He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘And Lord Stanley?’ he interjected eventually.

  Invention failed the innkeeper at this point and he admitted that it was uncertain whether Lord Stanley had taken part in the battle. This, Morton thought, was not surprising since Stanley was subject to chronic uncertainty on such occasions. But whether he had fought or no, he was not one to seek glory on the field of battle and Morton had few qualms for his safety: it was with the fate of King Henry that he was concerned. The innkeeper now discovered that he had much business to attend to and suggested that Morton should pay a visit to the priest. ‘He knows everything there is to know.’ The recommendation was made with such evident dislike that Morton approached the priest’s dwelling anticipating a storyteller as loquacious as the innkeeper but less likable.

  The door opened so quickly that Morton guessed the priest had observed his approach. Morton saw a man some ten years younger than himself, perhaps still in his twenties. Before he could introduce himself, the priest said, ‘I recognized you.’ Morton looked at him closely. He was very thin and his face was remarkably ugly, the eyes not aligned, the nose bent to one side and the full mouth purple with sores. In spite of its repulsive appearance, there was, however, an arrogance about the face, and an unmistakable intelligence in the eyes, which made it possible to accept the next statement. ‘I heard you discussing Wyclif’s De Domino Divine when I was studying at Oxford.’

  As soon as they were seated, the priest began to talk about Wyclif with more enthusiasm than discretion. He ranted about the corruption of the monks and said that if, a hundred years ago, Wyclif could speak of the monastic life as ‘the religion of fat cows’, what would he say now? Such talk was well enough at Oxford where it was understood that half of what was said was not meant, but elsewhere one ran the risk of being taken seriously. ‘Perhaps Wyclif would be taken aback at the way some of his ideas have been misrepresented by ignorant people?’ Morton said gently. ‘Were there not three Lollards burnt at the stake in this very district last year?’ The priest had the wit to look uneasy.

  This would have been the moment for Morton to plead the urgency of his mission and ask for news of the battle. But his curiosity was aroused and, obeying his intuition, he encouraged the man to talk about himself. So it was that after an hour he was still sitting in the dingy room that smelt of damp and the priest’s bad breath. The wind was up; he could see it thrashing the branches of a pear tree and blowing straw across the yard of the inn where his horse was tethered. He said, ‘And so you came to Foxlow?’ He was by now aware that this man, like himself, was not of noble birth, being the son of an Oxford squire. Such men need a few favours from fortune if they are to rise in the world, and the priest, it seemed, had been ill-used by fortune; but could he really have been the subject of so much envy, spite and wilful neglect as he made out?

  ‘Why do you think your gifts have been so ill-rewarded?’ Morton asked him.

  ‘There is no respect for learning today. People are so doltish that even Abelard could not strike a spark from their dull wits.’

  How little his flock must love this shepherd, Morton thought. Aloud, he said, ‘I doubt that in any age men have succeeded who had no wish to please. As for Abelard, perhaps time lends a certain enchantment. He and the men who surrounded him spent their time arguing among themselves. Their discourses profit us little today.’

  ‘Because we question nothing and so we believe nothing!’ The priest had worked himself into a genuine passion. ‘The priests mumble things they barely understand while men of noble birth talk and laugh at mass, even during the elevation.’

  ‘Were they so much more serious in Abelard’s time?’ Morton asked drily. ‘Even then, there may have been those who thought twice before putting their beliefs to the test, who shrank from giving their bodies to be burnt.’

  The priest clasped his bony hands and a flush spread over his cheeks. He said in a low voice, ‘You are right to rebuke me. I have ventured nothing.’ He bowed his head.

  A bitter, disappointed man, Morton thought, but one in whom conscience will always be stronger than ambition. Such men, if properly handled, can give useful service. Morton said, ‘With the views you hold, you must surely be strong for King Henry, whose piety must commend him to you.’

  Christopher Ormond looked down at his bony knuckles. His own interests would best be served by a Yorkist victory: he knew a man who had favours to expect of Richard, Duke of York, and who, in turn, owed a favour or two to Christopher Ormond. Had he said as much at this moment, Dr Morton might have passed out of his life. But Christopher Ormond disdained favours; he considered that his intellectual superiority should commend itself without any effort on his part. He said scornfully, ‘I am no Yorkist.’

  ‘And neither am I.’ Morton smiled; he was at his most dangerous when cheerful. ‘The King, as we all know, is not in the best of health; but Queen Margaret is a woman of such quality that nowhere is there her equal today.’ He went on to praise Queen Margaret for her courage, intelligence and statesmanship, imagining that Ormond would need persuasion to take note of any woman. In this he was mistaken. Women paid as little attention to Christopher Ormond as to one of the gargoyles beneath his church roof, but he was as ardent for love as any handsome gallant. It was not, however, for their courage or intelligence that he desired women, and so he listened unmoved as Dr Morton talked of Queen Margaret as though she were a man.

  ‘I have the honour to serve those who serve Queen Margaret.’ Morton was, at every stage of his career, aware of his position, its limits and strengths, and he never made the mistake of assuming authority that was not his. Ormond saw before him a man who understood power even if he did not yet possess it. He was impressed, and as a gesture of respect to Dr Morton, he declared himself to be strong for Queen Margaret.

  Morton, well-satisfied, recollected his mission and said that he must depart without delay. Ormond, who was reluctant to part from this chance-met stranger, offered hospitality for the night; he looked at his guest hopefully, while fighting back a feeling of panic when he recollected how little food was available, and most of it bad. Morton declined, but on the threshold he hesitated, the wind stirring his cloak. ‘I wonder . . . I have greatly enjoyed our discussion. It is important to me to be well-informed, and to this end I have sought out people like yourself—men of undoubted ability whose veracity and discretion can be relied on—to send reports to me; in other words, to be my eyes and ears, and my nose as well, since I like to know not only what has happened but what is in the wind.’

  ‘To what purpose should I report to you?’ Ormond asked; then, as even to his ears this sounded churlish, he added, ‘I ask in order to ensure that I may be of service to you.’

  ‘I am writing a history of the times,’ Morton said. ‘And history is the story of man and his actions, is it not? So it is men and their actions which interest me primarily. If, at any time, there should be a particular issue which concerns me, I would communicate it to you.’

  They talked for a few minutes and Morton told Ormond where to send his reports. It was only when Morton finally turned to leave that Ormond said, ‘One thing I can tell you now. It is reported, by one who is usually reliable, that King Henry was surprised in his tent by Yorkist soldiers; and that the Earl of Warwick is escorting him to London, more in the manner of a prisoner than a king.’

  Ormond watched Morton as he walked across the street to the inn. The sun had come out, but the wind was keen and smelt of rain. It was only when he turned into his house that he noticed the faint smell of burning. He went from room to room but found nothing to explain it. He must have gone to sleep puzzling about it, because he woke early in the morning recollecting an incident in his childhood.

  When he was six he had spent a year with relatives near Kirkby Mallory. The dull monotony of their lives had irked him; but in the autumn there was an unexpected diversion. Each morning he asked, ‘Is it today they are burning the priest? Why are they burning him?’

  ‘Beca
use he is a Lollard.’

  When the great day came he was forbidden to go out because he was too young for such sights. He watched men pass the house carrying faggots and ran to tell his aunt, ‘I must go! I have to go!’

  ‘Must! Have!’ she laughed.

  ‘What is a Lollard?’ he asked. ‘Why is he a Lollard?’

  She did not answer him. Later, when she was not looking, he ran into the orchard, meaning to make his way into the town. But he took a path through a meadow and here he came across a rusty knife, an old coin, and a buckle from a man’s shoe; he ran on, imagining himself a knight searching for treasure and came eventually to the river. The river ran fast, tumbling over boulders and he lay on his stomach and watched the trophies of the river borne by, a sack, a log like a monster with great branched head, a shirt wrested from some careless washerwoman, and a dead cat. He found a stick and made an oar of it and for a time he was a sailor venturing on an enchanted sea. Later, when he saw deer on the opposite bank, he became a hunter.

  The moon was up by the time the truant came back through the meadow. As he carpe nearer the town, he noticed a smell of burning in the air and he imagined himself a tinker crouched over his fire as night fell. It had been a happy day.

  2

  The land had been long untended and violence flourished as the weeds grow in fields untended by the plough; there was no pattern in it and no one could tell how this state of affairs had come about or why. But the violence of December, 1460, was part of a deliberate design. Down the long line of the northern uplands, over moors where the red deer roamed, in dales cut deep into the hills and blocked on either side by impenetrable forests, little communication with the outside world was possible. There was only the one high road, bleak and often impassable in winter, and at the most three lower roads of varying serviceability. Isolation was a part of the lives of the people. But now they were vouchsafed some sense of belonging to a wider community. For there was a thread which linked hamlet to hamlet, village to village, and told a story of a kind. And there were signs which assured villagers still unconnected that they, too, would become a part of the design: it might be no more than a spiral of smoke against the dark winter sky, or, if they were fortunate, longer notice might be given by men in flight who had actually seen the flames and more besides. But some places, deep in narrow dales or sleeping in the hollow of a hill, had no warning.

  In one such place, the wind, stirring amid the ashes, ruffled through piles of smoking cloth to the bone beneath; it surged lonely down the rough track which led to the manor house and found some resistance here for the walls were standing although the roof had gone. Beyond the manor, the church stood entire still, and in somewhat better condition than it had been heretofore since frantic hands had torn away the brambles thick around the porch. In the effort to gain sanctuary, the church had been better attended than at any time since its last incumbent left many years ago. But it had been to no purpose. The wind pushed at the door but met a resistance stronger than rust; blood had trickled beneath the door and collected on the one step, congealing at the edge of the pool, but darkly gleaming in the centre. For all its busy searching, the wind found nothing living in the church.

  At dawn, the lad for whom moonlight had once lighted a path crept out from the shelter of the great raised tomb of the lords of the manor. The moon had proved a fickle friend, but he had managed well enough without its aid. He was a little thinner, for the last year had been hard, but he was no less enterprising. He picked his way purposefully among the bodies in the rough ground outside the church, bending sometimes to turn a shoulder and run a hand down where a trinket might lie between breasts, or searching in breeches, but it was a poor place and he found nothing.

  ‘So what does Robin do now?’ he asked aloud.

  ‘How came Robin to be alive?’

  The voice seemed to come from between his shoulder blades and when he tried to turn, he felt the prick of steel through his worn doublet.

  ‘They all ran towards the church.’ For once Robin Prithie could think of nothing better than the truth. ‘I stayed in the open and kept out of sight. The soldiers had game enough and had no need to play hide and seek.’

  ‘You have blood on your hands.’

  The truth would not serve here. ‘And who would not, seeing such piteous sights? I tried to tend their wounds, but it was no use.’

  The steel moved from between Robin’s shoulder blades. The man walked leisurely round and stared down at him, the sword pointing this time at his stomach. Robin saw a man of his own height and build dressed in the livery of the Earl of Northumberland.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the man asked. ‘By your speech, you don’t belong in these parts.’

  ‘My father was bailiff to Sir Geoffrey Warent of whom you may have heard.’ The Earl of Northumberland’s man had not heard of Sir Geoffrey Warent, which was a pity as it was the one part of Robin’s story which could be verified. His father had been murdered by the Earl of Oxford’s men, but Robin thought it wisest to name no names, so he said merely that his father had been set upon and murdered. ‘And I have moved from place to place making a living as best I can,’ he concluded pathetically.

  ‘Following in the wake of Queen Margaret’s army, robbing and stealing!’ The man’s lips curled contemptuously. ‘I’ve a mind to serve you as these people have been served. Can you give me a reason why I should not?’

  ‘The same reason that any of these poor souls would have given!’ Robin retorted. ‘I have no wish to die. Nor have I deserved to die. You, too, follow in the wake of the army. Does this prove that you rob and steal?’

  ‘I do not follow the army!’ The man had a great sense of his own importance and allowed himself to be distracted. ‘I ride to Lord Stanley with messages from my master. I saw the smoke rising some distance away and hastened to discover the cause.’

  Or waited until you judged it safe to come into the open, Robin thought: we are not so unlike, for all your splendid livery. He looked more closely at the man. They were indeed very alike, being of the same height and build. Robin was prepared to wager, however, that of the two he had the quicker wit. He made a move as though to walk away and the man poked the tip of the sword in his ribs. Robin looked beyond the man. His eyes widened so that they were like marbles which might roll out of their sockets at any moment; he croaked, ‘They rise! Holy Mother of God, the dead rise!’ The man, much alarmed by this performance, looked fearfully over his shoulder and Robin, catching at his leg, brought him crashing down. He had a jagged piece of flint ready to hand, but he did not need it because the man had split his head on the corner of the tombstone. Robin pushed the man’s head down in the grass so that blood would not stain his clothing.

  The business of changing clothes took longer than Robin had anticipated. One way and another, the last twenty-four hours had been very unpleasant and he felt sick and exhausted by the time the exchange was effected. He hoped the man’s horse was near by since his own legs seemed unwilling to carry him. In this as in most things, for he was Fortune’s child, he was lucky. The animal was tethered to a tree not far away; it was sweating and greatly agitated, not liking the smell of death any more than did Robin.

  Robin, who had more patience with animals than with his fellow human beings, spent a little time calming the horse. When eventually he mounted he said, ‘Now, we two need food and rest and I am hopeful we shall find both by the end of this day.’ At least, the messenger of the Earl of Northumberland stood a better chance of hospitality than Robin Prithie, vagabond. Nevertheless, he was a little uneasy and hoped he had not changed his luck along with his clothes.

  Many miles further south, in Foxlow, Christopher Ormond was writing to Dr Morton, ‘What news reaches us puts people in great fear. Queen Margaret has promised her Scottish troops that they can take their own reward and it is said she keeps her promises well; the country is laid waste and no one is spared . . .’

  3

  Panic had not yet spr
ead to the city of London. As the sun dipped low and the blue sky evened into pearl, people scurried along narrow streets and beggars drew tatters of clothing about their sores. Cold was the main concern on this particular evening when a messenger dismounted in the courtyard of the house where the Duchess of York was staying with her children.

  Richard and George were sitting by the window in the hall when the messenger was brought to their mother. The window was open and the evening air was sharp. There were goose pimples on Richard’s arm; he ran his fingers lightly over them and was nudged to be still by George. Light flickered as a taper was lit; the smell of wax drifted to them and words came to their ears. On the thirtieth of December, outside Sandal Castle in Yorkshire, some of their father’s men had been attacked and instead of waiting for reinforcements, the Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury had gone out to meet the enemy. The children glowed as the messenger described how valiantly their father had fought, but the Duchess cut short his tale.

  ‘Yes, yes. Rehearse me no more details.’ Her voice was dry. ‘That they fought valiantly, I will accept without further proof. What has befallen them?’

  ‘Both dead, my lady, fighting most gallantly . . .’

  The messenger would have stopped his tale there, but she sensed that there was more to be told and made him tell it. So she learnt that the head of the Duke of York had been impaled on Micklegate Bar in York, crowned with paper and straw.

  Later, the children were formally told what already they had overheard. George, with the anger of the spoilt child, resentful of any denial of his rights whether large or trivial, spoke bravely of revenge and of how he would make the House of Lancaster pay for the ill done to his father. He was red in the face and his whole body puffed up with the enormity of his wrongs. Richard was silent, pale of face, lips pressed inwards; he was not built to swagger, being small in stature and of a rather frail appearance. His mother, more moved by what she took to be his mute acceptance than by his brother’s bravado, laid her arm across his shoulders. Immediately the small body stiffened. The gesture was a mistake; the boy felt himself suspected of weakness. He was far from accepting what had happened and, possessing a vivid imagination, was able to visualise it only too well: a severed head crowned with paper and straw, a hideous picture never subsequently to leave the mind of this child who learnt his lessons well. As soon as he was able to do so without attracting attention to himself, he turned and made his way along the corridor; he moved steadily, one fist held against his mouth, carefully containing his horror like a splitting sack which burst apart the moment he was in the latrine. By the time he joined his brother in their bedchamber, he was composed again.