Within the Hollow Crown (2 page)

   But all that had been in the untrammelled days when he was only the King of England's grandson. Richard suppressed a yawn and tried to ease the heavy ermine cloak about his shoulders. For want of something better to do he began picturing the masons of William of Sens' time scaling ladders or standing on precarious stagings to build the lovely choir, and devoted monks carving queer little faces of men and beasts and angels. Sometimes they set the perfection of these reflections of their own laughing, Christ-loving souls so humbly high up—so removed from the earthbound glances of the righteous—that they seemed almost to be intended for an intimate, tender jest between craftsman and Creator. He remembered seeing one harsh, self-important face that had reminded him of his Uncle Thomas, a handsome one on some doorway that was like Uncle John and a grotesquely puff-cheeked figure of Gluttony that might have been meant for Uncle Edmund of York when he was hungry. The memory of such fortuitous resemblances delighted their unregenerate nephew so much that he almost forgot the solemnity of the occasion and laughed aloud. Mercifully he was hidden from Thomas of Gloucester by a massive pillar, York was dozing gently, and John of Lancaster—the eldest of the uncles—was up north trying to finish off some peace negotiations with Scotland.

   While the familiar recitation of his father's virtues drew towards its concluding homily, Richard turned his attention to the newly restored nave with its half-finished aisles. In spite of workmen's scaffoldings it was packed with people who had come surging after the royal party through the great west doors. He often wondered why they came so far and stood in such discomfort to see him. The men always shouted for him good-naturedly, the women sometimes cried a little because of his youth; and he on his side was always careful not to show his repugnance for their frowsty clothes and sweating bodies. For even if his mother spoiled him, at least she insisted upon good manners. And whenever he had complained about the way some of them stank, his tutor, Sir Simon Burley, had pointed out that no one who had seen inside their houses could expect them to wash much. Naturally, this was one of the things Richard had immediately wanted to do, but no one would let him for fear of the plague. But when he
really began to rule he meant to do something for them
, poor wretches, if only because of their unbelievable patience. Patience was the virtue Sir Simon was always exhorting
him t
o have—particularly with the uncles—and he found it the most difficult of all to acquire.

   Although he often speculated about the common people and the queer, brutish lives they led, he hadn't, of course, an idea of what they thought about
him.
Being a decently modest lad, he supposed that they had followed him into the Cathedral mostly for his father's sake, and he was unaware of the reassuring picture he made for their anxious eyes. During the four years since his grandfather died he had learned to face their gaze with composure, so that even grudging, hard-bitten Thomas of Gloucester had to admit that he held himself well. The grandeur of the building made a fitting background for his fair and flawless youth and the glow of innumerable tapers warmed his smoothly burnished hair to the ruddy hue they associated with their kings, so that they were able to see in him the incarnation of those vaguely stirring, inarticulate ideals which lift even the coarsest clod above the beasts he tends, to some dim consciousness of his mislaid divinity.

   At last the Archbishop's hand was raised in final blessing. Richard glanced sidelong at his mother. Tears were slipping like chaplet beads between her white, perfumed fingers and falling desolately on to the grey flagstones as she knelt. This annual Requiem Mass was no formal anniversary to her. For all her frail frivolity she had loved her last husband passionately and nursed him devotedly. Because their first-born son had died, the only remaining one was doubly precious. She wanted to keep and cosset him. Richard understood this and adored her. But he often resented the cosseting and thought how much pleasanter it would be to be loved wholly for one's own sake.

   Monks and choristers were beginning to file out into the ambulatory with a gentle slither of sandalled feet and he stood up beside his mother, protectingly. He took her missal and carried it for her before any of her women could offer to do so—partly because he loved the smell and feel of the soft tooled leather and partly as an excuse to touch her hand encouragingly. And although her lashes were still wet, she smiled a little, thinking what an understanding lover he would make. Unlike most of the Plantagenets, the Black Prince had not been a tall man, and she could almost imagine for a moment that it was he himself walking down the aisle beside her. This child of their passion, so inconveniently born at Bordeaux in the midst of men's preparations for battle, was shooting up and would soon be leaving boyhood behind. "You must grow up like
him—and I shall be so proud!
" she whispered inevitably.

   "Yes, madam," murmured Richard dutifully. But as they came out into the summer sunshine together, the half-hearted promise was borne away on the frantic cheering of the crowd. And he didn't really
want
to grow up like his father, always careering about Europe killing people. Nor like anybody else. All he asked was to be allowed to grow up in peace as himself, unheroic and ordinary, with all his keen young interests vibrant and unthwarted. He didn't want to be moulded by his dictatorial Uncle John, nor his ineffectual Uncle Edmund, nor his bellicose Uncle Thomas—nor even influenced too much by her…

   Edmund of York was at his elbow now, fussing about the lateness of the hour. "A splendid sermon!" he observed, although he had dozed through most of it. "We are fortunate—you and I, my boy—in having been sired by such fathers!"

   "Yes, sir," agreed Richard again. It always saved argument to agree with the uncles. But he wasn't so sure. Without being able to put the matter into words, he was beginning to find out that being the son of some public hero like his father or his grandfather precluded the possibility of being liked without comparison. He lingered a little in the pleasant Cathedral precincts, tossing the hot ermine cloak to a page and telling his groom to tighten a girth. Truth to tell, he still felt a bit diffident about riding before his mother and his uncles. But of course all these paunchy grownups would be wanting to get along to the Archbishop's palace for their dinner. Their show of grief hadn't, on previous occasions, he recalled, affected their appetites. And a small surge of superiority and precocious insight possessed him, remembering how when his puppy had died he had been too desolate to eat for days.

   Footsteps that he feared—yet knew only in the depths of his soul that he feared—roused him from dalliance and drove him instinctively towards his horse. Thomas of Gloucester, the youngest and hardest of Edward the Third's batch of sons, came striding out from the violet shadow of the west porch, a lean figure resplendent in ceremonial armour and emblazoned jupon. "So you will not be journeying back to London with us, Joan?" he inquired briskly of his sister-in-law.

   The widowed Princess of Wales gathered up her scalloped crimson reins. As a good Kentishwoman she liked to spend a week or two shopping and seeing friends in Canterbury. "You know that every June I come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of blessed Saint Thomas on my poor husband's birthday," she reminded him, in the virtuous tones of a woman who knows herself to be disapproved of.

   "Killing two birds with one stone, eh?" observed Edmund of York, settling his flabby weight in the saddle with a grunt. He wasn't particularly tactful at any time but probably, thought Richard, his mind was running on the chances of episcopal capon.

   "Well, don't hurry to return, dear sister, until your native air has restored some of those wild roses to your cheeks," urged Gloucester, ignoring his brother's unfortunate contribution to the conversation. "The odours from the Fleet ditch aren't too healthy in hot weather, and you can rest assured that I will escort the boy safely back to Westminster."

   "I make no doubt you will, milord," agreed Joan, turning to stare pointedly at an armed troop in his livery which far outnumbered the young King's modest retinue. For the briefest moment the glances of mother and son met in guarded amusement. She made no secret that "the fair maid of Kent's" complexion came out of a paint box these days, and they both knew that the longer she tarried in Kent or any other county the better the uncles would be pleased. They always had resented the confidence her husband had placed in her, going over their heads to make her co-governor with the Duke of Lancaster; and her absence gave more scope for avuncular interference.

   It had been decided that they and Richard must leave directly after dinner to attend a Council meeting especially convened because of the widespread discontent about the new poll tax. Michael de la Pole, one of the most astute members of the Council, and Walworth, the Mayor of London, had both sent messengers urging them to come. But after all, wondered Joan, was this wretched meeting so important? It wasn't as if it were about some imperative matter to do with the wars in France or Spain or Scotland. What did it really matter what a lot of ignorant shopkeepers and swineherds thought here at home? They were always grumbling about something. If it wasn't taxes it was wages…She leaned from her white palfrey to lay a hand on Richard's shoulder. "Couldn't you stay, Dickon, and return with me next week?" she suggested.

   She could feel both uncles glaring. She knew well enough that if the late Prince had decided his son was to go somewhere at a certain time, he would have had to go; and that Burley, who had been tutor to both of them, was hovering disapprovingly somewhere in the background because he hated the idea of Richard's being brought up softly. She knew that they would all tell her for the hundredth time how bad her inconsequent vacillation was for the boy's character. But they ought to remember that he was all she had left. And he was such a charming companion. The monotony of widowhood was leavened by his gaiety and affection. He wasn't always bragging about his prowess at sports like Lancaster's tedious boy, Henry—nor dumb about everything but military manoeuvres like the two hefty sons of her first marriage. Not but what she adored her two grown-up sons, of course…But Richard had more of the woman in him. He could take an intelligent interest in music and clothes and things that interested her. Though even he, of late, had been less amenable to her extravagant devises for their mutual amusement. "We could go and choose the cloth for your new hunting coat," she coaxed. "I've got the Flemish weavers down by the river to design some delicious green stuff specially for you with little white harts embroidered all over it."

   A month or two ago the suggestion would have tempted him. But now, pausing with one foot in the stirrup, he only looked up to laugh at her naïve cajolery. He was exceedingly proud of this beautiful mother of his, with her pink and white skin and red-gold hair. Although she was growing plump and in her early forties, she still retained the charm that had enslaved so many men. He liked going about with her and knew that if he stayed they would have a good time together, taking a ridiculous little boat down the narrow Stour and dressing up with her ladies in the weavers' fascinating stock of fabrics. But there were other things to be done. He wanted to get back to London to put in some practice for the tournament the Mayor was giving at Smithfield—back to his friend, Robert de Vere—to the book of poems Geoffrey Chaucer had given him and to his new puppy, Mathe. For once he even wanted to attend the Council meeting. For this time it wouldn't be about war. Michael de la Pole was sure to open the debate on the conditions of the working people, and de la Pole always talked sense.

   So Richard lifted the persuasive hand from his shoulder and kissed it gallantly, but shook his head. He could see Archbishop Sudbury, newly changed from his vestments, bearing down upon them, full of further homilies on living up to the Black Prince's reputation, no doubt. So he swung himself into the saddle and signalled hurriedly to his Master of the Horse to move off.

   Out beyond the fine new city wall which his uncle of Lancaster had built against the marauding French he caught a glimpse of sunlit fields, framed like a piece of green tapestry in the grey archway of the Pilgrim's Gate. And winding through them like a dusty white ribbon the road to London.
His London. The city where so man
y interesting people lived and so many exciting things happened. The port where ships brought strange cargoes from all over the world.

   He was impatient to get dinner over and be on the way. Life beckoned enticingly. Perhaps after all it wasn't so bad being a very young king. One would grow up. And then people wouldn't be able to prevent him from doing all the lovely things he planned.

   Richard's dreams stretched before him like a golden pathway leading to a city where craftsmen made buildings beautiful and poets poured out a fantasy of words. Where merchants from all countries met in peace on prosperous quays. Where hovels and stenches and disease were swept away, and all the wisest scientists gathered to cure the plague. Nebulous, shining, adolescent dreams—remote enough from the standards of his world to catch the smile of the Christ. Or a crazy jumble of impracticable whimsies which would have shocked the uncles to their unimaginative souls!

The tilt yard at Eltham was a pleasant place in June. The scent of box hedges and sun-drenched thyme drifted across from the palace garden, and red and white roses nodded their heads over the wall. Slim squires and pages, brighter than any flower border in their short tunics and parti-coloured hose, stood about holding spare equipment and laying bets; for the King and his friends were practising for a junior event in the Mayor's midsummer tournament. And the attention of all of them was centred on a well-worn quintain set up in the middle.