by MARY HOCKING
In the mist men struck down their own comrades. The star of Oxford’s banner was mistaken for the sun of Edward’s banner. A messenger thundered up to Oxford crying, ‘We are betrayed, my Lord!’ He was supported by cries of ‘Treason!’ from men plunging desperately for safety. Oxford, who did not find it hard to believe ill of Montagu, fled. Warwick fought on. He had fought many battles and the discordant shrieks and groans, the wild neighs of horses, the shouted commands and counter commands, the boom of cannon and the clash of steel, the fierce oaths, and the prayers of the dying, orchestrated in his mind into something recognizable from which he could isolate those notes which carried the dominant theme. But the fog hampered him, and the withdrawal of Oxford and his men was a heavy blow. Nevertheless, he rode among his men, rallying those who could see him and shouting lustily for the benefit of those who could not; and such was the power of his personality that he raised many a cheer from men who had sounder reason to curse him. When his own depleted ranks began to break he saw the need to retreat. As his horse carried him from the field, the retreat seemed no more and no less desperate than on other occasions. The heavy horse lumbered over rough ground and Warwick, tired, heavy-hearted, but by no means defeated, planned the next encounter, his mind muzzily mulling over the possibilities of new alliances. There was a group of men in pursuit and at a place strewn with thorny shrubs whiskered by fog, he must turn and fight, his mind still half-full of what would follow, where he would go, to whom he would turn first. He was at bay, but he had been at bay before, and even when he fell the situation seemed to him no different from other times. There was only a moment as the blood rushed out that he had the sense of himself flowing out with it, and it came to him with enormous surprise that this was a new situation; but before the idea could take shape in his mind, his spirit had outstripped it.
The news of Warwick’s death was conveyed to Edward. He said, ‘It was better thus.’ Whether he felt this to be the best fate for his cousin, or the one which occasioned the least trouble to himself, was not clear.
Richard was slightly wounded, which was as it should be; he would have been sorry not to have sustained a wound in his first major battle. Exhausted, but triumphant, he rode among his men, praising them for their valour. He was rewarded by hearing one gnarled old warrior say, ‘I’ll follow him; he has the look of his father.’ For the first time he realized that men would rally to his standard as a mark of personal esteem which had nothing to do with loyalty to the King. A part of Richard that was steady and sober would have liked to be indifferent to such regard; but a part of him that was none of these things delighted in it. He was at his beginning; all the jousting, the playing at combat, was behind him, he was involved in the real business of life and men had taken note of him.
2
Queen Margaret and her son. Prince Edward, landed in Weymouth and marched north to join forces with Jasper Tudor. As soon as the news of her movements reached Edward, he set out in pursuit. The armies met outside Tewkesbury on May 4th. By the evening of that day, Queen Margaret was in flight, as yet unaware that her son was slain.
The fighting had overflowed into the country lanes and Christopher Ormond, riding from visiting a dying woman, was attacked, despite his protests that the battle was no concern of his. His horse was stolen and he was left lying in a ditch. He was sick and dizzy from a blow on the head and tried to bring his wandering wits to his service by composing a report to Dr Morton. ‘At Tewkesbury . . . such terrible things . . . at Tewkesbury . . .’ He drifted into unconsciousness while Dr Morton, who had fought for Queen Margaret at Tewkesbury, was making good his escape.
A cool breeze woke Ormond. He looked up and saw the sky brilliant with stars. He closed his eyes and when next he opened them, he saw a face hovering above him.
‘I feared you to be dead.’ A young voice. ‘And then there would be no one to help us.’
Ormond sat up and the world swayed and then settled itself The speaker was a young woman but the rather flat face peeping from the cloak made her seem more like a little owl. ‘Is there a place where we can shelter for the night? There is a house across the fields. If you could enquire for us . . .’
‘On whose behalf should I enquire?’
A voice behind Ormond said, ‘Say simply that a small party of travellers has been delayed by the vile conditions of the roads and seeks shelter.’ This voice had the iron ring of command; it had also an intonation that was not English. She was muffled in a cloak and the other women who were with her were no less reluctant to reveal their identities; but a better disguise than a cloak would be needed if Queen Margaret were to travel far unrecognized.
Ormond went to the house, which he recognized as Foxlow Priory, a small nunnery which he sometimes visited. He hammered loud and long before the window above the portal opened.
‘We have the plague here,’ the portress squeaked hopefully.
‘Nonsense! Travellers are yonder, seeking shelter. Open this door immediately.’
After a few minutes the main door opened and Reverend Mother herself stood there; an old, unsteady creature who peered at Ormond and gave a little screech, ‘Father!’
‘You are to prepare a chamber for the lady and food for her and her attendants,’ Ormond told her severely.
‘But the soldiers are everywhere!’ Reverend Mother spat through the gaps in her teeth. ‘It is not safe . . .’
‘What is safety to such as you and me? I will bring the ladies here. Make your preparations.’
At the request of the Queen, Ormond attended the party while they ate the wretched food provided by the nuns. He gave her the information she required as to what route to take and what other houses of religion might give sanctuary if the need arose; but he swore he had no news of the battle. It was not for him to tell Queen Margaret of the death of her son.
The little owlet he had supposed to be a lady in waiting, but something said in conversation made him realize that this was the Earl of Warwick’s daughter, Anne, wife of the dead Prince. She seemed little concerned with what went on around her, but sat looking out of the window. She was a delicate creature with small, fragile bones and a pale face, the skin traced with little blue veins and a hint of shadow beneath the eyes that was like the faintest bruise on a petal. But delicate though she undoubtedly was, the quality of her spirit showed in her eyes which had the detachment of a person striving to come to some kind of accommodation with suffering. The mouth was composed, the line of the jaw firm; only the quiver of a muscle in the left cheek prevented her achieving an expression of disdainful fortitude. Ormond recalled that Prince Edward had had the reputation of being a violent, immoderate young man. Poor child, he thought, how ill she must have been used, and what will become of her now? He felt an urge to reach out and touch her, his fingers itched to move; but he had no gift of healing and could only pity her.
He found it hard to sleep that night. He could not get the unfortunate girl out of his mind. It was usually only the young of birds and beasts that roused his pity; pity for a fellow human was a new experience. When he did sleep he had a bad dream. He dreamt that he was lying in this very room, in pain and great distress of mind. Evil forces threatened him. He shouted and the prioress came and bent over him; he saw not the present prioress but a much younger woman with a cold, resolute face. ‘Where am I?’ he screamed. She told him that he was at Foxlow Priory. In the shadows behind the prioress there was a nun with a face like a little owl; as he looked at her, her lips parted and terror bubbled out of her mouth like rainwater spurting from a gargoyle. The terror woke him. It was early morning. The room was bathed in soft light and smelt fresh and clean. He got up and went to the window. It was a fine, still morning, and there was a hawthorn in a glory of white just beneath the window. The tree seemed strangely luminous in this early light; its beauty was so extraordinary that Ormond had the feeling that he was glimpsing something beyond life. Had he not been so aware of his unworthiness, he would have thought he had had a vision. He s
tayed at the window, smelling the dew-wet blossom for some minutes. Then that other smell came to his nostrils; a smell of burning wood and tar and something else as well.
A few days later Queen Margaret and Anne were taken prisoner. In London, people in the streets shouted and cheered as King Edward rode by. But one old man, sitting hunched in a doorway, said, ‘Which is it this time?’ His companions berated him, but he merely snickered and said, ‘King Edward, King Henry . . .’ and made motions with his fingers as though plucking daisy petals.
King Edward was himself aware of the need to end this charade.
3
The spendthrift day burnt up its strength. The bars of light moved slowly down the wall until in the end there was nothing but a faint sheen on the inside of the bars themselves. Before they grew black, the moon came up and for a time silvered over the wall. Beyond the window, the night sounds of the city gradually quietened. The moon went down and the sky darkened; the stars went out one by one.
Water was dripping somewhere. This agitated the prisoner. He got up and crawled around, feeling the walls, exploring crevices with his fingers. He could not find the water and tiring of the search sat huddled in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chin. He could still hear the water dripping. After a while he heard something else; somewhere, a distance away yet, a door opened. Whoever came, came silently, no clanking of heavy boots, jangling of keys, exchange of crude pleasantries; his passage down the corridor was scarcely above the whisper of an indrawn breath. The visitor unlocked the door. He had the key to many doors. Although expected, he never ceased to surprise; in the case of the old king, the surprise was intense. As the fingers tightened around his throat, Henry felt the pull of life again. But the fingers were firm and sure of their purpose, releasing him from the bonds of time. He was running on a greensward; his arms were outstretched and there was joy. He strove to capture the memory; it danced and wavered down the years and he struggled towards it along a flaming crimson tunnel which crackled and roared in his ears and blinded his eyes with its brilliance until he and the memory were consumed.
Henry’s body was borne to St Paul’s with due ceremony. People shed tears as the bier passed, some because they thought he was a good man, others because it was customary so to do.
Edward looked forward to some peace now that the last hope of the House of Lancaster had been removed.
4
Some weeks later, a small band of men came to the Welsh coast to await the arrival of a boat at Tenby harbour. It was wiser not to go near a town or to the harbour until final arrangements had been made. One of their number went ahead, the rest waited in a small inlet on the rocky coast.
It was towards evening, a clear light but without much colour. Henry Tydder sat on a boulder while his Uncle Jasper talked to his companions. He looked around him, thinking wryly how cheerless he frequently found his surroundings. This place was like a great boneyard, as though the bones of all the people who ever lived here had been ribbed together to form a bulwark against an enemy which never wavered. The sound of the surf breaking above the concealed rocks was uninterrupted, like water boiling in Hell’s cauldron. The sea drift made odd patterns, a forelock of green weed over a rock from which one encrusted shell peered gave a sense of a primitive face looking up from the pool. Henry bent forward so that his own face was momentarily reflected. He fumbled in his pocket, remembering the little dark man who had thrown a stone in a pool a long time ago. His fingers closed around his gift-stone.
Somewhere, round the next headland, out of sight, came the sound of children’s voices, high-pitched and excited, then a scream; he could imagine them balanced on the sharp rocks, the seaweed oozing between their toes, slimy and treacherous. His arms, which had been wet up to the elbows, were drying in the wind, they felt soft; he licked his wrist and tasted salt. The children shouted again.
‘Let us walk a little way,’ he said to Robin Prithie who was standing beside him.
‘What game do you think they are playing?’ he asked as they walked towards the hidden children.
‘Just pushing one another in the water.’
‘No. There is some kind of chant to it. Listen.’
‘The wind is too strong,’ Robin said.
The water in the little pools between the rocks was becoming agitated as though anticipating its union with the advancing sea. There was a spawn on the surface and on an impulse Henry bent down and, cupping the water in his hands, drank; it tasted foul and he spat it out hastily. Robin said, ‘We’ll have better fare for you than that soon.’ Overhead, a gull laughed and wheeled screaming inland. The noise of the wind was louder and sounded like tearing silk; Robin had to turn his head to one side to speak because it was so strong. ‘We’d better not go any further.’
‘Yes, you are right,’ Henry said regretfully. ‘Now I shall never know what game they are playing.’
As they were talking, one of the children, who had scrambled round the headland without their hearing him, emerged suddenly in front of them. He stopped, a ragged, bright-eyed boy, more than a little surprised to come across strangers in this place. For a moment they faced each other, hunter and hunted brought unexpectedly face to face. No language existed between them, but none was needed. Robin moved towards the boy, the boy backed away, his eyes not leaving Robin’s face. Henry watched in astonishment, not at first understanding. The boy eased from rock to rock with the agility of a cat, and Robin, no less sure-footed, circled him like a wolf waiting the moment to move in on its prey.
Henry called, ‘What nonsense is this! Come back, Robin!’
He might as well have called a wolf to heel. Robin sprang and had the ragged child by the throat. Henry was not agile, but he had a good aim. He bent down and picked up a rock which might have served David well enough in his dealings with Goliath. As Robin bent forward, intent on smashing the boy’s head against a boulder, Henry hurled the rock and caught his servant squarely between the shoulder blades. The boy was free and scampering away. Henry picked his way carefully towards the sorry heap that was Robin; he stood looking down at him while Robin fought to get his breath back. They regarded each other. There was something more than anger in Robin’s eyes. Henry said, ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you too much?’ He was apologetic but he continued to hold Robin’s gaze until Robin turned his head away. It took a little time for Robin to ease himself painfully to his feet and he was still shaking when he said, ‘We’d have been wise to put an end to that game.’
‘Why ever should we do that?’ Henry asked gently.
‘In case he betrays your presence here, of course.’
‘And how would he know who I am?’ Henry turned and Robin walked beside him as they retraced their steps along the beach.
‘He may not know who you are, but he’ll know your situation is desperate. Do you imagine many strangers hang round this beach in the evening, or at any time, for that matter?’ Robin was still short of breath, but he was mastering his temper. ‘That boy knows something is afoot and it should have been into the sea with him.’
Henry held his gift-stone in the palm of his hand; he turned it with his fingers, it was very smooth and the motion of it against the palm of his hand was remarkably soothing. He walked for a while, turning the stone in his hand.
‘How fierce you have become, Robin! Threatening to kill children on my behalf, something I would never have you do.’
‘But I would do it. I would do anything to further your cause.’
‘My cause?’
‘You will be king, won’t you?’
‘Well, not immediately,’ Henry said, cautiously examining the notion.
‘But you will be one day.’
‘And because I am to be king you would kill children for me?’
‘I would do what is necessary. Perhaps you will remember that when you are king and grant me a favour.’
This was the first time that anyone had ever asked a favour of Henry and it made him think about the power that went with k
ingship. He was interested to know how he could exercise this power and he asked, ‘What would you like me to grant you, Robin?’
‘Why, I should like you to make me your emissary and then I could go from one city to another.’
Henry said, ‘You always were a wanderer, weren’t you?’ But once, it had been the whole world that Robin dreamt of wandering while now his roving was to be confined to travelling between one city and another.
By the time they rejoined the party, the boulder on which Henry had been sitting was submerged and little spurts of foam reached beyond it and swirled round their ankles. ‘I think we should go a little way up the cliff path,’ Henry said. It would be a pity, having come so far, to be cut off by the tide. He was prepared to take risks if the stakes were high enough, but he was no lover of adventure for its own sake.
‘You’ll get more than your feet wet before this is out,’ his uncle said grimly.
‘Even so, I’ll keep them dry while I can,’ Henry retorted as he and Robin scrambled towards the rough cliff path.
‘It won’t be long now,’ they assured him as the darkness gathered round them. Henry did not need reassurance. The future was uncertain and kingship must wait, but one thing he had learnt about himself: he was a survivor. He intended to put all his wits to the end of remaining one.
Part II
IN SUMMERTIME
‘In summer time, when leaves grow green
And blossoms bedeck the tree
King Edward would a hunting ride
Some pastime for to see . . .’
Chapter Six
