An Unknown Welshman

by Jean Stubbs

  Hearing themselves mentioned the great dogs came forward, one by one, to be fondled. And between the jokes and the sweet bulging in his cheek, and the loving muzzles, the prince found sorrow easier to bear.

  ‘Leave us a little, my lords,’ said Richard quietly, ‘for I would have him merrier ere he left us. We want no tears to cry slander on the king’s counsellors.’

  So for an hour he set aside his state, and became no more and no less than the indulgent uncle of a beloved nephew. And Prince Richard rode waving and smiling through the London streets, to join his brother who would soon be crowned king of England.

  In the middle of St Paul’s churchyard stood a timber cross and pulpit mounted on stone steps, from which sermons had been preached for almost three hundred years. The coronation should have fallen on this Sunday of 22 June, but had been postponed yet again, due it was said to treachery against the Protector. And instead, Dr Shaw, brother of the Mayor of London, climbed portentously a little nearer to heaven than his congregation, and asked God’s blessing on them all. Then he raised his right hand as witness and proclaimed the words of Solomon.

  ‘But the multiplying brood of the ungodly shall be of no profit, and with bastard slips they shall not strike deep root, nor shall they establish a sure hold!’

  A bewildered but respectful silence greeted this beginning, and deepened as he gave them examples from the Old Testament and from ancient history, to prove that the sins of the fathers were visited on the children, and some that seemed rightful heirs were bastards born of bastards.

  It was doubted, said Dr Shaw, getting to the meat of his argument, that the late King Edward was the lawfully conceived son of the late Duke of York. Even his late brother Clarence may not have been sired by his rightful father, and for this reason — they resembled other known men than him. But Richard the Protector, that noble prince, that pattern of knightly prowess, showed in his lineaments the very face of the noble duke his father.

  A hum of disbelief, of suspicion, of fear, was stilled by the pastoral hand.

  But not only were the late king’s origins dubious, Dr Shaw continued, his marriage was also unlawful. A pretended marriage, made of great presumption and without the knowing and assent of the Lords of the Land — and by the sorcery and witchcraft of Dame Elizabeth Grey and her mother Jacquetta, Duchess of Luxembourg. A marriage made privily and secretly, without edition of banns, in a private chamber — a profane place — and not openly in the face of the Church but contrary to its laws and customs. And at the time of the pretended marriage King Edward stood married and troth plight to one Dame Eleanor Butler, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury. So that the said king and queen lived together sinfully and damnably in adultery.

  They waited quietly now, knowing what was to come.

  Wherefore, said Dr Shaw logically, all the issue and children of this pretended marriage were bastards, and unable to inherit or to claim anything by inheritance, according to the law and custom of England.

  There was a movement among the lords spiritual and temporal, not wholly due to unease. The Protector, his friend Buckingham, and a select group of followers had arrived a little late.

  ‘This noble prince,’ said Dr Shaw, retracing his steps, ‘this pattern of knightly prowess, represents in his lineaments the very face of the noble duke his father! This is his father’s own figure!’ said Dr Shaw unluckily.

  But it was not. Richard of York had been a well-made man, while the Protector was slight and wiry. That raised shoulder, that withered arm, the lines of suffering about the mouth were never York’s private burden.

  ‘The very print of his visage!’ cried Dr Shaw, conscious of error. ‘The plain express likeness of that noble duke!’

  He left the pulpit eventually to a profound silence, and the people began to disperse in little groups, glancing at the royal party. And a rumour spread about London that the princes were in danger, and that the Princess Elizabeth of York should be smuggled abroad so that some member of the late King Edward’s family might be saved. Dr Shaw, though he had preached on evidence given him in the name of the Protector, and later condoned by Parliament, kept out of public sight. Some said that Richard of Gloucester was enraged at the slander of his mother’s honour, for it was enough that his late brother’s marriage should be declared unlawful. And many noticed that though Buckingham pursued the Protector’s cause relentlessly, the two men no longer seemed as friendly as they had been.

  Still, it was Buckingham who called upon the attention of all good citizens from a platform at the east end of the Guildhall, two days later. Buckingham at his ease, richly dressed and savouring his present power, repeating the slanders of Dr Shaw, and bidding them search their hearts and find a good king to replace the bastard stock of King Edward. He begged them plainly to show their minds.

  The silence was embarrassing, and Buckingham whispered in the Mayor’s ear asking him why they did not shout ‘King Richard!’

  ‘Sir, they comprehend you not,’ said Sir Edward Shaw, softly and uncomfortably.

  So Buckingham repeated that the realm needed not a child of bastard origin but an excellent soldierly prince — and whom did they choose to rule over them?

  Still they did not answer, showing no more movement or understanding than a heap of stones.

  ‘Sir, they are used to hearing the Recorder, for he is the mouth of the city,’ whispered the mayor.

  Buckingham’s patience was not his strong suit, but he sat down as graciously as he could, and motioned Sir Thomas Fitzwilliam to repeat the command for the third time. They responded no better.

  ‘Now this is a marvellous obstinate silence!’ Buckingham cried out in an angry voice, and his hand moved automatically to the hilt of his sword.

  A buzz of apprehension round the Guildhall was covered by Buckingham’s curt motion to his own retainers, who started guiltily, aware of their fault, and shouted, ‘King Richard! King Richard!’ and threw up a little shoal of caps. Buckingham relaxed and smiled.

  ‘Now is this a goodly cry and joyful!’ he said heartily. ‘And I shall accompany the mayor and aldermen to make your request of the Protector on the morrow.’

  So they stood in Baynard’s Castle, very fine in their violet clothes, and Buckingham played his part again, sending a loving message to the Duke of Gloucester — who expressed himself amazed at their coming, and wondered what they wished of him. The messenger was sent for a second time to beg him give them audience. But when he came from his chamber, not half as splendid in his dress as many that were present, and heard what they required, he said he could not — for the love he bore to the late king, and that which he now bore for his sons.

  His face impassive, as he followed the next part of the ritual, Buckingham drew his friends round him and pretended to confer with them.

  ‘My lord,’ John Howard whispered to his neighbour, amused at the by-play, ‘this puts me in mind of the consecration of a bishop. For the man has paid for his Bulls, and means well enough to be a bishop if he can. And yet they must ask him twice, and twice he must say nay. And at the third time he says yea — but always as though he were compelled against his will!’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ the man whispered back, looking straight ahead of him as though they were not in conversation, ‘these matters be kings’ games, and as if they were stage plays.’

  ‘But for the most part played upon a scaffold,’ whispered Howard, remembering Hastings.

  ‘Well I shall not offer to step up and play with them,’ said his neighbour, mindful of treason, ‘for those that cannot play the right part disorder matters, and do themself no good!’

  The conference was over.

  ‘My lord,’ cried Buckingham, bowing to Richard, ‘we have gone so far that it is now no surety to retreat! Will you take the crown? And if you will not,’ he continued, with more emphasis than the occasion warranted, ‘then must we find one that shall!’

  A few stared curiously at him. It was as though his pride and ambition had go
t the better of him, and certainly in figure and bearing he looked a more majestic figure than the pale-faced man in the gallery. The Protector had not missed his meaning either, but when he spoke his voice was even and gracious.

  ‘Then here we take upon us the royal estate, pre-eminence and kingdom of the two noble realms, England and France. The one, from this day forward, by us and our heirs to rule, govern and defend...’

  The words rolled over them, soothing, inspiring, protecting, exalting one nobleman above all the rest. There was no hesitation now in shouting what they must, ‘King Richard! King Richard!’ and Buckingham bowed lower than any of them. But the smile on his lips did not find an answer in his eyes. For they were now the two most powerful men in the kingdom, with the queen’s family disbarred, and not even the late Duke of Clarence’s son — poor Warwick — to put forward a claim. And Buckingham thought that if his daughter married Richard’s only son, and Richard granted him the full inheritance of the de Bohun estates, that neither man could pull the other down. And if Richard’s sickly son died, with or without issue, then Buckingham would see that his daughter lacked nothing: neither party nor fatherly counsel.

  On this day also, the Lord Rivers, Sir Richard Grey and old Sir Thomas Vaughan were led from their prison to the scaffold at Pontefract. Sir Richard Ratcliff, a man close to the Protector, travelling south for the coronation with his retainers, paused at Pontefract to order the executions. He intended to have no turbulent speeches, no pledges of innocence or cries of injustice, to disturb the populace. So the three noblemen took only their dignity with them into the silence.

  In Brittany Henry sought out Sir Edward Woodville, and condoled with him on the loss of his two kinsmen, for Jasper said he could not bring himself to do more than nod his sympathy.

  ‘I have no love for any of them, lad,’ he said wryly, ‘but you have got your mother’s gracious policy, and a ready tongue, so go you to him — and say that I am sorry, though I am not.’

  The ex-Admiral of the Fleet was in his chamber, and rose to clasp Henry’s outstretched hands.

  ‘Sir Richard Grey was young, and a gallant gentleman,’ he said quietly, ‘but it is the Lord Rivers’ death that grieves me more. He was a knight both in body and soul, a staunch son of the Church with a most mystical piety. And yet the greatest jouster of his age — for he fought the Bastard of Burgundy at a famous tournament when he was but a stripling, sixteen long years since. And a man of the world, that travelled and loved Italy. And a man half out of touch with his times, for he was moved by the vision of the Holy Grail. And they say that when he rode from Ludlow with the young king he wore a hair shirt under his rich robes. We shall not see many such again, my lord. I thank you for your courtesy...’

  ‘I cannot,’ Henry cried passionately to Jasper, ‘I cannot bear this difference between the public and the private face.’

  ‘Then stab yourself, lad, and lie in the earth. For the difference will be there for all time. Should I let my enemy run me through with his sword because he has a wife and mother that will grieve for him? You are not six years old but six-and-twenty, Harry! Come, make me smile a little instead of scolding you. What of my good foul friend, the Lord Stanley. How does our lovely fox?’

  Henry smiled in spite of himself, and answered, ‘My lady mother says he is released from prison, and that he is to carry the mace at Duke Richard’s coronation — and that she is to carry the queen’s train.’

  ‘Oh, how I love that man. Fox did I call him? He is a very serpent, for he slithers through their hands and waits to strike again! We shall be at court yet, Harry. What of my other pets? What of the Bishop Morton?’

  ‘Imprisoned still, but under the care of Buckingham, at his castle of Brecon.’

  Jasper’s eyes glinted.

  ‘I was about to ask you of our friend Buckingham, and now I have two answers in one. Now does that puzzle me, Harry. What can the great Buckingham want with the wily bishop?’

  ‘Perchance he would seek the king’s pardon for him, and so gain a friend?’

  ‘I know this much,’ said Jasper, ruminating. ‘If I were King Richard I would not have the bishop in prison, for there his talents rust, and he is a man that loves to give them full play. And I would not have those talents working underground at Brecon, with Buckingham ready to listen to a bishop’s silver tongue.’

  Peter Curteys, the king’s wardrober, had been put to a vast amount of worry and trouble, promising to furnish the robes for the coronation in nine days’ time. The king alone must wear not one but two sets of robes: purple velvet furred with ermine, crimson velvet embroidered with gold and furred with miniver; doublet and stomacher of blue cloth of gold, and all most marvellously wrought with nets and pineapples. And two hats of estate, with round rolls behind them and beaks in front of them. Hose and shirt and coat and surcoat and mantle and hood of crimson satin. A tabard of white sarcenet and a coif of lawn. His shoes to be covered with crimson cloth of gold.

  Among the stacks of rich materials Master Curteys held his head, and wondered whether his neck would be stretched if he failed to meet the royal requirements. At least he had the robes from the original coronation as a beginning. But Richard’s son, Prince Edward, must have another gown. For one did not dress a royal heir in the same fashion as a duke’s offspring.

  The princes played in the Constable’s garden at the Tower, and strove to understand their new state. Prince Richard’s indisposition had been mild and short-lived, but Prince Edward’s dental infection plagued him. Daily he rose, after an uneasy night, to the intolerable throb and ache of those troublesome gums and teeth. Dr Argentine of Strasbourg attended him, seeking to alleviate — by means of herbs and potions and poultices and an occasional bleeding — the prince’s bane. The malady was beyond his skill, and a melancholy occasioned by the disease and by other matters assailed the boy.

  Edward was afraid and alone. He had been trained to bear difficulties in silence, or to seek the advice of his elders, so he could not and would not share his fears with Richard. And when his brother asked how long they would be there, and when they should see their mother again, Edward comforted him with bright promises. So they shot at the butts, and walked in the sunshine with their arms about each other.

  Edward made a daily confession, earnestly undertook the small penances that would cleanse his soul of sin, and bore himself graciously. All the friends and attendants he had known from babyhood had been gradually withdrawn from his service. So there were only the chaplain and Dr Argentine to lean on: the one for spiritual, the other for physical help. He told them at last that he believed he faced death. They rallied him, beseeching him to enjoy his brother’s company and draw inspiration and guidance from his books. The Lord Rivers his uncle, patron of William Caxton and himself an elegant translator, had instilled a love of literature in the boy. He read aloud to Richard, who listened entranced to tales of chivalry and adventure. And they sat side by side, head to fair head, whiling away the time they had left.

  In sanctuary still, with her five fair daughters, the queen-dowager gazed for a long moment on the priest who brought her the news of their death, then fell at his feet as he tried to comfort her. But she could not be comforted, and though the queen in her cried for vengeance on her enemies the mother wailed piteously.

  ‘O my babes, my sweet babes. O my babes, my babes, my sweet babes.’

  Over and over again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When the lion had proclaimed that on pain of death there should none horned beast abide in that wood, one that had in his forehead a bunch of flesh fled away at a great pace.

  The History of King Richard III, St Thomas More

  Morton’s brief imprisonment had not sat hardly upon him, and even the four-day journey from London under close guard found him ready of tongue — though stiff in his bones. And Buckingham, coming forward to greet him, signalled that he was to be assisted from his horse with the courtesy due to his cloth.

  ‘How
now, my lord bishop?’ he said. ‘Find you the air somewhat sweeter in Brecon than in London?’

  ‘Aye, my lord duke,’ said Morton cheerfully, ‘full sweet. Though not as sweet as freedom. But how should I complain that held of the king’s good pleasure?’

  ‘Well, we shall make your prison as comfortable as may be. I am told you play an excellent game of chess, my lord. Shall you and I pit our wits over kings of ivory, for our pleasure?’

  Buckingham’s tone and smile were no more than hospitality called for, but his eyes told another story. And Morton, analysing the scraps and dribbles of information he had garnered, and conjecturing still further, sensed a deeper meaning beneath the gracious phrases. So he assured him just as meaningfully.

  ‘Why, my lord, I find this game more to my liking than the other! For then I may set up a king again on my own account — whereas this poor self has been set aside by one.’

  Buckingham laughed and ushered him into the great hall at Brecon Castle, where a battery of odours promised a fine dinner.

  ‘I am not such a one, my lord bishop, that would banish a good churchman to the dungeon, with bread and water to keep body and soul together, and rats for company,’ said Buckingham lightly, though his smile indicated that he would do so if he desired, and might do so if he found Morton useless. ‘So shall we dine right well, and I promise you that your chamber is meet for your needs.’ Then he raised his voice, adding, ‘But I pray you remember, my lord, that though I deal mercifully with you, you are my prisoner.’

  Morton spread out his hands to bear witness that only God was his strength, and replied as clearly.

  ‘These gentlemen will tell you, my lord, that my years are more powerful than my enemies. I shall abide here peaceably as long as it pleases the king and your lordship. I am no fiery youth to scale these mighty walls, but an old man that thanks you for small mercies — and hopes for greater ones.’