He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  A few months later, Richard was less satisfied with life and London.

  ‘You get me into trouble with Dickon,’ Edward said jovially to George. ‘When I represented to him your views about Anne’s inheritance he became angry at the thought that I should attribute such base motives to him.’

  ‘He is angry at the thought of foregoing anything which adds to his power. I tell you, he makes himself too great. It is something I can scarcely be expected to tolerate.’

  ‘I begin to lose patience with both of them,’ Edward confessed to Hastings. ‘Richard maintains that it is Anne for whom he cares and not her inheritance, but at the same time he will not see her wronged, so this does not advance us very far.’

  ‘Is it Anne he is determined to have or her estates?’

  ‘I begin to believe that it is Anne.’

  ‘Then perhaps he might consent to her being wronged just a little?’

  Christmas came. Richard and Anne prayed that they might soon be together at Middleham, and George prayed that God would prosper his righteous cause.

  A strange and wonderful thing happened at the beginning of January. This was the year 1472 when a brilliant star appeared in the south-east. At first, it rose at two o’clock, that darkest hour of the night when only fiends and those who do their work are abroad in the streets of cities, except for the watchmen. It was the watchmen who spoke of it, and then others, in towns and villages all over the land, looked out for it. The star moved westward and seemed to have a great hole in it from which flame flared out.

  To Richard, it seemed that the star was an augury of future joy, and immediate events encouraged him in this belief. Edward offered George Warwick’s lands and property, other than Middleham and one or two Yorkshire estates; he also said that the Great Chamberlainship of England would be surrendered to him by Richard. George eventually accepted this.

  Richard and Anne were married with little ceremony. Soon after the marriage they went north, travelling for some time over a flat plain until in the distance they saw the hills massed strong and dark, and great spurs of rock thrust out towards them, covered with vast oak forest.

  Richard rode in high spirits, looking forward eagerly to that moment when the valley opened out and there was Middleham; like a massive ship that would never veer in the teeth of the wind or bow to the sea’s tumult, it thrust its towers into the sky, inflexible, built to outlive even its own purpose.

  It was a fine day. As they came nearer, the brute strength of stone, the iron framework of a gate half-way up the castle wall, were more delicately rendered in the moat water. A breeze wrinkled the surface of the water and ripples of light flickered over the stone walls of the barbican. Anne, who had found the journey tiring, revived at the familiar sight. She looked at her husband, but at the moment he had thought for only one thing: Middleham was his. He rode towards it, totally absorbed in the pride of possession. She felt no resentment, it was only right that he should enjoy this moment alone. If she sensed that she herself was now numbered among his possessions, she did not resent this either, but felt instead only pity and a desire to protect this illusion as long as she should live. They crossed the drawbridge and passed from sunlight into the shade of the barbican.

  Later, when they came together in their chamber, she drew from among her treasures her gift for him which was the Book of Hours.

  ‘I give it with my love,’ she said.

  ‘Did you always mean me to have it?’ He was more concerned with other proofs of love, but was diverted by the thought that she had withheld it only to please him the more.

  ‘I believe I thought to show it to you one day.’ It seemed to her it might be more precious being hard to come by. ‘But I’m sure I had no idea of parting with it.’

  ‘It will be my most valued possession,’ he assured her, putting it lightly to one side and never imagining how heavy it would become in his hands.

  They did not see the star while they were at Middleham. After fourteen days it had seemed to burn itself out. Then it appeared again, its course altered somewhat, but blazing more splendidly. Then it became pale and burnt more steadily, but gradually moving further and further away, until, as was recorded by a chronicler, it was no bigger than a hazel stick. On the twentieth day of February it had disappeared altogether and was not seen again.

  2

  By the spring, although the wonderful star had disappeared, it was still in men’s minds. One young man tried to draw it. He produced a character something resembling a star on the parchment in front of him and added a flourish to it. Then he put his head against the full sleeve of his gown and gave a deep sigh that registered neither contentment nor resignation. When he raised his head, he saw that the sun shone on the lawn and so he had to hurry out to the garden to make the scene complete by his presence. He was fair-skinned and fair of face, with wide blue eyes which looked around as though amazed by a certain impudence in the objects his gaze encountered, questioning their right so to confront Henry Stafford, second Duke of Buckingham. He was nineteen, physically well-developed, but not mature. As he moved he gave the impression of being vividly aware of physical sensations but unable to harness them into anything which would give him pleasure. The desire for pleasure was in his face, but so was the certainty that he would not find it.

  The reason for his frustration soon appeared at the window of the room he had just vacated. She might have been his mother; her manner suggested possession but no indulgence. She was, in fact, his wife. A vulgar hag, he thought, appraising her from this safe distance; avaricious, crafty, uncertain of her hold on anything and therefore never letting go—her claws even now gripped the window sill as though to emphasize her claim on the very masonry of the house. He reminded himself, feeling the spring breeze which had still some of winter’s edge to it, of the circumstances of their marriage. At the age of twelve he had been the ward of Queen Elizabeth who had been free to dispose of him as she chose. She had shortly disposed of him in marriage to her sister. He was descended from Edward the Third: this creature he must call wife was infinitely beneath him. All these things he told himself as he walked across the lawn towards her, the breeze sharpening his senses and making him aware of matters within him which could not long remain unresolved.

  ‘You have not written to my sister,’ she screeched. She herself wrote constantly to her sister of the doings in her household, as though even the inspection of the linen was a task not to be undertaken without the prior knowledge of the Queen of England.

  ‘I will write soon,’ he said indolently.

  ‘Letters do not get written on lawns that I have ever heard.’

  He came slowly towards her, smiling, because she could hardly complain that he smiled at her. She sensed that he was growing out of her control, becoming somewhat large for captivity. She did not find the smile reassuring. ‘I sometimes think he will be cruel,’ she had confided recently to her sister. The only answer which the Queen had vouchsafed was, ‘I daresay he may be.’ He was one of the foremost lords in the land and as such he could be of service to Edward: Katherine must, if necessary, put up with a little inconvenience.

  But inconvenience can last a lifetime. Katherine, gazing down from the window, felt a chill as she looked at that handsome face. The mouth was wide and the bright eyes were hungry, a rapacious creature! She trembled, and reminded herself that the spring was not yet out and she had perhaps not dressed wisely.

  ‘My sister has done much for you,’ she said. ‘You would do well to remember that at all times.’

  He stood beneath the window and laughed in her face. She clutched the sill even tighter. They had never before confronted each other so openly. ‘Your sister, madam,’ he spoke each word as though he had only now discovered a delight in words, ‘has done much for you.’

  He noted, not the unbecoming flush rising up her neck, but the cold fear in her eyes. That fear was in his nostrils, he tasted it in his mouth; nothing she could say or do would ever again have power to
stay him now she had given him this taste for her fear. She leant forward, her gown slipping so that he had a glimpse of her small, mottled breasts. She ranted, her voice shrill, and he stood before her, momentarily satisfied. He was only beginning to understand this game, aware of the strength in the paw but not yet having developed the cunning of the predator.

  Later, he wrote to the Queen. Elizabeth Woodville had owned him. when he was a child she had treated him as though he was an object which she could dispose of as she chose. Had he been threatened, hunted, maltreated, things might have gone better for him; he would have had a sense of the value which others put upon him, and pain and fear were things with which he could have come to terms. But he had been a pawn in a game the subtleties of which were beyond a child’s comprehension. He had lived among people who had no sense of him as a person, with the result that he had very little sense of himself. Now, he wanted reparation. But this was not yet his time. The comet presaged well for Edward’s reign, and although doubts might be cast upon Edward’s parentage (and Buckingham had heard such doubts expressed) no one was presently disposed to question either his vigour or his will to rule. So, in spite of the spring torment in his veins, Buckingham must write courteously to Queen Elizabeth.

  3

  A few days before Christmas, some people claimed to see the star again, this time in the south-west. The Duke of Clarence, perhaps filled with seasonable religious fervour, maintained that it foretold the coming of another King.

  Whatever might be the truth about the star, it was a fact that the following year, 1473, was not a good one. It started well enough with a fine, crisp spring. Richard of Gloucester’s wife gave birth to a son who was given the name of Edward in honour of his uncle. But if Gloucester and his wife were happy—and they were reputed to be so happy one would have thought no other woman had ever borne her husband a son—all was not well in the realm.

  After some rain in early May, June was fine and hotter than usual, and even the most pessimistic among the country folk began to talk of a good harvest. In July, it was hotter still; there had been no rain for over seven weeks, many of the streams were running dry and rivers were low. It grew yet hotter. By the end of July the land had a seared look and many river beds were bare as dried bones; a few could remember such arid desolation towards the end of August, but none so early as July. The workers in the field bore the mark of the heat, with dry, cracked lips and red, dust- rimmed eyes; they moved slowly and some dropped down in the fields while they worked and were found to be dead. Fever was prevalent and in some parts of the country people became ill with the bloody flux. Prayers were offered for rain, but no rain came.

  On one very hot evening Christopher Ormond stood at the side door of his church. There had only been a few people in the church and now these had gone. Yet in other parts of the country the churches were full of people anxious to be forgiven for whatever sins had brought this dreadful drought upon the country. So why is my church empty? he asked as he looked down the dusty lane at the cluster of houses.

  He had argued with the local squire, a stupid man with pretensions to learning who thought that Aristotle was still alive and living in Italy. Ormond could never resist the temptation to put down pretension. Unfortunately, the argument had ranged wide. The villagers would not be concerned with the details of the argument, but the one word ‘heresy’ would be enough to rouse their fears. But there was worse than that. He had defended a woman whom they said was a witch. He hated superstition. But she was a witch of a kind and as well as installing her in his house to serve on him, he had taken her to his bed. Some folk might say that the country was paying for the licentiousness of Edward’s court, but hereabouts they blamed the drought on their priest.

  Ormond turned back into the church. He hesitated at the rood screen, staring towards the altar where the candles burnt on either side of the cross. After a moment, he approached the altar and reaching forward, held one hand in the flame of the candle, palm downwards. There was a rustling sound and he spun round, his face contorted with fear and pain. The main door had been left open and wisps of straw skittered over the stone steps. Beyond, he could see the long grass moving against the deep blue evening sky. He walked slowly down the nave; his injured hand was cupped, palm upwards, in the other, it showed the marks of more than one burning. His spirit was strong and defiant, but his body was pitiably weak and as he turned to shut the heavy door behind him, he had to steel himself not to glance anxiously over his shoulder, and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades.

  I must leave here, he thought. He walked slowly down the path, devising ways in which he might escape his fate. Then, in the distance, drumming on the baked earth, he heard horse’s hooves. A solitary rider. He stopped, waiting. A robin, perched on the stone wall, also watched with bright interest. The rider was now in view. Although he had only met him once before, Ormond had no difficulty in recognizing Dr John Morton.

  ‘Well met!’ Morton greeted him. ‘I am on my way to Chester and hoped to see you.’ He was a little fuller in the face than when Ormond had last seen him but the eyes, although red-rimmed from dust and sun, were as sharply intelligent as ever.

  ‘I had supposed you dead until I heard that you had been appointed Master of the Rolls,’ Ormond said drily; and although he added that he was pleased, reproach lingered on the air.

  The heat in Ormond’s house was stifling and they sat outside in the yard to drink the ale which Ormond’s woman brought to them. Morton was not in the least offended by Ormond’s disapproval; he had no bad conscience. ‘I went as far as most men in serving Queen Margaret and never deserted her while there was a cause for which to fight. But all that is ended now, and I am a man who must be of service to someone.’ He was sincere in this; he had great gifts and he had used them as loyally as the next man. ‘Who would benefit if I were to waste my gifts? Did not Christ Himself warn us that a man will be held accountable for the good use of his gifts?’

  Beside him Ormond shifted his long limbs awkwardly, ‘What gifts would one need in the service of King Edward?’ he asked sourly. ‘I was speaking recently to a kinswoman of mine, Ankarette Twynyho. She is maid to the Duchess of Clarence and hears much talk of the court life. She tells me that King Edward’s attention is taken up with food and women, and that he surrounds himself by men of a similar mind, such as Lord Hastings, who is reputed to have relinquished his mistress, Jane Shore, to his royal master! If this is the way to please King Edward, how will you serve him?’

  ‘There are other men of a very different stamp of whom Mistress Twynyho may not have told you: Richard of Gloucester, for example. He is somewhat uncomfortable company; a man of considerable wit but no great humour. He would be a bad enemy.’ Morton paused for a moment, reflecting on Richard of Gloucester, and nodded his head. ‘A bad enemy. But no one would accuse him of devoting himself entirely to pleasure.’

  Ormond looked down into his mug of ale and waited for Morton to come to the point.

  ‘There is one man, in particular, whose religious sensitivity is so exquisite that even you would be hard pressed to find fault. A man, moreover, with considerable pretension to learning.’ (A man you do not much like, Ormond thought.) ‘This man is in need of a secretary, the last being unable to meet his master’s somewhat exacting requirements. I am in a position to put your name forward.’

  ‘Am I to know his name?’ Ormond asked dourly.

  ‘Anthony Woodville, who is now Earl Rivers.’

  ‘The Queen’s brother.’

  ‘But very different from the Queen. And, though you may have no great liking for the Woodvilles, this appointment would be more congenial than your present situation. For my part, it would give me pleasure to help you to advance in the world; and I confess that it is also in my own interests to be of service on this occasion.’ He looked at Ormond in urbane good-humour. Ormond saw that this appointment would serve two purposes and that he would serve two masters; he would be Earl Rivers’ secretary and Morton’
s spy. It was odious: yet he could not find the words which would enable him to refuse. Should he not also use his gifts?

  ‘I will think about it,’ he said; but the throbbing of his burnt hand told him he would not dare to refuse.

  4

  Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, was at this moment entertaining Lord Stanley at Grafton Regis. Lord Stanley had to admit that the Earl was a most cultured man and charming with it; but he was so damned knowledgeable that Lord Stanley was rather ashamed of his own lack of erudition and was forced to spend most of the time nodding agreement, while the Earl talked with great sincerity and most commendable humility of matters religious, broaching many topics which it had never even occurred to Lord Stanley to think about, let alone discuss. Lord Stanley was half-asleep when Rivers said, ‘Where is one to put one’s trust?’

  The remark jolted Stanley into awareness. It was the state of the world around him which disturbed the Earl, but Stanley took the remark personally and said, ‘No one could doubt my loyalty, I am thankful to say.’ He was constantly vigilant in defence of his honour, it having been involved in so many transactions he must make it clear that he had never actually parted company with it. He was particularly sensitive at the present time. He was now married to Margaret Beaufort, the mother of Henry Tydder, and with Edward secure on the throne, this was hardly the time for a flirtation with the House of Lancaster, let alone a marriage.

  ‘The King fully understands that his interests are well-served by this union which can only bring harmony between him and the one person who might otherwise have been the focus of intrigues against him,’ he said ponderously.