We Speak No Treason Vol 2 Read online

  ‘Come!’ I cried, all my gaiety gone. ‘The King’s army awaits us!’

  After Lynn, and our brief sojourn at Croyland, we cooled our heels for a week at Fotheringhay, where Richard conferred with the captains: which was the best place to flank the archers if we should encounter rebels on a plain, or a hillock, or in wooded country. All the strategies of war were meat for his keen mind. He asked questions, gave opinions: even the seasoned warriors Louis de Bretaylle and Edward Brampton seemed moved by his sense. It was upon reaching Newark that I first had speech with King Edward. I had been shooting with Richard. I was his master here, but only just. He had paid me. I had received his wager with thanks and a pledge that he would recover it at the dice later. We were handing our bows back to the royal stewards when I looked across the meadow and saw a party of horse approaching.

  ‘It is his Grace, riding from the hunt,’ I said, absently.

  Richard was cognizant of my keen-sightedness and said, with great good-humour: ‘And is he sad, sombre, gay?’

  I caught the King’s face within the candle of my eye. A face so fair and clean it was almost too beautiful. A short face with a mouth for kissing, as well as giving commands. His rippling golden hair hung to the level of his chin. His gold collar shone upon his breast. His blue eyes gleamed above rosy cheeks.

  ‘He smiles,’ I answered.

  Walking over the green, Edward towered above his followers. He saw his brother, and his smile spread.

  ‘Well, Dickon,’ he said.

  I tried not to stare at the King, but I had seldom seen him so close. Then his glance caught mine, and I saw the jewelled hand raised in a beckoning gesture. It seemed a long way across the grass to where he stood. We had had a little rain, and as I knelt I felt the dew soaking the knee of my hose.

  ‘You are one of my brother’s henchmen I do not know,’ he said, and I saw a knight of his—it may have been Sir John Fogge—making a note on parchment. The King’s eyes took in the quarterings on my mantle.

  ‘Your father was a brave knight—I do not need to tell you this.’

  ‘Sire, if I can be as true a man, I will lack no reassurance.’ The answer seemed to please him. He set his arm about my neck: I am tall, but my head reached only to his shoulder.

  ‘I have not the honour yet, Sire, to be your brother’s henchman.’ His arm around me was warm as sunlight. I could see the hairs curling golden on his neck. I decided instantly that Richard was right: this was a King whom all would obey, as long as life lasted. His hounds fawned about him, covering his slender satin-clad thighs with pawmarks, while he fondled them carelessly.

  ‘By God’s Blessed Lady, why not?’ he asked suddenly. He turned with a smile to Sir John Woodville and the others who pressed up behind him. ‘One day, my lords, I declare I will have a Book of my Household made, written clear, and thus exclude all unwanted followers.’

  ‘Such as my lord of Warwick,’ a voice said, but the King gave no sign of having heard this. His arm was still fast about my shoulder, and his glance returning downward to mine bade me admire him, do him homage.

  ‘Watch his Grace my brother, then,’ he said, releasing me. ‘He will keep you wakeful half the night with chess.’ The Woodvilles’ laughter was like tinkling cymbals. I bowed, kissed the royal hand and retreated, as the party passed on.

  ‘He is pleased with you,’ Richard said softly. I thought for a moment how Sir John Paston would give his teeth for my chance. And I was not betrothed to anyone.

  Thereafter being a gentleman usher to my lord of Gloucester, I shot in a bow with him each day. We played games—we liked the same things: the works of Ovid and Cicero, battle-talk and music-making. I found his mind like a rainbow, all varied colours, some coming hard and clear and bright, then waning, as do the parts of a rainbow grow brilliant and pale, when God manifests his thoughts to the eyes of man. He had a statue of St George, to which he sometimes spoke aloud. Often, he made me feel a whit frivolous, when I accompanied him and his esquires on the nightly forays around the swelling ranks of men, familiarizing myself with the supplies of armaments: the barrels of harness, the hundreds of spears, cross-bows, bills, leaden mauls; the fine horses. I looked with distrust on the few handguns which had been engaged, and more so when Richard recounted to me how even King James the Second of Scotland had blown himself heavenward while firing one of these imperfect weapons. Verily the devilish inventions seemed to me vastly inferior to the sweet surety of a longbow, or the keen and whirling tooth of the axe. Only once did my lord and I speak of maidens. I told him how my guardian was seeking an heiress for me. I had never met Margetta, but reckoned hers a pretty name. She was twelve or thirteen years old; I often mused on whether her colour was dark or fair, or if she were tall or little. My guardian knew only that she was well-purveyed of money and would bring me a good dower. Richard fell very silent and released no confidences. It was Robert Percy who told me one day, while my lord was busied with letter-writing, that the King had plans to marry his brother to a foreign princess.

  ‘As his Grace should himself have been wedded, had Lord Warwick not been outwitted,’ said that one, with a calm smile.

  A storm, and something else, hung over us at Newark. I felt it as we sat at cards and the day drew in a little. The hounds were restless. One raised its muzzle and growled, like thunder.

  Richard’s voice made me start a little.

  ‘We should be moving northward,’ he said. ‘I feel... as if we have tarried overlong here.’

  One of the other young men shuffled his feet in assent. Robert Percy stretched out his legs under the table. I laid down my cards.

  ‘His Grace will move off shortly,’ someone said.

  ‘Who is Robin of Redesdale?’ asked another.

  ‘Christ’s Passion!’ said Richard impatiently. ‘A rebel. An agitator bought by the Lancastrians to cause strife. As for his nom de guerre, possibly he thinks it romantic!’ He gave a short laugh, and the hound thundered again.

  So we sat on and played, yawning; and supper faded into the past and bed drew near, or a look at the men, until that idle pattern was suddenly broken by a noise of shouting that coiled up the stairway. It was not yet dusk but as we descended the circling stairs and emerged from the root of the tower the glow of torches grew and lapped around the busy scene. A dozen men-at-arms surrounded one knave—as we came into the courtyard I saw him clubbed to the ground, rise to his knee and remain, bowed-headed.

  ‘They have taken a rebel agent,’ Richard said softly.

  ‘Halte, au nom du roi!’ roared a voice. Louis de Bretaylle strode across to the mute prisoner. He thrust aside the men-at-arms, with his free hand searching inside the man’s garment. It was a piece of parchment which he drew out, soiled with journey sweat, too tough to tear. The rebel clung to it, tried to devour it but was knocked to the ground and lay retching in the shadow of a great form to whom all knelt.

  King Edward had arrived, and at leisure was reading this, Robin of Redesdale’s proclamation. My keen sight took in the smile of contempt, the indrawn brows, the look like the ring of steel in a scabbard.

  A courier was riding in over the drawbridge. Behind him came two more prisoners: one limping beside his captor’s mount, a rope binding his arms; another swaying on the pillion. I saw the fine trickle of blood at his brows. I saw all manner of things which others could not. These men wore a familiar emblem powdered small on their garments, over the dusty harness that still picked up a gleam from the departing sun. The courier reached King Edward first. He threw himself down before the King.

  ‘Hush, fellow!’ said one. ‘His Grace reads of most wonderful treason. Hold your peace until he has finished.’

  ‘Sire, you must get to Nottingham!’ cried the courier.

  ‘So!’ said King Edward in a low, distinct voice. ‘He likens me to those of the old royal blood who have been deposed, murdered! He likens me to those whose favourites led them to ruin! By God, now I will show him a true likeness...’

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sp; In my ear came another voice, like the wind that rushed up through the trees, bringing the first drops of rain: ‘Tell me,’ Richard of Gloucester said, ‘of whom does he speak?’

  ‘That I know not, sir,’ I muttered, my sight still fixed on the distant oncoming prisoners. Their powderings showed sharp and clear.

  ‘What then of your far-sightedness?’ he said mockingly, and stung, I replied:

  ‘I am at your disposal, my lord.’

  ‘The captured esquires—what emblem do they carry?’

  And I turned to look fully at him, not knowing the great agony I should see upon his face as I answered: ‘The Bear and Ragged Staff, your Grace.’

  He staggered a little, but shook off this frailty quickly and stood braced against something that lashed him from within, as the wind now lashed the trees. The ward was filling with armed men, and the captains were running to their weapons and to take mount. One of these surged by me as I stood near Richard, waiting for him to speak again, which he did not do for a long time. It was Sir John Fogge, his face fearfilled.

  ‘To Nottingham!’ he cried. ‘Earl Warwick approaches with a great puissance of men. By Christ, we have tarried too long! Where are my squires! My lord...’ and he was gone, his voice trailing off in a lonesome cry.

  In a jostle we harnessed Richard, and ourselves, with hands that shook from excitement and the sharp thrill of fright. So busy was I, indeed, that I did not notice the tears in Richard’s eyes, though others whispered of them afterwards.

  And then, for us, more waiting for extra men. He kept me wakeful at Nottingham. Within that stout pile, hewn from a sheer grey sheet of rock, I passed many an unquiet hour with Richard Plantagenet. Sir John Conyers, calling himself Robin of Redesdale, had raised a great force. The Woodville knights were no more with us; they were fled all ways, fear-shodden. We played chess. Chess, yea, and talking long into the night, and when at length I sought my weary couch beside Richard’s bed, I knew no easement or rest. For he would oft-times move with sudden, fretful plungings and murmurings to make me start up, thinking he had called me.

  ‘How can I ease you?’ I took up a lute. ‘A song, a story?’

  He looked at me, but without seeing.

  ‘This palace...’ he said. ‘I feel a chill...’ He shuddered. ‘Old ghosts. Or sorrows to come, mayhap.’

  I stood silent, touching a soft lute-chord.

  ‘It is a care-ridden place,’ he said finally. Then a great reversal of humour took him. He cried: ‘Yea, let us have entertainment. Sing the airs of Burgundy, which I loved when a puling knave. Or tell the lay of Beowulf,’ which was as much for my pleasure as his own, for he knew of my affection for the old meadhalls... long before Kentishmen fought and died in blood and despair... Hogan—curse him.

  With music I conquered his strange melancholy, but not so, later, when we learned of Clarence’s disaffection. Richard laughed softly at this news; a joyless sound, the strained mirth summoned by an old, bad jest; and later he woke me roughly by crying of ‘Three Suns’.

  ‘The parhelion.’ He shivered with sweat. ‘At Mortimer’s Cross. The King... a man called by God Himself. The Saviour of our noble House. And now betrayed by his own brother. God’s Blessed Lady,’ he said, using Edward’s oath. ‘The folly, and the shame! Has he forgot that we are all one blood?’

  ‘I know. My lord. Richard,’ I said humbly.

  ‘George was born in Dublin,’ he said, with a sickly smile. ‘The Irish runes are powerful—mayhap some wanton sprite looked on his cradle... What think you?’

  I merely cried—sounding like my Kentish chaplain: ‘Let not hatred put your soul in jeopardy, my lord.’ I cursed my tongue and was relieved when he answered calmly:

  ‘Tell me then what is hatred, for I know it not. He is my brother, and I love him. But loyalty binds me to Edward until death. And beyond.’

  He slid from the bed.

  ‘Pray with me,’ he said simply. ‘Pray for a settlement of this mischief.’

  So we knelt together, like children, two pairs of hands joined at the point of the chin, and above us the statue of St George flickered and gleamed in the waning rushlamp hung below; and I grew sleepy and leaped with horror out of a dream of archery to hear his muttered: ‘...dona nobis pacem.’

  ‘Mayhap our reinforcements will come in the morning... Lords Pembroke and Devon...’ I said hopefully, thinking his orison to be over; yet he breathed again: ‘Agnus Dei,’ the gleam falling on his bent head. As I watched him carefully, there came an old and puzzling remembrance of another evening when I was just as slothful.

  It was at Fotheringhay, and I had gone down into the camp, late, with some message. Everything was steaming with damp summer heat and in the musky darkness I discovered him with a young maid, whom he bade me guard through the ranks and deliver to the Duchess of Bedford’s apartments.

  Kneeling beside him, I remembered more. I had thought it prudent to offer the damsel my arm, as she struggled through the trailing briars. Her hand on mine was like a small smooth flame. She stopped suddenly when we had gone a few steps and turned to look back.

  ‘Ah Jesu!’ she whispered. ‘How he shines!’

  I fixed my sight upon the pale Duke, bringing him near in the lanternlight. A moth flew round his face and he lifted his hand to brush it away. The maiden smiled, in tears.

  ‘There is a light... a light,’ she sighed.

  ‘What then, mistress?’

  She had looked up at me from the cavern of her hood. ‘A light about him not of this world,’ she said.

  I could see naught but the fen-fires, burning malefically.

  We were at supper when I had my first sight of Lord Hastings. We were still immured at Nottingham, our leaders sorrowfully depleted. I gnawed on a leg of spiced heron and wondered with anxiety how Lord Anthony Woodville was faring; whether that handsome and cultured nobleman had reached his Lynn estates still owning a head; likewise Sir John Fogge, and the Queen’s father, and her arrogant young brother. Yet we still had Louis de Bretaylle, and Sir Edward Brampton, so swarthy and black-browed, and torturing the English tongue with what sounded like ‘Heesoo Kristo’ for the Holy Name. Richard told me that he was the King’s godson, had forsaken Judaism for the True Faith, was a brave warrior and a seaman of renown. Brampton was also an astute trader and useful in the concourse with Flanders, having many kinfolk there—including a Mademoiselle Warbecque, who was said to have great beauty.

  The King was eating heartily, tearing at choice meats with purpose, dabbling his fingers into scented water as if to wash off treachery, when the door of the hall crashed open, to shiver the silver goblets with its din, bring the dogs roaring out from beneath the trestles, and admit the Lord Chamberlain.

  I summoned Lord Hastings’s face clear into the matrix of my sight: fair like the King’s but narrower; the mouth somewhat over-fleshed; the eyes crowned with a hard glitter. His gait along the hall bore the stiffness of fierce riding.

  The King got up and the prone servers raised themselves from the floor to make way for Hastings. Looking at Richard, I saw the lightening of his countenance. Another trusted one here, I thought; another beloved; and I determined to eschew all criticism of this great lord.

  The King and Hastings embraced briefly.

  ‘What news?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Good and ill,’ answered Hastings, and in that moment I, too, shivered under the chill of Nottingham Castle, which had bred sleeplack in Richard and in me.

  Hastings announced that we were cut off from London by Robin of Redesdale—he had skirted Nottingham to the west.

  ‘Pembroke?’ asked the King, wiping his hands on a napkin.

  ‘He leads but a small force of Welsh pikemen, hastening north-east to aid your Grace.’

  ‘The Earl of Devon?’

  ‘Likewise, with his West Country archers, but Warwick himself rides hard to forestall them both,’ said Hastings.

  ‘Eat, my lord,’ said Edward, thinking hard. The servers ringed Lord H
astings with laden salvers.

  ‘Your brother Clarence is married,’ said the Lord Chamberlain, biting into a roast. I caught a gasp from Richard, drowned by the angry thunder of Edward’s fist on the board.

  ‘He bribed your Grace’s own agent at the Papal court so as to wed Warwick’s Isabella,’ remarked Hastings coolly.

  ‘Mother of God!’ said the King. His angry eye fell upon Richard, and softened. ‘Jesu be thanked that I have one loyal brother remaining.’

  ‘We are all loyal, your Grace,’ said Hastings, downing a void of wine in one draught. ‘Yet I fear that the Queen’s kinfolk may be the butt of Lord Warwick’s wrath.’ He did not sound displeased at the thought, his tone being neither black nor white, but full of grey shadows.

  Edward was controlling his anger. ‘We will tarry three days,’ he announced, and I thought, yet more waiting! I caught Richard’s face in my eye, knowing that he could not see me as well, being low down the hall as I was, yet noting the sadness and the impatience which chased across his brow.

  On the third day we rose from the little death of impotence and took horse in the direction of Buckingham Shire. And Richard had eyes for two now; his brother, on whom he looked with loving care, and Hastings, upon whom he cast the glances of a trustful son.

  ‘Thank Christ there are those still loyal,’ he repeated again and yet again, and, God forgive me, I sighed a little within me at times, and dreamed of Toxophilus, my leman. But at Olney, it was I who first saw the distant cloud—a little greyish brown haze, swirling like smoke, growing into the shapes of sweat-slimed horses and weary men who gave tongue, as they rode, of fear and the sword, too close for safety. Blood on their hands, their harness, some wound-weak, they came upon us at a fair wallop, singing of danger. I recall a dying man who spoke of great peril; how he vomited blood while crying: ‘The hosts of Warwick and Clarence are at our heels! The Herberts slain—Lord Pembroke—Sir John Woodville—her Grace’s father... fly, O King!’ And with the bright red life bursting from him, rolled from his horse and into a ditch, still and suddenly dead. I recall how Edward turned to his dwindling army, bidding them act as the stiffening fellow under the hedge had advised; and how swiftly they spurred their horses’ sides—passing in a cloud of shouting dust—gone.