by Robert Irwin
Warwick and his allies have had to accept the fait accompli of the wedding and on Michaelmas Day Anthony sees Warwick, together with George Duke of Clarence, escorting Elizabeth into Reading Abbey. As Anthony looks on, he finds himself remembering how Scoggin, by performing cartwheels in York Cathedral Close, demonstrated the way the wheel of fortune works. At the altar Edward formally declares that Elizabeth is his wife and that early next year she will be crowned Queen of England.
On Anthony’s return to London, he resumes his exercises at the tiltyard, but Raker is increasingly critical and even abusive, ‘You ride like a nun on her way to market. You must learn to rouse your rage and then to master it,’ he tells Anthony. ‘Only rage can give you the energy that you need to win your combats. You must feel it surging up in you like black vomit. You are not a serious fighter unless you fight to kill. You are not really a warrior until you have dreamt of killing a man. Drop your lance and get off that black beast and try fencing with me. Let me see, if I cannot put some fire in your belly. Let me teach you how you can kill a man at your ease.’
Anthony dismounts, Raker produces a pair of bated swords and they set to thrusting and parrying. At first Raker is somewhat baffled by the Italianate style of swordplay that Anthony has learnt from Tiptoft, but he soon rallies and sets to provoking Anthony not only with insulting words, but also by ostentatiously adopting postures that appear to leave him vulnerable to Anthony’s thrusts, but since Anthony can see that Raker seeks to provoke him, he is determined not to be so provoked.
The bout is tiring and they mutely agree to pause. They both rest and lean on the pommels of their swords as they watch their sweat drip onto the sawdust below. Without raising his head, Raker starts speaking in a low voice, ‘I have heard it said that the marriage of the King to your sister was not as has been publicly proclaimed. I have heard it said that there was no priest there and so what they have been calling a Christian sacrament was no such thing and so Elizabeth is no more than the King’s mistress.’
Anthony’s sword flashes up, but Raker laughs mirthlessly, as he is ready for this. Now that Anthony is enraged and dangerous, it might have been expected that Raker would dance away and keep his distance while making parries. Yet he surprises Anthony by doing the opposite and moving in for close combat. The foolish and rancorous old man surely deserves to die, but since Anthony’s sword is bated and Raker is so close up against him, Anthony cannot manage a proper thrust or slicing cut and instead finds himself in a combat that more closely resembles a wrestling match than it does a swordfight. Finally he attempts a lunge which at such close quarters is a feeble thing and it only results in his sword arm being trapped in an armlock. It seems that Raker is about to break his arm.
Now Raker’s mouth is close to Anthony’s ear, ‘Drop your sword! I have seen enough, since I know that you do indeed wish to kill me and I am well pleased with that. Yet your fight today is with the wrong man. I have mentioned this libel about the Queen to no one except you just now and that only because I wished to raise your anger, but I heard it from a man who boasts that he belongs to the Earl of Warwick’s affinity. He has been haunting the taverns in Southwark where he spreads this story about your sister.’
‘Very well. Then please lead me to him and I will find a way to silence him.’
Now Raker looks uncomfortable.
‘I will take you to the tavern where he is most likely to be found now that the sun is setting and I will point him out to you. Yet we must go unarmed, for I guess that if you took your sword with you, then you would commit murder. I will show you this man and then we will go to the Sheriff of Southwark and have him arrested and committed to his prison which men call the Clinke.’ Raker hesitates before continuing, ‘You favour a fancy foreign style of handling the sword, but at least you are an Englishman and besides you give me employment. Whereas Warwick’s man is called Phebus and I believe that he is a Gascon – a French dog then.’
In Raker’s mouth this epithet has unusual force, for he hates dogs and Anthony has seen him spear a stray mongrel that had wandered into the tiltyard.
They set off across London Bridge towards Southwark. A one-legged beggar sits at the London end of the bridge and cries ‘Alms in the name of our blessed liege lord, King Edward!’ Though evening is coming on, the shops on the bridge are still doing business and they have to force their way through the crowds. At the Southwark end of the bridge there is a blind man who cries out ‘Alms in the name of Henry VI, the true King of England!’ As they leave the bridge Raker explains that these two scurvy beggars work together and divide the takings equally every evening. Once across the river Raker leads the way on to the Tabard. Its sign is a sleeveless coat as might be worn by a herald and the place is the oldest of Southwark’s inns. It is dark, crowded and noisy and Phebus, who seems a little tipsy, sits with other young men at a long table but Raker and Anthony manage to squeeze in on either side of him. Raker reminds Phebus that they have already met before he introduces Anthony as John Goodgroom, one of his underlings. Then Raker summons over the ale-wife and orders a jug of wine and some cakes, and he continues, ‘We have come to hear stories. We like stories.’
But the expression on Raker’s face does not suggest that he likes anything at all and Phebus is obviously nervous. He makes to rise, but Raker and Anthony press him down and offer him some of their wine. Surely, as long as Phebus remains in this busy tavern where he is amongst his friends, he will be safe?
‘I do not tell stories,’ he protests. ‘I only speak of things that are true.’
‘True stories are the best ones,’ says Anthony. ‘Think of us as collectors of true stories, of snatches of gossip and rumours that are to be verified. For example, I heard from a friend that the King’s recent marriage was no such thing, as it was not celebrated according to the Christian rite and now my master here tells me that he has heard the same thing from you. I did not believe my friend and swore that he was a fool and made a bet that he was wrong, but if you can vouch for the truth of the story, then I will owe him an apology – and some money. Here, have some cake. And more wine. And a toast to the telling of stories. And here is a sovereign to hear your story.’
Now two men seated on the opposite side of the bench interrupt to say that they too would like to hear the story of the King’s wedding, for they esteem Phebus as the teller of the most fantastical tales. Phebus scowls at them, but after almost emptying the wine-cup he begins, ‘My story is a strange one. The first thing you should know is that the “wedding ceremony” that was no true wedding did not take place on the morning of May 1st, as is said, but on the night before.’
‘No, the first thing we should know is how do you know this?’
‘I know this, because I was there.’ Phebus pauses as those around him signal their astonishment at this, before he continues, ‘I was there because my master, the Earl of Warwick had become worried about the safety of the King, for while the court was residing at Stony Stratford he would frequently ride out alone save for the company of a single squire. He said he was going hunting and yet he took no foresters or lymerers with him, nor did he take any dogs. The Earl became worried lest the King be attacked by footpads or some other accident befall him and so, after the King had ridden out thus several times, my master asked me, whom he knew to be an expert tracker and skilled man-at-arms, to follow the King at a distance. I was to stay at a distance because my master did not want to embarrass the King, but I should ride close enough behind him to be able to rush to his assistance should he meet with any trouble. The first time I followed the King I found that he rode to a great manor house in Grafton Regis, where he spent some time, before returning to Stony Stratford without encountering any trouble. I reported this to my master, who was well pleased with me and ordered me to do the same when the King next rode out.
Less than a week later, on the morning of Wednesday 30th of April the King and his squire rode out once more and I had no difficulty in following them to Grafton Regi
s. They spent all day in the house and I was beginning to worry about where I should find anything to eat and whether I should end up spending the night out of doors. Then, as it was beginning to get dark, the King emerged arm in arm with a beautiful lady. I did not know who she was, though I know now that she was Elizabeth Woodville. They were followed by the lady’s mother, whom I have since learnt is called Jacquetta de St Pol. Also there was a man in a long red robe which had a cowl. The King’s squire was in attendance and there was also a lady-in-waiting… Oh and there was also an old man bent double under a bundle of sticks. They all walked into the woods and, after waiting a while, I followed them. This was easy, for they carried lanterns and candles to light their way.
Soon they came to a clearing in front of a great oak tree and the old man, assisted by the King’s squire set to laying out and lighting two small fires. The others stood around talking and after a while they were joined by other men and women. Some of them had the antlers of stags strapped to their heads. From the way they came tripping and running through the wood they all seemed to be young folk, but I do not know who they were, for they all wore masks, and since they came from every direction, I had great difficulty in remaining concealed and I began to be afraid. Now I could see that the man in the red robe also wore a mask and, together with the woman called Jacquetta, he seemed to be in charge of whatever was being done that night.
Now, it was very strange, the King took a run at one of the fires and jumped over it. Then it seemed that Elizabeth was urged by Jacquetta de St Pol to jump over the other fire. At first she did not want to, though it was only a little fire, but eventually she gathered up her skirts and did leap over it. Then, while the King looked, she was brought before the man in the red robe. He opened his robe… After that I do not know what happened, for at this point the old woman… Jacquetta de St Pol pointed in my direction. I do not know how she could have seen me at that distance in the dark and perhaps she had not, but I was not going to take any chances and I started running in the direction where I thought that I had left my horse. There was rustling and animal sounds all around and I was horridly afraid and I wished that I had not seen anything, for the least of it I thought would be that I should have my eyes poked out. But all was well, for I found my horse and made my escape.
The following morning I reported all that I had seen to the Earl, and when he had heard me out, he summoned his chaplain and had me repeat to him everything that I had just said. The chaplain said that it was not for me to know all that he guessed about what I had seen, for this was a dangerous knowledge, but he would explain a little of what I had witnessed. He told me that yesterday evening had been Beltane. This meant nothing to me for we do not have Beltane in France, but he explained to me that, before the coming of the True Faith, the evening used to be sacred to a pagan deity called Bel. What I had seen was a blasphemous revival of an ancient form of demon worship in which the King and his woman leapt over fire in order to purify themselves according to the pagan way, before the woman I had seen could become the King’s whore and the bed-slave of Satan. Later Warwick told me to keep quiet about what I had seen, for it would be dangerous to repeat it in the presence of any of the Queen’s friends. But I have heard that the Queen is arrogant and already very rich and I guess there would be none of her friends in such a tavern as this.’
‘Ah well, I have lost my bet,’ says Anthony and he shrugs, but he and Raker profess themselves to have been well entertained. Are there any more stories? But first there must be more wine. Anthony whispers to Raker who looks puzzled. The jug of wine arrives and Phebus’ cup is filled and Anthony now wagers that Phebus cannot empty that cup if Raker pours it from high above directly into Phebus’ mouth. Now Anthony, saying that he wants better to see the fun and make sure that the wager is fairly conducted, sits on the bench facing Phebus. As Raker begins to tip the cup Phebus looks up so that the wine falls into his mouth, but an instant later Anthony jogs Raker’s hand in such a way that wine splashes into Phebus’ eyes and then Anthony drives the knife edge of his hand into the man’s throat. Though the windpipe is severed and Phebus dies instantly, Anthony goes through the motions of thumping him on the back, declaring loudly that a piece of cake must have gone down the wrong way. He is slow to concede that the man must be dead.
There were friends of Phebus in the tavern, yet no one challenges Anthony and Raker as they leave. Raker’s reputation as a fighter is well-known and although Anthony has not been recognised, it is clear to those who were watching that he too must be a lethal fighter.
Raker is delighted to have seen his employer kill a man – and a Frenchman too! Though his smiling is like the rictus of a man in great pain. But soon his customary gloom returns. Will they not be arrested for murder? And, if not that, will not the Earl of Warwick seek bloody revenge for the killing of his man?
They are not far short of the tiltyard before Anthony replies, ‘I am the King’s brother-in-law. Warwick cannot touch me. Besides the man was slandering the King and his Queen and I have delivered him justice. The man got off lightly with an easy death. Edward would have dealt more harshly with him.’
Though Anthony sounds blithe, in reality he is gloomy too. For is it possible that Phebus was telling the truth and that he did see what he said he saw? Then he asks himself why Phebus was so ready with his story if Warwick had told him not to tell it? And if Warwick brings the murder of his servant before the King, will Anthony’s account be believed? Then he tells himself that he is not afraid of Warwick.
The following morning Anthony has a meeting that is unexpected and somewhat strange. He is riding away from the Woodville townhouse, when a man in a broad-brimmed hat boldly plants himself in front of Black Saladin and seizes the horse’s bridle. Looking down, Anthony sees that under the shadow of the hat the man is Sir Thomas Malory.
‘So! They have let you out of prison again, have they?’
Then he bends to hear what Malory has to say for himself.
‘My lord, I am come with a message from the Earl of Warwick. I must speak privately with you.’
Anthony is doubtful, fearing a trap, but eventually they settle upon the deserted graveyard of the Church of St John Zachary where they can walk and talk without being overheard.
‘My lord, the Earl’s message is simple,’ says Malory. ‘It is only this, that he wishes that there was peace between you and him.’
Anthony shrugs dismissively, but Malory continues, ‘He will stay his hand against you and your sister, if you will swear to do him and those who serve him no injury.’
‘Why should I believe you or trust the Earl?’ asks Anthony.
Now it is Malory’s turn to shrug.
‘Well, I have delivered my message,’ he says. ‘The Earl is an honourable man. As for me…’ Malory pauses and reflects and then he grins broadly. (It is a horrible grin.) ‘As for me, it strikes me that now we two are brothers of a kind.’
Anthony protests, ‘I am no brother of yours!’
Malory’s response is cheerful, yet malevolent, ‘Oh, but you are, for we are both murderers. I am sure that you think of yourself as the hero of your story, and perhaps you are, but you are also its villain. Now that you have murdered a man just for gossiping, you are certainly a villain and I think that you may become like me, a writer of romances. Or perhaps a poet. Stories are full of grief, danger and evil. In order for a man to write a good story or poem he must have experienced evil. He must know evil intimately. My hero is François Villon.’
And now Malory recites:
Dites moi où, en quel pays
Est Flora la belle Romaine,
Archipiades, ne Thaȉs,
Qui fut sa cousine germaine,
Echo, parlant quant bruit on maine
Dessus riviere ou sus estan,
Qui beauté eut trop plus qu’humaine
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?
Then Malory translates and abridges, ‘Tell me where, or in what country is Flora, the beauti
ful Roman girl, or Archipiades, or Thais, or Echo who had more than human beauty. But where are the snows of yesteryear?’ Malory looks sad. ‘That is one of Villon’s verses. I heard they captured him at Uzès a few years’ back and hung him in the town square. But before that he was in prison many times. He started out by stabbing a priest to death. A little later he masterminded the theft of 500 crowns from the Chapel of the Collège de Navarre and thereafter he went on to commit many assaults and robberies and write much beautiful poetry. He has been my hero and my villain – as you are.’
At last Malory recollects what he should be doing and asks, ‘What message should I take back to the Earl?’
‘I am my own man. I owe the Earl nothing and will promise him nothing.’
Malory nods and walks out of the graveyard.
Two days later Anthony is at the tiltyard running courses with his customary jousting opponent Sir John Paston. John, like Anthony, is in his twenties, and like Anthony is determined to become a champion jouster. But John is determined to be so many things, for he desires also to be a man of great learning, a favourite at court and the lover of many women. It is proving expensive to have so many ambitions. After they have run their first course, Anthony becomes aware of a stirring in the tiltyard. Two richly apparelled figures stand at its gate looking on as Anthony and John check their armour and prepare to run against each other again. Anthony briefly unstraps his helmet to see better. Their jousting is being watched by Hastings and Tiptoft. Anthony gestures to them, signalling his readiness to dismount, but Raker shakes his head.
As Lord High Constable, Tiptoft holds the life of every man in the Kingdom in his hands. Sometimes he is merciful and an offender may get off with having his hand or his ears lopped off. The less fortunate are hanged until they lose consciousness before they are cut down and while still living, castrated, disembowelled and then, after the heads have been cut off, the torsos are impaled and displayed on stakes. Londoners are used to seeing heads on spikes, but they hold that the impalement of bodies is a cruel innovation imported from Italy by this man, ‘The Butcher of England.’ But still, such punishments are not for the nobility and Anthony can take some little comfort from the fact that his rank would surely guarantee him a beheading. But then he checks himself. He is sure that he is safe, for he is the Queen’s brother and besides he and Tiptoft have had so many friendly discussions about books and about swordplay in the Italian manner. Yet he has just seen an unsmiling Tiptoft gazing critically upon him, before turning to talk to Raker. Though it is hard to concentrate on the jousting, Anthony breaks fourteen lances and unhorses John twice before they agree to call it a day. But by then the two lords have disappeared and Raker is nowhere to be seen. John is also worried, but that is only because the great lords have seen him fall from his horse twice.
