomas Grey, George of Clarence, and my lord of Warwick. My eyes found Warwick, found his companion, and searched no further.

He was the very reason for my birth. He was my lord, and he stood next to the Earl of Warwick, slender and elegant, dangerous and sad, and I felt my heart give one clapping rush out to him like the wings of a dying bird; and my eyes set upon him in longing love, and I heard myself, like someone far away, come forth with a little rush of loving words, and his name, said over and over in the darkness. It was a moment or two before I realized that all was not well with him. He was talking to Warwick, very fast. He was pale as death. He held one hand hard down upon the hilt of his dagger as if he feared it would suddenly take on life, and kill. He was angry.

Warwick, much taller than Richard, bent his handsome head languidly to listen. A little smile fidgeted his mouth. I mistrusted that smile. And George of Clarence came strolling into the tableau, also smiling, with full pouting lips, with condescension and unmistakable mockery. And Richard talked on and on, as I watched him, his hands; the clenched fist, the spread fingers, the clasped hands like a prayer; and his brows drawing together, and his eyes bright with this unknown anger and sadness. He glanced towards the King, then back to Warwick, talking, talking. And all the time Warwick smiled that arrogant, cruel smile, and Clarence chuckled in his wine-cup.

Then Warwick laid his hand upon his own heart and spoke. One short phrase, and Clarence laughed out loud, and the colour touched Richard’s face, as if each cheek had been held before the fire. Then in the next instant he was pale again, pale as one long dead.

Warwick placed an arm about George of Clarence’s shoulders, and together they walked away.

Richard was looking at the King. Edward, with a moody good-humour, filled a goblet with wine and pushed it across the table, beckoning his brother to come and drink. Richard walked over to the dais. He made to lift the jewelled cup, when the Queen forestalled him. With a masterly coquetry and a cat’s swiftness, she took the cup herself, pledging the King over it with large eyes. She touched it to her lips. Then she handed it over her shoulder to Anthony Woodville, who raised it high.

‘The King, my lords!’ he cried. ‘The Sun in Splendour! Perdition to his enemies!’

With a roar, the court rose, goblets aflame. I saw them all, as if frozen in a pose, the gay court acclaiming its King, the royal pair smiling their pleasure, and the King’s brother, young, solitary, fierce, his foot upon the step of the dais, glaring about as at those who sought his death. The only one to lack a cup for the loyal toast.

‘Holy Jesu! Cruel, cruel!’ I said out loud, and clung to the pillar, shaking.

I had been against the Countess of Desmond because she danced with him, but I loved her the next second, for it was she who brought salvation. Snatching up a half-empty hanap from one of the side tables, she tendered it discreetly towards Richard. And Patch, the troublesome fly, the witless fool, I loved him too. For he nipped it swiftly from her hand and gave it to my lord, with a courtly bow and a wink that held no mockery. So the wheels began to turn again, and the throats of men moved in their swallow, and the thud of goblets being set down merged with the minstrels’ gay tune, and the moment passed.

My heart pounded, and my palms were wet. I fixed a killing glance upon the Queen but it did not touch her, for she fluttered her lashes and her hands, and the King ogled her with looks that spoke of bed. It was only when I surveyed the company again that I saw my lord of Warwick had not drained his cup, but held it brimming still. The smile on his countenance was bland and fierce. And now the gay colours, the glory, meant little. I smelled the storm, the hidden hate. It rose up and beat about me.

Warwick bent the knee before his King. He was departing, the carved smile still on his lips, and as I marked his progress through the door, I realized that another, the other, the only one, had left before him. And I had not even watched him go; it was like a betrayal, for I had sworn I would not let him from my sight, would protect him with my gaze as his own patron saint.

I sighed. He would not come now—that was certain, for he was too distressed by whatever had befallen him down there in that hell of hot laughter. And I would not even have the chance to offer him solace. It was as I thought thus, I wondered how best I might comfort him, and lacked conclusion, for how shall one, who has no quality, who is shadow and not substance, know aught of succouring a prince of the blood?

Cold and alone, I stood for a long time. My heart ached. I was full of longing and sorrow and shame, shame at myself. Last night, while the Duchess slumbered, I had tormented myself with thoughts of my love, deeming him a lightsome courtier, wayward in look and desire. Now I knew he was not even a part of the seething court; I saw him old beyond his years, constantly tortured; pricked by intrigue and spite, baited by circumstance as a bear by feast-day mastiffs. And the worst of it was I did not know all. I could not reckon what it was that branded his face with that look of angry sorrow. And, thinking how gladly I would have shared his trouble, no matter what, I drew my cloak about me and began to make my way, sadly, back towards the Duchess’s apartments.

I felt a tugging at my skirts, and turned, frightened. A pale face stared up at me, level with my waist. A child’s face, a faery face, disembodied above a suit of dark livery, and green-white with fatigue. A tiny page, come by night on an errand of which he was too young and too weary to know overmuch. Very hesitantly he asked my name and looked satisfied when I nodded. Then he fumbled for my cloaked hand and gripped its coldness. He began to tug me back towards the gallery. ‘Mistress, come with me,’ he muttered.

‘Where?’ I stood firm, while he heaved at my hand and breathed gustily as if to draw me after him by sheer strength.

‘It is a command,’ he insisted, and my blood turned to dreadful ice. Only the King commands. My first thought was that I had been espied on the gallery by night and that the Comptroller of the Household had been ordered to reprimand me. Or some doing of the Queen! My guilt summond wild images of Elizabeth’s displeasure. I remembered too that I wore my lady of Bedford’s gown. It came to my mind that she might not recall giving it to me. I sought to hide its rich folds from the torchlight and the child’s weary eyes.

‘Who so commands?’ I whispered. The page shook his head, mute with sleep-lust.

‘Madame, ’tis this way,’ he breathed, his foot pawing the ground like a pony anchored by too great a weight. And so in pity and resignation I steeled myself and went with him, along the dark ways, past the drowsy guard, who winked at me as at any fair female face, answering my uneasy smile. We ascended narrow spiralling steps to another broad passage, descended a staircase, crossed a deserted hallway and entered a part of the Palace where I had not ventured. My captor halted before an oaken door, and bruised his knuckles hammering upon it. We waited. The page looked at me, and I at him, and he twitched his pale lips in a comic grimace.

‘I suppose we had better enter,’ he muttered, and threw his weight against the handle. I followed him into the empty chamber, and, in the light of many candles and a great fire, saw that upon his livery was blazoned the Boar, the White Boar, and my blood turned from ice to flame.

My hand was still imprisoned. He had a duty to fulfil, and none would chide him for shirking it. I managed to smile at him.

‘I shall not flee, child,’ I said gently. ‘How cold your hand is! Come to the warmth.’

He came, willingly, and sat in the hearth, his knees under their proud livery drawn up to his chin, while I looked around the chamber, drinking in the things that were Richard, and which gave me joy.

‘Where is my lord of Gloucester?’ I asked, walking about on the rich carpet.

‘He was here when I left, but he must have gone about some affairs,’ said the child anxiously.

‘Don’t fret,’ I said. Now I could hardly speak. ‘He will come soon.’

His chessboard lay open upon a small table, the pieces frozen in an intricate move. My fingers hovered over a bishop; then dropped to my side, for I knew little of the game. I wondered with whom he had been playing, and guessed again at Lovell, his friend of the dark staircase. A fluttering sigh came from the corner. On a rod crouched a perigrine falcon, his round eye fixing me like an angry jewel. A lute lay on a chair near by and I touched it softly. The little discord rippled and hung sobbing on the air.