Within the Hollow Crown (44 page)

   "What's wrong? Where are all your men?" he asked, as the old man went down on stiffened joints before him.

   Salisbury pressed his lips to his master's hand, almost too agitated to speak. "I raised three thousand, but now—" With one mailed hand he made the all too expressive gesture of a man scattering seed to the wind. "We heard that Bolingbroke had dispersed your force in the south and that you—were killed."

   At that moment Richard wished he had been. Averting his eyes from the earl's bared grey head, he looked hopelessly around at the silent precincts of the castle. No boisterous laughter from the guardhouse, no clatter of pans from the kitchens. Only the monotonous scrape of shingle outside the walls, and the sad shriek of curlews, grey against the wet Welsh sky. What a welcome after six drizzling hours in the saddle! "For God's sake, get us some food," he said. "Mathe here is almost exhausted."

   "Bolingbroke is at Chester!" said the Constable with bated breath, as if such proximity were excuse enough for the paralysis that had stricken his domain.

   It was difficult not to smile at the circumvention of Aumerle's proven treachery. But only the narrow county of Flint lay between them now. It was sufficiently staggering. Richard slid stiffly from his steaming horse and saw Edward Dalyngrigge standing in the doorway of the keep.

   Seldom had he been so glad or so surprised to see any man. Weariness forgotten, he grasped the knight's massive hands between his own. "My good Dalyngrigge, what brings you here?"

   "Before landing at Ravenspur, Bolingbroke and the Archbishop put ashore near Rye to rouse the men on the Arundel estates," he explained. "And after that I made it my business to watch their movements."

   Richard could appreciate that Bolingbroke's movements might be very much the business of any man who had been concerned in the disappearance of Gloucester. "Well, what have you gleaned?" he asked, as they mounted the steps together.

   "Nothing good, I fear," said Dalyngrigge. "The Duke of York stood out as long as he could. But all England has risen against you, sir. He had to give in."

   Richard's thoughts went back to that last happy tournament with Anne, when prentices had thrown their caps in the air and young girls had strewn roses. "All England…" he repeated slowly.

   "It's this grievance about the Lancastrian estates, sir. You know the Englishman's passion for fair play."

   Only a man as hardy as Dalyngrigge would have dared to put it quite like that. Or was it that a hunted king counted for less?

   "And the little Queen?" asked Richard, as soon as they had brought him water to wash with.

"She is still at Leeds, in Kent."

"Are they treating her kindly?"

   "Even Bolingbroke would scarcely dare to do less, sir, seeing that she is the King of France's daughter."

   Richard looked round at him, the towel still in his hands. "Meaning that it boots her nothing—being the King of England's wife?"

   Dalyngrigge was no courtier, but what he lacked in tact he made up for in practical kindness. It was he who bullied the few flustered cooks into producing an edible meal, and he who served the King and saw that his followers and Mathe were properly attended to. After the lavishness of Bodiam, it irked him to see a castle so badly run.

   But it was scarcely a cheerful meal. Men ate with their weapons beside them as if at any moment Bolingbroke might appear, and Salisbury kept bemoaning the capitulation of the Duke of York.

   Richard turned to Dalyngrigge. "I take it that wasn't all you came these many miles to tell me about?"

   "No," said Dalyngrigge.

   While the others were still eating, the King led the way up onto the battlements and invited him to follow. The drizzle had ceased and a watery sun was gilding the sands left by an ebbing tide. It was chilly for August and Richard still wore his monkish habit, partly for warmth and partly because Standish and Tom were lovingly trying to cleanse and press his only remaining garments. He leaned his back against the machicolated wall, thrusting both hands through the heavy cord that girt his waist. "Well?" he asked, bracing himself to hear the worst.

   Dalyngrigge met his glance squarely. "They are drawing up an indictment to be presented to Parliament."

   Richard's chin shot out. Shaven of his beard, he looked singularly like the arrogant young man who used to defy Gloucester and the Council. "There isn't any Parliament. And without me they can't call one."

   Dalyngrigge shrugged the technicality aside. He knew more about ships than politics. "One of the accusations against you will be the murder of Gloucester," he said, as if the King hadn't spoken. "It is known that I was in Calais at the time and they would like to get me as a witness. I want you to know that I am prepared to swear on my mother's soul that he did not die by your orders."

   "When you can slip safely away any dark night from Rye?" Because he had met with so much defection, Richard's smile was almost tender. "What moves you to do this for me, Edward Dalyngrigge?"

   For the first time the forthright pirate showed embarrassment. He began to kick at a hardy leek that had somehow grown between the flagstones. "You let me have Lizbeth, and though her body has always been yours, you didn't betray my hospitality." He raised halfshamed eyes to the King's surprised ones. "Oh, I had her watched! I know she's wanton. But all my life I've collected beautiful things— and I'm still hungry for her…"

   Richard was too moved for words. He took a turn for two along the rampart. With his sandals and his tonsured, auburn head, he might have been a youngish monk pacing his cell. Presently he seated himself in a loophole of the battlements. "Tell me what really happened at Calais," he said.

   "I swore to Mowbray that I wouldn't. He wanted your favour—"

   "Mowbray's on a crusade. If I know anything about him, he'll fight in the forefront until he gets killed. It wasn't a light thing for him to be exiled from England." Richard was making conversation while the officer of the watch, going his rounds, saluted and passed by.

   "What did Mowbray himself tell you, sir?" asked Dalyngrigge cautiously.

   Richard watched the young Welshman turn an angle of the wall. "He told me—he had had him smothered."

   "He lied," said Dalyngrigge. "He only meant to."

   Richard leaned forward, his face tense. "You mean—Gloucester is still alive?"

   "No. He died in his sleep."

   A cloud seemed to roll from Richard's brain. He sprang up.

   It was too big a thing to believe. "And all these y-years—" he began incoherently. "Are you
certain
?"

   Dalyngrigge came closer and began talking in rapid undertones. "Mowbray's men would have no hand in it. Mine, as you know, would skin their own fathers for a florin. That's why it had to be done sooner than he meant, before I weighed anchor."

   Richard clutched at his arm, as if to shake the story out of him.

   "I had promised nothing, as you know—except to take them across," went on Dalyngrigge, "but I'm human—and curious. I followed them up the stairs and stood just inside the room, behind Mowbray. There was a rush light burning beside the curtains of the great bed. As we opened the door it flickered in the draught, throwing light for a moment on the greyness of Gloucester's face."

   Sun and wind and present danger were blotted out. Richard's eyes never left his face. "Go on!" he said. He was there—seeing it all happen—in Calais…

   "He lay on his back with his mouth open and I could have sworn his eyes were open too, staring at us. Yet he made no sound, no movement of fear. I saw my men bend over and feel with clumsy fingers for the other pillow. Dan Burridge, the godless jailbird, stood stock still with it all ready in his hands. But suddenly he let it slide to the floor. 'He's already dead!' he cried, and crossed himself. Deschamps, his mate, let out a foul oath. 'What made you bring us here to smother a corpse?' he hissed at Mowbray."

   "And then?"

   "And then I saw Mowbray bend over the bed with the rushlight and pass it across Gloucester's parted lips. And there was no draught this time. Not a flicker."

   Richard leaned upon the wall, his face hidden in his hands. He might have been praying, or recovering from some shock which had shaken him to the core of his being. Dalyngrigge shifted his stance impatiently. This was no time for the King to be behaving as if he really were a monk—with all England rising and Bolingbroke only one narrow county away. But Richard wasn't even aware of his impatience. It wasn't Henry Bolingbroke before whom he had to justify himself, but God. So that he might go to Anne. And God had been extraordinarily good to him. He had been a murderer in intention, but not in fact. And for the venial intent, his confessor promised, there could be reparation. Gratitude filled his soul. "So bring us through things temporal that we lose not the things eternal…" His lips moved in self-dedication, remembering those uplifted moments at Windsor.

   But was it God alone who had been good to him?

   He tried to compose himself. "What did they suppose—my uncle—died of?" he asked, without turning.

   "I don't know, sir. All I know is that he'd been terribly seasick, and that night we'd jellied lampreys for supper—"

   "Tch! My uncle's belly was as tough as leather!" scoffed Richard. And then with seeming irrelevance, he put another question. "Do you know what happened to Mundina Danos?"

   "As far as I know, sir, she left the Citadelle the next day," said Dalyngrigge.

   "After you had sailed?"

   "Yes."

   That seemed to tally with what Mowbray and Jacot had said. And from that point she had disappeared completely. Richard turned and faced Dalyngrigge. "Have you remembered yet where you picked up that little mother-of-pearl box you gave Lizbeth?" he asked abruptly.

   Dalyngrigge's jaw dropped. He had supposed the unfortunate incident forgotten. "It was lying in that little closet behind the arras," he admitted.

   "Was it empty?"

   "Yes."

   But Richard knew that it hadn't been—quite. That day at Coventry when he had helped himself to one of Lizbeth's comfits he had stirred them with his finger, seeking one to his taste—and noticed, subconsciously, a few grains of whitish powder in one corner. He remembered it perfectly.

   "If you suspect foul play, it was by no order of yours," Dalyngrigge was saying. "Let them search for the real murderer."

   But that was the one thing that Richard would never let them do. "Does it matter very much?" he asked wearily.

   "Not matter?" expostulated Dalyngrigge.

   Richard was quick to realize his own seeming ingratitude. He grasped the man's arms with a warm gesture. "My good friend, it matters everything—knowing myself innocent. You will never know what you have given me."

   Dalyngrigge looked past him to the swaying masts in the harbour. "If you won't let me save you that way, at least let me take you back to Ireland—to Calais or Bordeaux," he urged.

   But Richard only shook his head. Hitherto he had always saved himself by his own wits. And the idea of running away was repugnant to him. The drama was to be played out here. The drama of his retribution. "There is so little now with which I can reward my friends," he said, glancing almost whimsically at the roughness of his habit. "The only way I can repay you is to order you back to Bodiam—and to Lizbeth. Until all this has blown over."

   There was nothing for the bewildered knight to do but to withdraw.

   Richard lifted his face to the limitless sea and sky. "I'm not a murderer! Dear God, I'm not a murderer!" he whispered over and over again, with the salt of tears on his face. He sank to his knees and knelt there for a long time, his tonsured head buried in his arms. Passing men-at-arms scarcely heeded him, supposing him to be some devout young monk at his prayers. Gulls circled and screamed above him. He heard neither Mathe barking down in the bailey nor the commotion of new arrivals.

   "Oh, Mundy, Mundy, how could I have been so blind as not to guess?" he cried. "I, who considered myself sensitive and supposed that I had learned the whole gamut of love—while you, who once said you would give your body to be burned for me, took my guilt upon your own soul—here and hereafter—to make me fit to find my love again…"

   As he knelt there, apart from the world, it was as if Mundy's inestimable gift were drawing the evil out of him—soothing his bitterness and leaving him sane at heart—just as she herself used to do. He even managed to smile a little, wondering if she had left his box there purposely so that, whatever other people believed, he should know and understand. "Darling Mundy, you never did anything carelessly, did you?"

   After a while he became aware of someone standing beside him. He got up slowly and stared at Salisbury as if he were some intruder from another sphere. Gradually the heavy present came back to him.

   "Bolingbroke has sent Northumberland and that sanctimonious snake, Thomas Arundel," said Salisbury.

   "I will come down," said Richard calmly. In spite of his sadness, a new serenity informed his mind. Even the colour of material things about him seemed to have changed from sombre purple to some ineffable clarity.

   "So you take sides with my cousin of Derby," he said to the great Percy of Northumberland.

   "There are ten thousand more besides me," replied Northumberland, with insolence.

   "Then you have come to make terms?"

   "Even if Bolingbroke had every man in England behind him he would scarcely be in a position to do that—whilst his eldest son is in your hands."