We Speak No Treason Vol 1 (34 page)

‘Now let a muse but murmur of her Grace
Her Grace’s matchless grace is well nigh matched
For by the blessed beauty of her face
Poor souls made radiant are, and woes dispatched.
Hearts that behold her gentleness wax light,
With humble joy the winds her form caress,
Heaven’s tears dry up at sight of her liesse
,
^*
And Winter yieldeth to a Rose so White.’

There was more, but only the last two lines remain:

‘She has, and is, in Virtue every part,
Queen of the North, and noble Gloucester’s heart.’

Let no man draw from my chronicle that noble Gloucester was all for dalliance. He was too full of affairs for that, but the day on the hill stays with me, for it was spring and the world the same green world as today, where such matters are concerned. He was twenty, and she sixteen. This world that passes soon, as flowers fair.

John was in love with the Duchess. I think he saw himself as one of the old-style trouvères, who would single out a married lady in secret and, still in secret, give her his heart. He was jealous of my poem, and endeavoured to better it, but in vain. But then, neither could I sing, so the coat was as long as large. And as my lady saw the face of no man but Gloucester, however handsome or devoted, the whole business was not worth a quarrel. Neither, strangest of all, did I feel inclined to quarrelling. I had thought to be restive at Middleham, full of London-longing, but I was not. I had looked for boredom and lonesomeness in the solitary north. I was happy. The summer wore on, and the heather bloomed on the moors, and the flying song of the bees caught my troubles drowsing more than once. I dare not dwell on all this, because when joy is flown the remembrance of that joy’s making brings only pain. Then, though, there were no more mists to affright me, no devils to rend my feeble, faltering soul.

The
minstralli ducis gloucestriae
gained some little esteem, as we travelled the north country at intervals. We were two bands—John belonged to the Lady Anne, so he was satisfied at any rate. I can see him still and hear his beautiful singing voice in that upper chapel at Middleham, his eyes steady on the carved roof that was as delicate as a spider-web. So can I hear the rushing river pounding the moorland slope with its message of haste—a beckoning haste that then I did not understand. I can smell the flowers in Lady Anne’s garden. I can remember the names of Richard’s dogs, most of whom died of old age. I say I do not dwell on that time: I lie. There are things that remain: the flight of a falcon over the dale; the sound of music in the waters of Hell Gill Beck.

I remember—and I have forgotten. Fear and spleen have made me forget all this, yet it comes again and again to taunt and reproach me. For his Divine Majesty likes music too, but the tunes are loud to my old ears, and more devious. He also likes hunting, and is exceeding skilled. He flushes out his quarry from the most secret hides, and his hawks kill with such marvellous speed that a poor fool knows not whether yesterday is today, or today tomorrow.

My Grace wrote an ill-formed hand, with characters small and straggling, and I had ado to make much of her writings. I was impatient with this, for they were full of London news, interspersed with her new gown of muster-develers, her sarcenet bonnets and additions to her father’s stable. Out of this formless jumble I learned that King Edward had nipped in the bud those fresh stirrings of rebellion in George of Clarence and the Nevilles.

‘My Lord Archbishop lies imprisoned in Hammes Castle, off great Calais,’ she wrote. ‘Yet there be many flying tales in London still and men buy harness daily. It may be that Oxford will attack the realm. The King, whom Jesu preserve, keeps watch, moving from town to town. This day I saw the Princess Elizabeth go by barge to the Tower. She will grow into the fairest lady.’

Those were the lines to give me little pangs. The King, bright head grazing the clouds, sword in hand against Lancastrian foes. His eldest daughter, growing womanly.

‘My mother has a green popinjay now that talks like a Christian. It pleases me you are happy at Middleham.’ A great blot smeared the paper. I wondered if she had been enraged at the time of writing. I had seen her temper; she had sharp nails, and could shout as adeptly as she could wheedle and coax. We would be a right merry pair together, I thought, reading on.

‘You speak much of my lord of Gloucester and his fair dealings with the northern citizens. There is like talk here, for some men of York were at my cousin’s to dine and full of your good lordship. One said he offers good and indifferent justice to all, gentle or simple—would then that the sheriff of this ward had his ear, for Master Fray came before sessions two weeks gone and—’

I threw the letter away and leaped up, smote the stone wall a violent blow with my fist, then strode about nursing the pain. Dan Fray had been acquitted. Lack of evidence, wrote Grace, but her careful, blotched characters hid the truth. Secretly I had feared this outcome, but had bargained on my mother’s testimony together with that of the cook-boys to secure Fray’s conviction. But Fray had done men service in his time; lords who dabbled in this and that, and whose night-walking heralds were taciturn and cloaked. Wretches hang that jurymen may dine, indeed, yet should the wretch know the right words, the jury... I wept with rage.

‘Why so wrathful, Sir Fool?’ asked Gloucester, quietly behind me. His swift eyes caught the discarded roll of writing. ‘Has mischief befallen you, or yours?’ His tone was the same soft emotionless one I had heard him use on the occasions when, from a quiet niche, I watched him preside at the Council of the North. Wherever the Council met, whether at Sheriff Hutton, Pontefract, or Middleham, the scene would be the same—with Master John Kendall standing, pen poised, behind, Richard would sit in the chair of estate, his red robes a bright flood against the oak. His hands would be gently folded on the table, his eye keen and intent. When he heard news that pleased him, such as the repairing of Holy Trinity Priory at York, a lightning smile would cross his mouth. When he learned at Pontefract of a poor wife dispossessed by the land-hungry overlord, he drew off his ring on his last finger and replaced it, over and over. His face betrayed little; his hands were the heralds of his distress. Once, I had thought it anger that moved them. Long hours I studied him at these council meetings, sessions that left me with a strange feeling of ignorance. In plain words, he educated me in morals and philosophy, and to judge by the startled faces of his fellows, I was not alone. Often I smiled at the dropping jaws of Lords Scrope and Greystoke and the northern justices of the Peace, when Richard, confronted by a wrangling knot of citizens, pronounced a judgement so wonderful in its simplicity that the problem, whatever it was, seemed never to have existed. While I thought on this, he still stood by me waiting for my answer. But mine was too small a matter, I thought.

‘My lady writes of bright green popinjays, your Grace, and I am jealous,’ I carolled, thrusting out one red leg.

‘How does your mother, at the cook-shop?’ he asked, without a smile, and I was afraid he was in league with the devil and could read my thoughts. I dropped all folly on the instant.

‘The villain who fired her shop walks free as air, and that displeases me.’

‘A corrupt jury,’ he said instantly.

‘Yea, bought and sold,’ I answered.

‘Ah, holy God!’ he cried. ‘It displeases you, friend, but, by Our Lady, it
angers
me. ’Tis like a cursed, creeping plague that weakens the whole structure of our justice. Would that this matter had come before
my
Council!’

Then he asked what else, and I read on, the part not digested, and had ado to conceal a sour grin.

‘Fray’s nephew died in gaol,’ I said. Then the satisfaction vanished, for I had no quarrel with the three yeomen and a knight, likewise chested through the same prison-fever.

‘The charge was but flimsy,’ wrote my betrothed. ‘But they had lain in Fleet for three parts of a year so God took them, they being frail from poor diet. They will come before a higher court.’ She had a keen and sarcastic wit, my lady. Richard was looking at me, pensively. He said: ‘Sir Fool, what think you of this notion? If money can be exploited to sway justice, why should it not also serve to lighten the lot of those awaiting trial?’

‘Pay for their victuals in gaol, my lord?’

He shook his head impatiently. ‘Nay—take them from prison—rather have them stand surety in a friend’s bond. Thus relieve the dreadful press within the gaols.’ He looked sharp. ‘Have you seen inside Ludgate, or the Fleet?’

‘Never imprisoned, save by a lady’s smile,’ said I.

‘Once I went out of curiosity,’ he said softly. ‘The sights stayed with me for days. It is a bitter education.’

I gaped. His reasoning had lost me long ago. Prisons were for felons; if you lay within, that was your bad fortune. An esquire came in to say the horses were ready.

‘You are for London, my lord?’ I asked, in a panic. They seemed to be on the point of departure, and I had not composed my reply to Grace.

‘We ride to Nottingham, and the King,’ he said, and gave a peculiar smile. ‘A little private business,’ and left me wondering.

He also left me to amuse his lady and her companions. We sat on the warm green slope with the Castle behind us and a flourishing oak for shade. Idle days, in the sun, with the fantail doves strutting like tiny peacocks at our feet. ‘My lady,’ I would say, ‘it is your turn to play.’

I would stare at my hand for the best part of a quarter-hour, until I knew each card by heart. I also knew what Lady Anne held; she had poor cards but I was determined she should win. She was dolorous, far away in a dream. She was ever like this—worse perhaps when he went to Scotland to investigate the regular outbreaks of fighting there. She gave a long sigh.

‘Dick... my lord has been gone five days,’ she announced, as if I were a wayfarer newly come to the estate.

‘I doubt not he has many pressing affairs for King Edward’s ear,’ I said lamely. There was no point in jesting with her. When he was gone, she was like a flower out of water, dying by inches. It was as well he never remained absent long.

‘He said it was something that would please me,’ she said woefully. ‘A surprise. A secret, one I would have shared.’

‘Oh, my life’s sovereign pleasaunce! your good lord had his reasons!’ I said, remembering he had hinted about folks in durance and wondering what it was all about. Then she asked me did I know aught of love? I knew not if she spoke of love of God, home and family, country, or of man to woman, so I diced on the latter.

‘Yea, “Dan” Chaucer’s “dreadful joy”,’ I said softly. Now that the sharing of our livelode was settled and Grace’s dower decided, it was time I set the marriage date. The Maiden had dismissed me. ‘We shall not meet again.’ My turn to sigh now. How could she be so sure?

‘I do crave oranges!’ said Lady Anne.

A gasping cry of delight rushed round the circle of gentlewomen. The Duchess’s face was sweetly comical in its innocence. I conjured a bright fruit from my sleeve to please her. Next week it would be lemons, no doubt, or pomegranates. My mother had been the same while carrying my youngest brother—

‘Little Blaise
Lived but eight days.’

I thought of Isabel Neville’s stillborn babe, and resolved an extra fervent prayer for the Duchess’s safe travail when her time came. Like a child herself, she sat dabbing at the orange-drops that had splashed on her gown. Lady Harrington knelt beside her.

‘Now you have a secret for your lord, dear mouse.’

‘Marry, she has her lord in a cleft stick,’ said I boldly; I was glad they would leave Anne to tell the Duke herself. I anticipated his joy. There was already a child at Middleham; John, Richard’s little bastard son. Lady Anne had asked for him, complete with wet-nurse. She cuddled him often—he was a lovesome boy, though not pretty; the Plantagenet features were overstrong in the small face and he seemed to have inherited his father’s seriousness. Watching her with this product of a gay or careless hour, I had longed to see her with a child of her own. So my day was lightened by an orange-feast.

John was called John of Gloucester, later. Years ago, I watched him go to the block, still serious, still strong of face. He died at twenty, brave Plantagenet. Traitorous dogs shall not rise against a King.

The Lady Anne’s secret was very evident before my lord of Gloucester revealed his private business to any of us. He chose to surprise his wife at a great banquet one evening. The Great Hall was bulging with guests. Wreaths of poppies and roses trailed along the damask tablecloths. Pipes of hypocras and malmsey were borne in from the buttery, with baked swan and pheasant, roast capon and sucking-pig, doucettes and subtleties, and a great White Rose fashioned of frosting and honey. A barrowload of fragrant gillyflowers had been mingled with the rushes underfoot. Outside, against a greenish sky, bats dived and swooped past the window arches, and a drowsy thrush chortled. Anne Neville concealed her proud secret behind the high table; it was strange to see her so round, elsewhere she was exceeding slender. I teased her gently, saying I knew it would be the fairest babe ever, and in all virtues like her Grace, save in the ‘very, very thing’ for I knew Richard longed for an heir. He had given us all an increase in wages.

We had an honoured guest that evening: one whose shadow cast itself over my lord’s affairs constantly: Lord Percy, Earl of Northumberland. Grim and arrogant, he had sworn before King’s Council to respect Richard’s superiority in the northern marches. Richard had likewise taken oath to be his good and gracious lord and give him due considerations in all matters of policy. My lord often entertained this awkward nobleman, made him joint arbiter in the disputes arising among the barons, and spoke him fair. Yet the vice Envy gnawed, and my master never touched Northumberland’s heart. I capered and mocked and declaimed great double witted praises on the noble earl and his ancestry which I fancied he might be too slow to grasp, while John and Robert twanged and bugled in the gallery. Lord Percy fed on roast heron and sugared violets, while Richard discoursed with him upon the Scots wars and Middle March jurors, listening cordially to his opinions, firm and cool. Lord Percy could be offensive in a careful, veiled way, but Richard never showed a flicker. There they sat, these two great men: the young, royal Lord of the North, and Henry Percy, whose family had ruled that same North for generations with a heavy hand, and in whose belly this new arrangement lay right sour. Richard, however, had got him laughing when I looked up once from the floor of the Hall. I felt jealous; this was my job. Then I heard Gloucester say: ‘They are late.’ One of his henchmen leaned down from behind the cloth of estate and whispered. Richard smiled and turned to Lady Anne, pointing to the door, through which strode Sir James Tyrell, dusty from riding, and beside him a frail, ageing lady.