Edward - Interactive

by Mike Voyce

  Chapter 9 – Christmas

  With my doubts and the weekend came a further dilemma. I didn’t quite bubble over telling my story to Angharad. I’d come to talk to her so very easily but this weekend was different, she was such a close friend of Sarah. She seemed to think any man’s first concern with Sarah would be physical attraction. Ha! How much better would it suit me if she weren’t attractive at all. So what would Angharad make of this bedroom scene with Eadie?

  It would have been strange and churlish not to talk about Edward, what was I to say?

  It concentrated my mind about our friendship, I’d come to take it very much for granted. Yes we were old friends, but this business of Edward was time consuming, and it was coming to be very intimate. I knew she admired the way my firm provided client support; she does a lot of work for charity and as my involvement with serious crime grew she came to work with several of our clients.

  I suggested, once, she should be a Social Worker. She snorted. Angharad has no time for the bureaucracy of Social Services.

  She is a warm and generous person, but also formidable. I was coming to treat her as a sister, and I cared what she thought.

  Angharad was clearly offended to find me dull and evasive but what could I do? After stepping endlessly and delicately round it I realised she was out of patience.

  “Your trouble is you don’t read enough romantic fiction.

  There was something of a pause while my thoughts went through a series of revolutions:

  “Mm... Before we get to that, I’ve got problems.

  I went over what my hypnotist said about confabulation, my problem over the knighthood, concerns about details. I didn’t once touch on Eadie and Sarah.

  There was a lot else to tell her about Edward, most of all there were the Marbles. Angharad allowed herself to be side tracked. We talked of what we knew of crystals and magic, of children’s games and even of hawks. We even talked of the pains of growing up.

  If she did leave the love affair unspoken I couldn’t leave it from my mind. Back in Peterborough I still needed time to think. Perhaps more of the story would show me the answer.

  (Past)

  The World of Edward, my World, was changing. Christmas was almost upon us and Lady Margaret took her devotions seriously. During Advent the whole household was expected to attend matins daily, only Thomas was excused, by reason of his duties. Lady Margaret would shake her head, saying some people were beyond redemption. But she would do it with a smile and a sly look at Aletia.

  Thomas did have work to do, especially at this season.

  My riding lessons were part of his routine. I’d ridden horses for as long as I could remember and we hunted often, but now it was time to learn how to control a horse in the lists and for battle. This was different altogether.

  I’ve never known Thomas so finicky. The horse had to be schooled just so, he was made to put his feet down right on the spot where you wanted them. At first I thought it impossible and foolish but Thomas said,

  “Nobody knows how much a knight depends on his horse.

  If the horse steps wrong in the list you shall miss.

  If he swerves you’ll be grounded.

  If he stumbles in battle you’ll be killed.”

  This was repeated to me over and over till I swear it burnt into my soul.

  We spent hours in the courtyard till I could make the horse step just so, where and when I wanted it. We spent further hours in the field going from walk to trot to canter to gallop and back; switching between them, horse and rider learning to work as a team. I learned to change speed and direction smoothly, just on the signal from my knees and heels.

  These were memorable mornings. The first frosts were on the ground and, some mornings, the horses’ breath would hang in the air. There is an echo to the air in winter that changes the sound of everything. The grass was soft and lovely, even to fall on, thick with dead leaves from autumn, with moss and the morning dew. Thomas said he loved the autumn but for me it was this early part of winter before the ground froze hard and everything held its breath for spring.

  As Christmas approached the kitchen servants were working full-time, preparing for the feast which would last for weeks. It was also at this time I first became aware of money. Christmas Day is a quarter day, one of the four days in the year when rent is paid and the payments are entered in the great rolls that make up the accounts.

  I always knew there were clerks whose job this was but never, until now, paid any attention to the scribes and secretaries and lawyers who came to see Lady Margaret. But this year was particularly busy, not with tenants but with long discussions between the clerks and Lady Margaret. One afternoon I saw her in the library. Thomas had sent me for a book for my studies, and I saw Lady Margaret, surrounded by open court rolls spreading over the table and down to the floor, the knobbly fingers of one hand tracing the entries on one roll while the other hand held to another, a frown of concentration on her face.

  This was the first time I realised being rich wasn’t only dangerous but also hard work and I left her in peace as soon as I could.

  My breast swelled with family pride when the tenants each came to stand in line and pay their small coins. These were our people and we looked after them, they paid us. It was a matter of duty. But now I saw this did not happen all of its own accord. The estates were hard work in right of themselves and the source of many men’s livings.

  When I went back to Thomas with the book, I asked him about it. He smiled as he always did when he anticipated my questions; he said,

  “Do you think a great house like this is supported by the few tenants you see?

  As the king’s mother, Lady Margaret has great estates of her own beyond Coldharbour, Woking and the other houses. She also holds your estates, which are amongst the greatest in England. There will be clerks coming and going through January and beyond.”

  When Thomas said this there was a frown on his face, a look almost of worry. I didn’t want to think about Thomas being worried, nothing was ever a problem he could not solve. I listened as he went on.

  “Lady Margaret has lately made William Bedall your new receiver. He is studying the accounts of your estates and examining your records, it is a great task.

  Your estates cover hundreds of miles of England; they’re divided into circuits, the Central Circuit, the Welsh Circuit and so on that the rent receivers travel round. The stewards and lords of each manor are accountable to a receiver and he, in turn, accounts to Master Bedall as your receiver general. It is he who pays the cofferers. Each year’s collections are compared with the last and the estate rolls audited. Some of the circuits earn more than £1,000 in a year and some of your clerks and lawyers are great men of their own right.”

  Thomas paused, for this was becoming a lesson to prepare me for being a lord.

  “Have you ever seen your muniments, Edward?”

  Thomas knew I hadn’t, I wasn’t even sure what muniments were; but he was in a mood to tell me and I listened.

  “There are vast storerooms here and elsewhere, full, just with the deeds and titles of your lands and rents, the tenants and their terms of tenure. Nobody could know all your domains, though may God guide her aright, I believe the Countess must try for they have been rich to her many thousands of pounds these years. Let us pray Lady Margaret will do her duty. Now, the errand I sent you on…”

  I tried to press him but Thomas had long been wise to my schoolboy diversions.

  He raised a finger of admonition.

  “I cannot say how justly your guardian keeps your lands. All I will say is this; there are some great lords who rely on their stewards and chamberlains entirely. Those who do deserve to be robbed, for all their clerks may be honest fellows. It’s hard enough to keep up when you keep charge yourself.

  There’ve been so many changes of fortune and changes of ownership; the honest man doesn’t know where he stands and the dishonest takes what he stands on, while his betters squa
bble. It’s been like that all my life and who knows if the present king can change it... yet, I think he can if he keeps his head.

  They say there is no man wiser than the King at gaining money. And you, young Edward, just hope Lady Margaret will keep your tenants loyal to their lord.”

  I’d known about the circuits and the manors and lesser holdings, which made them up, since I was small. I’d played with lists of them, conjuring the place names in my mind. The Welsh Circuit pleased me best, it had wild and strange names I struggled hard to pronounce. Thomas said this was the most difficult Circuit, needing skill and determination to manage. It was mysterious and exciting; I promised myself to do great things with the Welsh Circuit when I grew to be a man.

  Until this day the estates had been no more than names, talismans of our good fortune. I knew that owning them was part of our family greatness but nothing more, not till Thomas explained it.

  Christmas came and went. It was somehow poignant as a closing of the happiest chapter in Edward’s life. It was a memorable season.

  Jan van Wynkyn brought two of his newly published books; printed books! Master Wynkyn took over the press in Westminster, and the royal favour that went with it, when his master, William Caxton, died. A book is something sacred to carry the word of truth. Imagine having a book made for you, a book for others to read and know your truth! Here were two books written under Lady Margaret’s own commission. Master Wynkyn brought them especially for her that Christmas; the house of Wynkyn de Worde owed much to the Countess and, as I thought of it, she to him.

  Stray memories from that Christmas came before my eyes:

  of the happy, flushed faces of servants and everyone in the great hall, of the horse Edward had been schooling and tack presented to him by Thomas, gruffly, on New Year’s Morning, of the sword presented to him by Lady Margaret and which she said had been his father’s.

  Unaccountable tears stung my eyes with the reverie of that sword. It pulled at me; I had to know more about it. With a breathlessness of expectation I found it.

  (Past)

  It was New Year’s Morning, the day presents are exchanged. Christmas Day is a day for devotion, feasting comes later, or so it is in Lady Margaret’s house. This morning I was standing indoors, in one of the passages, waiting for Eadie, when I was summoned. I was feeling all self-conscious and awkward in my finery, masses of starched, snowy white linen, too big for me at the cuffs. It was Lady Margaret who waited for me, standing there in the library with Thomas.

  “Edward, we have something special for you.”

  She showed me a parcel and a stained letter with the de Stafford seal.

  “But before you take these I want you to hear what we have to say.

  It was Thomas who took up the story.

  “I know you have not been told much about your father, perhaps you should have been told more. But perhaps you partly remember, from when you were small. At all events you know of the rebellion and how it was defeated.”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Thomas, get on with it.”

  “At the end of January, just before your fourteenth birthday, a man came to visit your mother. He would speak to no one but Lady Katherine. She recognised him from years ago; he had been a captain of your father’s men at arms. He gave her these things and this is what he told her.

  Thomas paused.

  “The old Duke called him to do a duty. By this time it was clear the rebellion was lost but the Duke was not yet taken. The duty was to carry this parcel and this letter to Lady Katherine, to be given to you as the Duke’s heir when she thought the time was right, but on no account was he to go to Lady Katherine till you were fourteen. Until then he was to keep his charge safe from public knowledge.

  Your mother brought these things to us. She told us this story and put the trust she had been given into our hands.”

  Lady Margaret interrupted, she seemed nervous,

  “I called for Thomas. I have not broken the seal on that letter Edward; if I had you would have known it. As to what it says, I have prayed and I trust in God. As to what comes next, I relied entirely on Thomas. You see, Katherine and I looked into the parcel and it has given me agonies to know what to do.”

  “I set you a test. You damned near hurt me.”

  I was proud of the feeling Thomas put into his words. It must be true, Thomas was proud of my swordsmanship. In fact, I could still remember the day of that test, when he put me through every combination of attack and defence. Afterwards, warm with sweat falling off me, I heard Thomas declare I was good enough. Did he truly think I was? for my father’s sword! There was no doubt that was what must be in the parcel.

  “We decided you should be given these at Christmas. Edward, receive Duke Henry’s present.”

  It was Lady Margaret who put the things into my hands but it was Thomas who put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me to the door.

  “Go up to your room. You shall want to be alone to read the letter.”

  I looked at the sword, studying every inch of it; I tested its weight, its balance and its suppleness. The sword fascinated me. All the same, all the time I had it in my hand, I was impatient to read my father’s letter, for all I put it off until I knew, or thought I knew, the sword. The letter was a very precious thing, I told myself, no matter what it said. It came from my father who died more than nine years ago. He’d written it more than nine years before in the expectation of my reading it now. Whatever it said it would be my most prized possession; yet I had a thrill of expectation it would say something unexpected, something important to me, I so hoped it would.

  Nervously I broke the seal and unfolded the letter. I have seen my father’s hand, since his death; often enough to know this was his letter. This is what it said,

  My Son, Edward.

  I am writing this letter to you in the expectation I shall shortly die and by the time you read it you may barely remember me.

  I have come to terms with this grief and I have pictured in my mind how you will look and how you will be now you are entering into manhood.

  It is my sorrow I cannot know you as you will be then but I have bowed to the Will of God as I must shortly bow to the will of Man.

  The Sword which you have with this letter is something very special and you must treat it as you would treat no other sword.

  You must know that it was venerated for centuries before it came into de Stafford hands for reason of its associations and the powers it was said to have. I think you will believe me foolish that I tell you this, and I have always rather disbelieved it myself, yet there is a persistent legend in our family; the Sword was bles’t by the blessed Lord Jesus Christ himself.

  I am half afraid of the blasphemy of believing and half afraid of the blasphemy of not believing, even now. I earnestly pray you, my son, therefore; do not take this Sword lightly but always keep it safe so it may forever pass down from heir to heir as a talisman and protector of our House. It is all I have left to give you, together with the story of how it came to us.

  At the time of the Crusades, in the year of Our Lord 1212, there existed a brethren of holy men dedicated to keeping safe certain venerated relics, relics it is said which were brought to these shores by the first Christians, brought by the saint, Joseph of Arimathaea, who washed and tended the crucified Lord himself. The Sword was one of these relics, the Hallows of Our Lord. The Sword with other sacred things came into the hands of one of the brethren, a pious and wise man named Father John.

  After he became keeper of the relics, Father John had a vision and whether God or the Sword spoke to him he came to believe the Sword has powers which enable its holder to bring justice and united rule to England. It would make the man who should be king ruler of all of these islands, and just to his people, happy and beloved by them. The question for Father John was who should have the Sword.

  Further visions told the good father to bring it to our ancestors. But also, they told him it would remain unused for centuries. Until the tim
e was right it would lie hidden and waiting.

  The brethren disliked this vision of the good father and were much perturbed. These brethren were members of holy orders but the trust they held and the duty they kept sacred, each in his own heart, was greater than the obedience they owed to any abbot. Though Father John was old and much venerated for his wisdom, he could not compel his brothers and he and they argued earnestly and long amongst themselves. In the end they were honest men and true to their faith, as a noble act of trust they allowed the Sword to come into the hands of our family.

  In remembrance of Father John, and to keep faith with the brethren, you must always protect and keep the Sword in de Stafford hands.

  As for its power, my son, it has not come to me and I fear me that my faith is all too weak. The fault of my downfall is in myself not in the Sword; the Sword must now be yours. Maybe the power of Father John’s vision will be yours too, if it is, use it wisely.

  May God and you, my Edward, forgive me my sins and may God stand over you to protect you as if you had a father still in this life.

  Your loving, devoted father,

  Henry Buckingham

  The letter touched my heart. I can’t say what I felt. I could not disbelieve my father’s word, and his wish must be obeyed, but there had to be something more than this. How could I believe in a sacred sword when it let Papa die? There had to be something to tell me what to think. The letter was such a mixture of hopelessness and joy, I felt such a child faced by such a gift.

  Nothing in my schooling, nothing I learned in Lady Margaret’s house, nothing prepared me for this. Lady Margaret often spoke of God and Faith but it was always of duty and obedience; no warmth of Love as my father’s letter gave to Father John. Lady Margaret would allow no talk of faith or magic or trust such as these Brothers had. What should I do? What should I make of this precious gift?

  I was a long time in my room, sitting on my bed with tears in my eyes. As time passed there came the sound of Eadie coming and I rushed to hide the letter. The first thing ever hidden from her.

  I had another gift come from my father once, I’d had it many years ago, but I kept it still. It was a book by Sir Thomas Malory, ‘Le Morte D’Arthur’, it was about the knights of the Round Table and the quest for the Holy Grail. In it Sir Galahad was given a sword and also a shield, both shrouded in mystery and magic. They, too, were supposed to come from Joseph of Arimathaea. These things, too, were relics of Christ. I read again Sir Thomas’ book, on my own that Christmas, it gave me comfort.

  In the story of King Arthur’s knights great gifts came by clear magic means. Sir Galahad’s sword was stuck in a stone floating on the river which flowed past Camelot and Sir Galahad had to pull it out when no-one else could. Then there was a magic shield, presented to an abbey by a strange knight. The knight suddenly appeared, demanding Sir Galahad fight him for it, when Sir Galahad won the mysterious knight disappeared, leaving the shield behind him. The Sword from my father lay quiet and still where I left it. There was nothing to remark, no knight, no stone, no shield; just the letter.

  No, I didn’t believe in Christ having blessed my Sword or in Father John’s vision. If it had been true King Richard wouldn’t have killed my Papa. I felt ashamed of the simpleness in that letter, and guilty for not believing it.

 

  I was given another token that Christmas. Any gift from Eadie would be full of charm but this, like the Sword, was something special.

  I remember the shy, quiet way she gave it to me. Eadie was hardly ever bashful, and I loved her for the joy she had in living. But she could make a moment magic, she could shut out the whole World, just by looking at me with those big green eyes; still and quiet. It was so she gave me the Bible. It was really just the New Testament, in Latin, with some pages missing. It was quite small and bound in green leather: it had a red rose pressed in to it from the summer. The Rose and the Book were the most precious things Eadie could have given me; and we kissed and I loved her for it. I thought the Book must have come from Aletia, in fact there was an inscription so, but the Rose was from Eadie and it was the gift of her own heart that I loved.

  My Latin grammar, well tutored by Thomas, was growing true, it gave me a faith and a pride in my own learning and I promised to read a passage with Eadie every night. The thought of this simple pleasure brought a glow to us both.

  Eadie and I were still lovers but more careful now. When she gave me the Bible I so wanted to take her in my arms, take her to me and hug her and kiss her, as I might once have done. Instead we were strangely shy and held our Christmas in the bedroom that night.

  I can’t let the gift of the Sword pass as easily as Edward did. As to the riding and the estates, let them unfold as they will, I will tell you later how Lady Margaret had taken political and financial benefits from the estates, for herself and the King, much to the jeopardy of both Edward and his inheritance. But nothing of this struck me as immediately as the Sword and the letter; the reason I can’t let the Sword pass is my own vision on the road, coming back from Sarah. You remember, the vision was strong enough to start me on this whole story and its power has never lessened. I don’t know if it’s fanciful, and you can say I’m right to fear being like van Dusen’s schizophrenics, but the lesson with Thomas, when Edward was tested to see if he was fit for the Sword, is surely what I saw in my first vision.

  He passed the test and opened a door for me. Now I wondered, was his disbelief about to cause him to fail in a second test? I didn’t know, I didn’t know what to think, any more than Edward.

  Lady Margaret’s anxiety over the letter struck me. She hadn’t broken the seal or read the letter, but what was she afraid Edward would learn from it? And if she was afraid, why hadn’t she broken the seal? I guessed how much she would have liked to read that letter, but what would she have thought if she had done? Some force had stopped her and kept Duke Henry’s secret, I would learn more of it later, but Edward never suspected Lady Margaret would be tempted, or what power restrained her.

  As to the Sword, what was I to think? At least Edward held the reality in his hands, for me it was speculation on a meditation, with nothing further to go on.

  (Past)

  I remembered another night that season. Looking around the faces sat together in the great hall. The candles were burning bright, as always, but there were still great pools of darkness behind the great company at table. The play of light and darkness cast flickering shadows to blur all the faces. I took more to eat and drink than usual, especially to drink, and I watched all those happy faces and heard all the laughter and the talk as it washed about my head. Across from me was Eadie’s smiling face, full of love and a subtle expression of knowing, bewitching like some faerie, rarer and finer than any human being.

  Relaxed, at home, complete in perfect happiness, I knew how much I loved this place, these people and this time.

  There was such power in the vision of that dinner I cried for the loss of it as the cold solidity of my lonely flat came back to me.

  Once more the power of this channelling swept me up in a sense of not quite being in the Real World. There were waves of power; a power of feeling, a heart-rending pull at all my emotions so I can’t tell you what they were. If ever there were meaning to the word nostalgia this must surely be it, to cry for the loss of what?

  How else could I deal with parting from such happiness and such a chimera? My mind ferreted round for the meaning of the Sword and the letter and Father John’s vision while my heart grieved for Eadie and the book and the rose and all the happiness of long ago.

 

  ***