We Speak No Treason Vol 1 (16 page)

‘Call me by my name,’ he whispered.

But I held it so dear my tongue could not shape the word, even to its owner.

And he reached for me with open arms, and we came together trembling, and I know not which of us shook the more, he or I, as if we lay in coldest snow, although we held each other standing in the hearth, and after a while I felt the flames warm upon the side of my gown.

‘We shall be in the fire, my lord,’ I said, trying to laugh, and the laugh got caught up in my throat.

‘We are in the fire already,’ he muttered, his face in my hair. ‘We are in the fire, and burning.’ And he tightened his arms about me so that I could scarcely breathe, and I felt his hard young body against mine, all steel and strength and honour, and behind my closed eyes I had a vision of him riding in Wensleydale, through the smoke of the mists, his hair tossed by the wind, and part of the wildness.

He kissed my eyes, and my throat, and my cheeks, and wound his hands in my hair, and I became as the soft wax of the candles and leaned back in his arms, wondering if this was how it felt to die, and attain Paradise.

The fire burned low as we stood thus in the press of love, and when he spoke his words slipped into my dream and became part of it.

‘Lady, I have known no woman,’ he murmured. I clasped my arms around his slender back.

‘Then we are both ’prentices in love, my lord,’ I said, softly smiling. ‘For how can I teach you a craft of which I know naught?’

And we laughed together, all sorrow fled, and he lifted me in his arms, and I was as light as a twig. He took me to his bed and lay down with me, and we were very still for a long space, except for his hands stroking the hair which lay strewn across my cheek. He lifted his head and looked in my eyes.

‘Call me by my name,’ he whispered. ‘Sweet heart, say it to me.’

‘Richard,’ I said, trembling. ‘Richard, my love.’

His took me in his arms. He laid his lips on mine. And a flame sprang up and caught us, and we sighed in it, and were consumed by it, and there was naught in the world save its fierce glory. And he was no longer Duke of Gloucester, Earl of Cambridge, a prince of the blood, or the King’s brother.

He was but Richard, and for a little space he was mine, and I was his true maid, his Nut-Brown Maid, who loved but him alone.

*

O Lord, what is this worldis bliss

That changeth as the moon!

My summer’s day in lusty May

Is darked before the noon.

I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,

We depart not so soon.

Why say ye so? whither will ye go?

Alas! what have ye done?

All my welfare to sorrow and care

Should change, if ye were gone:

For in my mind, of all mankind

I love but you alone.

(The Nut-Brown Maid)

Now, I was part of the spring. Benevolent Saints, how I loved him! and how happy were those months! Even now, when I am old, and my body is sickly and weak so that I need the aid of others sprightlier than I that I may kneel for Lauds, I still mind that time. When the young green leaves sprouted tender as kisses, and the birds sang a merrier tune than any minstrel could pipe. When the pleasaunce at Greenwich and Shene boasted a crush of blossom nudging the velvet lawns, with brave iris and gillyflower, lilac and narcissus jousting with one another for acclaim. When the evening was haunted by lilies which, shaking in the breeze like censers, gave off a headier scent than the holy things they sought to ape, and the Rose, the White Rose, shed its splendour over all.

Yea, I have full remembrance of that time; but as my heart lies under tangling weeds and a rough stone slab, it is all as that read long ago in an old romance, and there is no movement in me, not even of sadness. Because—and for this I thank the Father in all His mercy—without a heart, there can be no sorrow, nor can there be joy. Thus, a heartless state is best during the days of waiting, which I pray will soon be over.

Yet from the time of Epiphany, when the revels ended, and order was restored to the jocund court, it became sorely difficult for Richard and me to meet. I dared not go too often to the gallery for two reasons: first because my lady of Bedford was ever demanding, lusting for this or that whim to be fulfilled, and secondly because there was no pleasure in watching him below at a distance, when I could not be in his arms. Though I did see him at the board, seated a thousand miles away at the other end of the Hall, seated below the Woodvilles, sometimes between Dick and Thomas Grey, toying with his knife, eating little, saying less, drawing his brows together as he gazed at the King, who was ever engrossed by Elizabeth’s lively kinsfolk. He was all dignity and grace, sombre in the dark clothes he liked to wear, as ever courteous to all since that one burst of passion when Warwick had wounded him with words, the same night he and I first held each other—in pain, in bliss, in scorching, tender consummation.

We had been together less than a dozen times, yet I was happy beyond words. I remembered each meeting so perfectly, for I had to feed on it until the next; and once I saw him for ten minutes only, behind the tall yew hedge in the pleasaunce, while from very near the sound of the mallets in the forbidden game of ‘closh’ mingled with guilty laughter. There, we had stood and kissed each other softly for a few moments. I felt the sun warm on my closed eyes, my lifted face. He had said: ‘Sweet heart, I had sore need of you last evening, for my heart was heavy.’ And I had answered: ‘My lord, my love, my heart was sad
because
I needed you.’ There, in a nutshell, was the difference between us.

And that ten minutes served me for the next two weeks, for Richard was never idle, was ever conferring with older men who listened to his words with a smile, none the less impressed by his wisdom. He was meticulous over matters of policy, his commissions of oyer and terminer, and as I knew how much it pleased him when the King gave him tasks to do, I did assay to be happy on his behalf, but as he was not with me, I found it nigh impossible. Happy I was, yea, but I felt always as if the spring were gliding by too swiftly and that I was alone in the sunshine, with my own shadow darkening the gleam.

Then one evening all was well again, for Harry sought me on the spiralling stair, under the arras of gold, and I took his little hand as if we were children together and we went along light of heart in the gloom, to where the gentlemen ushers and grooms of the bedchamber turned their heads away and bent to their dice in the passages and whispered, though not of me, for they were wise men and sympathetic to the wants of lords, although they knew not what great love and joy passed between us. And Richard’s chambers were deserted save for him; and if they called King Edward the Rose of Rouen, the Sun in Splendour, his youngest brother surpassed him in my eyes. Three hours I spent with him that evening, and we talked quietly of one another, of our hopes and our troubles, and our kisses grew stronger, and we were unable to withstand the whirlwind, the torrent, that burst within us. And we clung together, and forgot all but the longing to be enwrapped and enfolded within each other. And he was mine again, for three hours; and he tried to teach me to play chess, but as I sat upon his knee for the lesson and my hair swept the pieces off the board each time I turned to kiss him, it was not a success.

I wished in my heart that he had been born a cottar’s son, and I betrothed to him at the village porch with a wreath of roses on my head, and the family standing ale-flushed and merry about us, and that we had been bedded together with rude mirth and left to live out our simple lives; rearing babes, toiling with smiles and frowns and days of gloom and hunger even, with our small pleasures, our bereavements, our feast days and our May Days... though each day would be May Day if Richard had been born thus.

Noblemen took lemen for lust, and the women went gladly through ambition, using their bodies as snares for gold and power. But he was not one of these, neither was I; for he turned to me out of the mazes of his loneliness, and I to him from the web of my love.

We were no longer ’prentices in love.

Warwick was seen no more at court. Patch, who seemed to have an ear at every door, was worse than any woman for whispering tales to me. He told me that the Earl, after a brief and unexpected Christmas appearance, had gone to his manor at Cambridge. Further, it was rumoured that George of Clarence communicated with him, and that there was more talk of Isabel, the frail fair lady with her vast estates.

‘A right comely wench,’ he said. ‘But sickly, like her sister Anne. Though I doubt not that were she as hideous as I, the prospect of ridding London of the Woodvilles would aid Duke George to love her.’

He was waiting for me to say he was not hideous. All I said was: ‘How would marrying Isabel harm the Woodvilles?’

‘I fancy Lord Warwick has promised George that he will engineer this,’ grinned Patch. ‘But I fear ’tis delusion. You mind that Warwick was one of the Calais Earls?’

I did not, but let him continue.

‘King Louis of France is a craftsman at flattery,’ said the fool. ‘Not long after he took the throne he made a ploy for Warwick—sought his advice on hunting dogs, wrote him fair letters at Calais, and Warwick bloomed like a peach.’

‘Yet Warwick fought for Edward, and set him on the throne,’ I said, confused.

‘True,’ he answered. ‘And Warwick had the notion that once peace was made with Louis, there would be no more attacks from Margaret of Anjou. But this would mean crushing Burgundy. Edward would never agree to that. And in any event, as Elizabeth snatched the King from Bona of Savoy, Louis’s sister by marriage, all Warwick’s plans were halted in mid-gallop. Thus my lord loathes the Woodvilles.’

My mind flew back to an old conversation. I saw John Skelton’s handsome face, heard the tale of Richard’s flight to the Low Countries, and the saving of his life.

‘Nay,’ I said very softly. ‘They would never break with Burgundy, for the Burgundians are passing kind.’

Patch laughed. ‘Hardly could they, with the King’s sister married to Charles, Burgundy’s own Duke!’

He knew much more of politics than I. I said: ‘Warwick still plots with George, then, think you?’

‘Yes, and he would have done with Dickon, too,’ said the fool, and my witless heart started its old dance, floundering and prancing at the name.

‘I wonder if he will ever weaken,’ Patch mused. ‘I doubt not Warwick would give him Anne as a reward... ’Twould be easier if my lord had both brothers ranged against the King.’

Elysande had spoken of Richard; she had thought I was not listening. To Anne Haute she had said: ‘The pull of Warwick is very strong.’ Then, I did not understand. Now, I could say seriously to Patch: ‘He will never yield his cause,’ and the fool cocked his head to look into my face, which I kept passionless.

‘As you say, mistress,’ he said, and kissed my hand lightly, and bit it, and of a sudden his last speech echoed in my mind, disquieting.

‘Little Anne Neville—how old is she?’.

‘Oh, she is not so little,’ said he carelessly. ‘About thirteen years now—slight, golden-haired. Had Earl Warwick brought his ladies here for Yule you would have seen her.’

I thought of myself at thirteen, at twelve, on my joy-day, my May Day, which I would cherish for ever together with the song, which had brought my love to me. Then, as Patch was in a confiding mood, I asked him about Katherine of Desmond, and of the matter at which Richard had only hinted. He wrenched his face about in grimaces meant to distract me, but finally told me that which all knew, but never mentioned.

‘The Earl of Desmond was beheaded on a flimsy charge,’ he said, in a voice even quieter than Richard’s had been. ‘He jested about the Queen soon after Edward married her. Last year, when the King was away, the Great Seal was purloined, and Desmond’s execution ordered. They say his Grace was wroth when he returned and discovered this. Also, the Earl’s two little knaves were murdered soon after their father’s death, though none can swear who wrought this... nay, none can swear,’ he said grimly, ‘but all can guess.’

Then he sought to cheer me by capering about.

‘How white you are,’ he said cheerily. ‘Come, sit a while. I have a new story, cunningly rhymed. Let me assay to cheer your dreary life a whit!’

I was about to tell him that my life was not so dreary, was indeed a perfect poem of bliss, on which his words had cast a fleeting shadow, when suddenly I saw, leaning on the terrace wall not far from us, the reason for my gladness.

He turned to look at me. The brightness of his look mocked the sun.

*

So later, when I sat with my distaff in the Duchess’s apartments, assaulted by the monotonous twang of harp and lute, my thoughts could weave their own skein while my fingers idled. For though the day outside was still fair, and I must remain at my lady’s side, I had seen him again. We had walked together in the quiet ways, through the Italian gardens, where none came, and for a brief time he had held my hand. His hand was not soft like that of most courtiers, but the palm was a little calloused from leather and steel, the fingers were fine-boned and delicate, the heavy rings a sweet small pain in his unconsciously hard grip. He did not link my last finger in his, custom of lovers, but walked slowly with his whole hand closed about mine. He was serious, aloof, until my frail jests brought about the swift, sweet smile peculiar to him alone.

Yet he did not smile when I mentioned the name now on everyone’s lips, the name which hummed through the Palace, subject for conjecture. I had thought it romantic and said so, and he told me it was not for jesting: this Robin of Redesdale was a plaguey agitator who was stirring the whole of the north parts into a boil.

‘You mark how he started the first rising in Yorkshire,’ I heard his tone grow mellow on the beloved word. ‘Then up springs another Robin...’

‘Robin of Holderness,’ I murmured. ‘I like not that name so well.’

‘As Northumberland cut him down,’ he said with a little irony, ‘you need not trouble about his name. But Robin of Redesdale has raised a strong following in Lancashire now. It should be quelled, and soon.’