by Robert Irwin
Edward does not reply immediately, but sits brooding. Then he brightens up.
‘We shall go hunting again, you and I, and we will take along Hastings and we shall go on a quest for your garden… We shall all wear disguises! So I can throw off kingship for a while. There may be mystery and danger and perhaps I shall find out what my subjects really think of me. We will keep this secret from my wife and my wretched brothers.’
Edward finds Clarence too wild and unpredictable, while Richard, on the other hand, is somewhat solemn and pious, though he is hardworking and has taken on many of the administrative chores. Edward says that from henceforth he will rely increasingly on Anthony and Hastings (though Elizabeth has been nagging Edward, telling him that Hastings is a bad influence).
Only once the royal audience is over does Anthony have time to think again of Beth, and as he does so, it feels that there are a host of other dead who also clamour to be thought of: his father and his mother, Sir Andrew Trollope, the Earl of Wiltshire, Sir Thomas Malory, the Duke of Somerset, the Earl of Warwick, King Henry and his son, the Talking Head, the Earl of Pembroke, Scoggin, Fauconberg and countless knights and squires in a score of battles… And it is while he sits and tries to count them all that his steward brings him news that Raker has died.
Then Anthony thinks of the Museum of Skulls and how Tiptoft used to arrange the skulls and then rearrange them according to their crimes, their lineages and their dates of execution, but also according to the shapes of their skulls, their astrological death signs and the degree of their friendship with or hostility to Tiptoft. It was as if they were books that he was shelving in his mad library. He devoted himself to memorialising the dead. ‘The dead long to be remembered. That is why there are ghosts.’
Tiptoft had told him the story of Simonides of Ceos, as it is related in Cicero’s De Oratore: Simonides had been engaged to recite verses in praise of Scopas at a feast given by that man at Crannon in Thessaly. When Simonides had finished the recitation, Scopas told him that he was not satisfied with the recitation and that he was only going to give him half the stipulated sum of money. A little later Simonides was called to the door to receive a message. Then, very shortly after he had left the hall, it collapsed crushing Scopas and all his guests to death and burying them in the ruins. When relatives and friends clawed through the ruins, they found that the remains were so mangled that identification of the corpses was impossible. But Simonides had such a precise memory of where everyone had sat that he was able to identify them all, so that each of the dead could be appropriately buried. So then he realised that in order to remember things one should set aside a section of the mind in order to provide a special location reserved for every single person or thing one wished to remember. Thus the order of spaces would preserve the order of ideas. Tiptoft said that this artificially constructed and ordered region of the mind was called a memory theatre and that it was now fashionable among Italian scholars and orators.
Anthony thinks that he may build a memory theatre where he will walk among the dead in their niches and commune with them. Black Saladin shall have a place of honour. Perhaps he should also put Ripley in one of the niches? For nobody knows what has become of him and it may be that he is dead too. There is a great store of sesame oil guarded in the Tower, since Ripley had planned to create a second Talking Head, but it now seems unlikely that the oil will ever be used for this.
Two evenings later Anthony sits brooding, almost dozing, over the Abbot of Crowland’s latest letter:
‘My Lord, I do confess myself to be in some perturbation of spirit, since having spent so much of my life in questing after doubtful information concerning such marvellous and gigantic creatures as the dragons and giants of pre-Israelite times, I now wonder that I did so and presently consider even such majestic and colossal beasts as the elephant and dromedary to be vulgar curiosities and I have brought myself at last to see that the true marvels of this world are visible, under our feet and may be lifted up into our pockets and taken into our houses, for where is the man who will not be amazed after close consideration, of the Creator’s ingenious fashioning of the bee, the gnat, the centipede and the ant? Consider the patient civility of the fly and that insect’s tiny engine which allows it to soar freely above the ground and reach heights to which men, dromedaries and elephants may never aspire. Consider also the industrious commonwealths of the bees and ants, their amiable sociability and their perfectly conceived architecture. Truly the greatest things are hidden in little…’
Anthony is relieved to be rescued from this lecture by his steward who reports that there are two suspicious-looking men waiting for him in the courtyard. Anthony goes out and discovers that the two characters of unsavoury appearance are Edward and Hastings. They are gaudily dressed in costumes with bright patches and they carry sacks on their backs. They will not tell Anthony what they are disguised as, though they are obviously delighted with their secret identities. Anthony hastily dons his costume. He dresses as a pedlar and has a tray of ribbons suspended from his neck. Then they all set off in the direction of Cheapside where the search for the enchanted garden can begin. They try one side street after another. Anthony is sure that they are close to the place and that they must have passed it several times over, but no gate is open and he does not hear the laughter of women. Though nobody wants to buy Anthony’s ribbons, the gaudy costumes of Edward and Hastings attract many curious looks from passers-by, and even if Edward was not so strangely costumed, his stature would command attention, for he is six feet three inches tall. Only slowly does Anthony become aware that Edward and Hastings are not so very interested in this particular garden. What they have set out on is a search for wenches. Anthony has unwittingly become an accomplice in the betrayal of his sister.
Of course he should withdraw from this mad enterprise. His double has already produced a long enough list of his crimes and sins. But then it occurs to him that his double was in no position to preach to him, for what did his double know of the real world? Unlike Anthony, his double had never fought in a battle, for Ripley did not have enough knowledge of warfare to invent a battle. Yet the evening is still a waste of time and Anthony does not want it to end with him sharing a whore with Edward and Hastings. He is about to make his excuses to Edward and tell him that he is going home, when he becomes aware that they have been approached by a young woman. If she is a whore, she is a very successful one, for she is richly dressed in a brocaded robe. She stands in front of Edward and Hastings and looks them up and down.
‘Stop sirs. I have been sent out to look for men who have stories to tell. You two look as though you will serve. Will you come with me and spend an evening with us and tell us a story? We shall make it worth your while.’
This is just the strange sort of adventure that Edward had been hoping for and he instantly agrees, adding that he and his companion carry a story in their sacks. The three of them will follow where she leads.
‘No, just you two. We do not want the pedlar. He does not look interesting.’
But Edward insists that the pedlar is his very good friend and must come with them. So then she looks at Anthony more closely and Anthony, suspicious of this woman, gazes back at her and is lost. She is a full-breasted, strawberry blonde with deep blue eyes to drown in, eyes that glow in the fading light, eyes that promise an infinity of mysterious pleasures.
Then, seeing how he gazes back at her, she laughs and says that he may come too and she gestures for them to follow her.
Suddenly Hastings has cold feet. He pulls at Edward’s sleeve and whispers, ‘Be careful my… This may be a trap.’
But she hears him and turns back and says, ‘Of course it is a trap. It is a mantrap!’And she smiles. It is a wonderful smile.
She leads them back to Cheapside and then on to another street running northwards. She is so beautiful that Anthony does not care whether there is a trap or not. They come to a strange house. It is a tall pillared building, whose door has two ebony leaves,
plated with what appears to be red gold. Anthony has never seen anything like it before. As they stand at the door, they can just hear from within the melancholy sound of a flute that seems to lament all the beauty of the world that is perishable. The young woman knocks and the door opens and Anthony looks at the woman who has opened it. She is very tall, almost as tall as Edward. She has flowing brown hair and is dressed in black satin. Anthony thinks that he has seen her before though he cannot think where. He also thinks that she seems to recognise him and Edward, though she says nothing.
Looking past her, Anthony sees that this is the place that he has dreamt of. The courtyard of the Woodville townhouse is cobbled and used for the saddling and unsaddling of horses, the reception of deliveries, the sawing and chopping of wood and suchlike useful things. But here the courtyard, which is large, has been turned into a garden and banks of flowers surround a pool on which a small boat floats. This garden is enclosed within a series of vaulted chambers and alcoves, within which are cushions and above which are birds in cages.
‘Is Jane here yet?’ the young woman asks of the guardian at the gate, who shakes her head.
‘Then we are not ready yet and you must wait.’ And she gestures that they should sit. It is a long wait and torches are brought out to supplement the light of the rising moon. After a while, the young woman, who is restless, signals to the guardian at the gate who picks up a flute and then the young woman begins to sing a plaintive song in an eerily high voice:
‘Lully, lulley; lully lulley;
The falcon has borne my love away.
He bore him up, he bore him down;
He bore him into an orchard brown.
In the orchard there was a hall,
That was hanged with purple and pall.
And in that hall there was a bed;
It was hanged with gold so red.
And in that bed there was a knight,
His wounds bleeding day and night.
By that bedside there kneels a maid,
And she weeps both night and day.
And by that bedside there stands a stone,
“Corpus Christi” written thereon.’
After that there is silence. At length another woman who must be Jane enters the courtyard. She has a man with her. It is difficult to see much of his face under a broad-brimmed hat, but he has long dark hair and a black beard and he is dressed like a gentleman in a long black leather coat.
‘He is the best that I could find,’ she says apologetically. Then to the men who are already there she says that she is called Jane. The strawberry blonde says she is Mary. Finally the lady who had been guarding the gate speaks, ‘I am known as Dame Discipline de la Chevalerie.’
Though Edward and Hastings are amused by the lady’s self-description, Anthony is suddenly cold with fear.
‘Oh God, now we are lost,’ he mutters to himself and Edward looks puzzled.
An encounter with yet another of Ripley’s inventions bodes no good. Besides, Anthony is sure that he has seen this woman quite recently, but where?
Edward claims to be ‘George’, Hastings is ‘Hugo’ and Anthony is ‘Poins’. The man who came in with Jane says that he is called John. He looks puzzled to be here, as well he might. Now Jane fetches wine and when everyone is served, Mary turns to ‘George’ and ‘Hugo’ and says that she wants one of them to tell the company a story. But Edward replies that he and his associate will tell a story together, for they are puppeteers and four hands will be needed to work all the figures in the story. Then he and Hastings produce their puppets from sacks, also a cloth screen, and they set their show up in one of the alcoves.
The cow Milky White has stopped giving milk. So Jack’s mother sends Jack to town with the cow to sell it for a good price if he can. Jack and the cow lollop across the front of the alcove and promptly collide with one another and then the strings get tangled up. Though Edward and Hastings have evidently been rehearsing, they are still not skilled puppeteers and besides they are a little drunk. But their incompetent fumbling produces laughter rather than scorn. When at last Hastings has got the cow to sit, Edward brings on a crafty fellow who persuades Jack to exchange his cow for a handful of beans. Jack returns home to show his mother what he has got and his mother tells him that he is a fool. But no sooner has a bean fallen to the ground than a beanstalk shoots up, hitting Jack on the nose as it ascends. Jack’s climb is managed with difficulty and on the top leaf of the beanstalk the profile of a castle is unfolded. There Jack encounters a woman, who will turn out to be the giant’s wife and she hides Jack. Now Hastings produces a giant puppet, over two feet high, and he intones the words:
‘Fee, foh, fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.’
The giant puppet crashes about, but of course fails to find Jack, who escapes with a goose that lays golden eggs. Roughly the same thing happens twice more as the giant’s wife helps Jack steal a sum of money and then a magic harp. But on the third occasion the harp yells out to the giant that it is being stolen. The giant comes after Jack but he cuts down the beanstalk and beheads the giant. (Edward and Hastings are incapable of managing this last scene and it has to happen offstage.) So the story ends with Jack as lord of the giant’s castle which has tumbled down to earth. Jane, who has been giggling throughout, goes to sit with Edward and Hastings and soon she is petting both of them.
John is the only one who is not at all amused.
‘What was the point of this childish story?’ he wants to know.
‘It is a parable,’ says Hastings. ‘And it celebrates the triumph of youth against hoary age and it shows how a young man may climb socially to become a great lord.’
And Edward says, ‘It is something to marvel at and it takes us back to our childhood, a blessed time. I could not endure a world without magic.’
Anthony says nothing, but he had been hoping that the giant would get Jack. Anthony is in his thirties and he is not inclined to support youth against age. The giant in the castle must be an aristocrat, whereas Jack is a nobody. On the other hand, it must be true that the giant who likes to eat Englishmen would be a foreigner. But no, the giant should be supported, for besides being a jumped-up peasant, Jack is a thief and finally a murderer and Anthony guesses that he must have been an adulterer too. Otherwise the giant’s wife would not have been so helpful. He has been watching a tragedy.
Now it is Anthony’s turn, and since it seems appropriate for someone disguised as a pedlar, he chooses to tell the story of the Pedlar of Swaffham. When Anthony has finished, John seems once again discontented, but he says that he will bide his time. Then Edward challenges the ladies to tell a story.
So Mary tells a story from Arthurian times. She had it from her father who had it from a certain French book. So once again Anthony hears how Arthur and his knights were seated at a Pentecostal feast when a white hart pursued by hounds entered the hall and a bratchet bit the hart on the buttock, whereupon the hart leapt over a table and knocked over a knight. When the knight was on his feet again, he seized the bratchet and disappeared from the hall. Then a lady rode into the hall and demanded the return of her bratchet, but before she could receive any response an unknown knight came riding in after her and abducted her. Then on Merlin’s advice Arthur sent Sir Gawain after the white hart, King Pellinore after the knight who abducted the lady and Sir Tor, who was King Pellinore’s son, after the knight who stole away with the bratchet. It is the adventure of Sir Tor that Mary will tell.
So while Gawain and Pellinore took their ways, Sir Tor rode out on another track. He had not gone far before a dwarf stepped out onto the track and struck his horse such a blow on the head that it made the horse stagger.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Sir Tor.
‘Because all who ride this way must first joust with the knights in yonder pavilions.’
And Tor saw that there were two pavilions ah
ead of him, each with a shield hanging from a tree beside it and a lance leaning beside each shield.
‘I have no time for this,’ said Sir Tor. ‘I may not tarry, for I am on a quest and I may not delay.’
‘You are not going to pass,’ said the dwarf and he blew upon a horn whereupon a knight emerged from one of the pavilions, leapt on his horse and grabbed his lance and shield and then bore down on Sir Tor, who scarcely had time to couch his lance. Nevertheless his lance hit the centre of the knight’s shield and sent the knight flying over the horse’s crupper. Then he dealt with a second knight in the same manner. He told the two knights that they must go and present themselves to Arthur as his prisoners.
Seeing how the recreant knights whom he had served had been so easily overthrown, the dwarf felt nothing but contempt for them and asked if he could become Sir Tor’s servant instead. Sir Tor agreed and explained that he was on a quest for a knight who had stolen away with a white bratchet, whereupon the dwarf said that he could lead Sir Tor to that knight.
Then the dwarf led Sir Tor through the forest until they came to a Priory in front of which there were two pavilions. A red shield hung outside one of the pavilions and a white shield outside the other. Sir Tor dismounted and crept up to one of the pavilions and looked inside and saw three damsels asleep on rich couches. Then he looked in the second pavilion and saw a lady who was also asleep and beside her was the white bratchet. But the bratchet started up such a fierce barking that the lady awoke.
