‘They’re alive?“ Alice had demanded at the man.
‘They’re alive, my lady. They’re free.“
Alice had waved him away. Not until he was gone did she say with the same cold rage that Frevisse felt, “Damn Suffolk. Damn him.”
Frevisse and Sister Amicia had left within the hour, removing to St. Helen’s nunnery because, Frevisse told her, they would be better out of the way with so much happening in Suffolk’s household. Sister Amicia had been enjoying all that was happening but been too happy at going into London to question it; but it meant Frevisse had had to leave without knowing whether Arteys was safely away to York or not, and so Alice was come this evening to tell her, it not being a message to trust to anyone else now Joliffe was gone.
Knowing all else was well, Frevisse asked, half wanting not to, “How is it with Suffolk?”
‘I saw him only briefly before he was away to Greenwich and the king. He looks to be keeping a good face to the world, but when there was only me to see it, he was raging.“
‘At you?“
‘No. At the crowd. At all of London. He actually thought…“ Alice faltered, then started over, holding out her right hand, palm upward. ”On the one hand, he really thought the crowd would believe Gloucester’s men were traitors and hate them for it.“ She held out her other hand, as if making the other side of a balance scale. ”On the other hand, he thought the crowd—stinking-bodied idiots, he calls them—would see him as a hero for bringing out the men’s pardons at the last possible of moments.“ She dropped her hands. ”He’s furious that London was on the men’s side instead of believing him. He’s furious at the men for being alive when he wanted them dead. He’s furious at the crowd for being mad at him for waiting so long to give the pardons. Everything wrong is everybody else’s fault.“
‘And mine,“ Frevisse said ruefully.
‘Oh, his fury at you is all but lost under his fury at everyone else. He doesn’t see what he tried to do was murder. He doesn’t see… anything.“ Even the soft glow of lamplight, kind with shadows, could not gentle the pain in Alice’s face. ”Frevisse, I swear he wasn’t like this when I married him. It’s a thing that’s grown on him with time. With the power that’s come to him. It’s as if what I best loved in him has shriveled while his ambition grew. It’s as if…“ Alice turned away, pressing her hands to the sides of her face as if to hold in the force of her grief. ”It’s as if his ambition is the most real thing in the world to him. Everything else barely matters, is hardly real.“ She turned around. ”Is that possible? Can it really be like that for him?“
Frevisse tried to find words that would not hurt. That she could not, could only shake her head in helpless silence, was answer enough.
Alice drew a deep breath, put her grief out of sight again, and said, “Well. Things are as they are and we must do what we must do, as Father used to say. Do you need anything? Will you want to go back to St. Frideswide’s soon?”
‘We’ll stay a few days. For Sister Amicia’s sake and while I purchase things from Domina Elisabeth’s list. Will his grace allow you to give us escort back when the time comes?“
‘I’ll pay for that out of my own accounts. If he even thinks of it, it’s not his concern. I’ll pay your guest gift to St. Helen’s, too, and something to St. Frideswide’s.“
Frevisse said quickly, “Alice, there’s no need. I came because I wanted to, needed to.”
‘But the need came because of my husband.“
And if he could neither see his fault nor make recompense for it, then Alice would, if only to mitigate her own pain, Frevisse saw, and she accepted all Alice wanted to give with a small bow of her head.
But, “There’s something else,” Alice said. “Suffolk has sworn you’re never to come near us or ours again. He’s ordered that I should never have aught to do with you anymore. I…” She gestured helplessly. “I don’t know what to do.”
Frevisse took hold of her hand. “Give him that much, for now at least. It doesn’t matter.”
‘It does matter. It—“
‘It’s no more, on your side and mine, than a well-timed retreat.“ Frevisse smiled. ”Like Joliffe’s.“
Half-unwillingly, Alice smiled back—a faint smile that faded as she said, “But the things you had to say. The lies about yourself. If anyone asks Suffolk for it, your reputation is gone.”
Frevisse, smiling more, said lightly, “Do you know, I find I don’t greatly care.”
Nor did she. Not so long as, in her mind’s eye, she could see Arteys riding away, alive and free under the summer sky.
Author’s Note
A Parliament and the downfall of Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, did take place in Bury St. Edmunds in February 1447. Contemporary chronicles have, as usual, slightly differing versions of the exact course of events, and choices between versions were sometimes necessary but nothing was altered for convenience’s sake. The Bastard’s Tale is built around what is known, rather than what is known being altered to fit the story.
At the time, those who had Gloucester under arrest claimed his death was from natural causes. That it was murder was the widespread belief among everyone else. Nothing can be proved at this remove in time but I wish to thank Dr. Carol Manning for her consideration of what few medical details are available.
Mention of Arteys, bastard son of the duke of Gloucester, is scant in the records. He steps into history only at his father’s death and disappears from it off the scaffold at Tyburn. As Kenneth H. Vickers says in the biography Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, “One wonders what was [his] subsequent life?” But as Rudyard Kipling might say, that’s another story. Recent historians sometimes corrupt his name to “Arthur” but he was condemned to death under the name “Arteys de Curteys” so Arteys he is in the story.
Events in London and at Tyburn, including the marquis (formerly earl, later duke) of Suffolk’s part in them, are taken directly from the chronicles. Tyburn, a place of executions for hundreds of years, isn’t to be found on a map of modern London, but Tyburn Way by Marble Arch is approximately there, though the plaque commemorating the site tends to move around the area.
Reynold Pecock, bishop of St. Asaph’s and later bishop of Chichester, is historical, as is his sermon at St. Paul’s that made him unavailable for the end of this story. It was only one of his many clashes with authority that eventually led to his trial for heresy. He was a profound scholar and prolific writer who believed it was better to convert heretics by reason rather than burning, and I owe great thanks to Stephen E. Lahey of LeMoyne College and Brent Moberley of Indiana University for rousing my interest in him, and to Dr. Lahey and Dr. Kate Forhan for the chance to present a paper on him at Siena College’s Convivium in October 2000. There are various scholarly studies of his life and work, and some of his writings in Middle English are available.
Of the great abbey at Bury St. Edmunds almost nothing remains, and of St. Saviour’s hospital even less, but there are numerous books and studies, and the town of Bury St. Edmunds and the lovely park around the broken remains of the abbey are well worth a visit. For more specific details about St. Saviour’s see “The Medieval Hospitals of Bury St. Edmunds,” by Joy Rowe, in Medical History, vol. 2 (1958).
The Play of Wisdom, edited by Milla Cozart Riggio, was my source of the elaborate play performed for the king, though what appears in the book should be considered an Ur-version of it, and the translations into modern English are my own. Particular admiration is due Gail McMurray Gibson, whose The Theater of Devotion and other work on East Anglian theater inspired me to create Master Wilde’s company. Master Wilde and his players are imagined, but about forty years earlier a Master Wilde and his company were active in the vicinity.
Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy was a best-seller throughout Christendom for over a thousand years and is still available in a number of translations. Geoffrey Chaucer’s Boece has not fared quite so well, popularly speaking. Again, the translations from it are mine.
Some apology is owed to scholars and fans of John Lydgate’s works. My opinion (and Frevisse’s) of his writings is purely personal. Most of his works are readily available in university libraries and his masque mentioned here was lately published as Lydgate’s Disguising at Hertford Castle in a translation and study by Derek Forbes.
And again, and inadequately, my great, great thanks and appreciation to Sarah J. Mason and Bill Welland for photos, footwork, books, and a grand friendship.
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