He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  Rivers allowed himself to be deflected from his contemplation of the world’s ills. ‘I hear that her son is now at the court of the Duke of Brittany and styling himself the Earl of Richmond.’

  ‘A misguided youth but unlikely to pose a serious threat,’ Stanley deflected the conversation from Henry Tydder. ‘Edward’s troubles come from nearer home. A Lancastrian parliament once declared Clarence heir to the throne after Queen Margaret’s son, and since the prince is now dead, Clarence may well be mad enough to consider himself the rightful king.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The Earl bowed his head; a fine head, the hair beginning to recede a little from the forehead and slightly grizzled, but still thick and strong. ‘I find more and more that life takes a turn I do not like. I have seriously contemplated retiring to a monastery.’ His face assumed an expression of deep melancholy which was perhaps as much a reflection of his complex character as a response to the external ills of the times. ‘I do not mock you. My intentions are most earnest.’

  Lord Stanley was not impressed. He took Rivers to be a foolish dreamer who did not even know what was good for himself let alone the world. Stanley was free from that illusion of grandeur which goes beyond wealth and position and which had been the downfall of Warwick; he possessed no creative urge to alter the pattern of events but was prepared to study the patterns made by other men, seeking with infinite patience a way in which he could fit into the design with the most profit and least risk to himself. In the game which children play, where the one who is touched is singled out from the rest, he greatly excelled, twisting, turning, side-stepping, at times melting away on the periphery of the game, and somehow never being the one on whom the hand falls.

  ‘Or does the world need men such as me?’ Rivers mused. ‘Should I remain where my influence can be felt?’

  Stanley looked at him contemptuously. He doubted whether this man would be able to bear the burden of the world’s need of him; there was an impression about him of strength going to waste. The room in which they were sitting was hot and outside the sun sparked up from cobblestones. Perhaps the heat affected him or he had drunk too much wine. Whatever the reason, as he looked at Rivers, Stanley had an oppressive feeling of doom. There seemed to be a darkness about Rivers; it hung like a cloak undispelled by the brightness of the sun or the lighter turn which their conversation subsequently took. Rivers wore his darkness seemingly without being aware of it. After some minutes of this, Stanley suggested a walk in the garden. ‘You must take me to see this stream of yours.’

  ‘It will be quite dry now,’ Rivers answered. ‘But my father was convinced that the womere water ran from a crevice in the rock, though I don’t believe he ever saw it happen.’

  The sun was going down between the trees when they set out. Even before they reached the stream they could hear the water running, but they were not prepared for what they saw. The water chuckled and gurgled as it spouted from the crevice in the rock and already the bare stones beneath were bespattered; as the sun’s rays caught the bed of the stream it seemed as though the rock gushed blood. Lord Stanley crossed himself. Rivers drew back and put his hand across his eyes, shading them from something he had no stomach to contemplate.

  In places all over the land the woe water ran hugely that autmnn. In some places it ran full and troubled, which betokened battle, and in others it ran clear, which betokened death and pestilence. Voices were heard crying from graveyards, ‘Woe! Woe!’

  Chapter Seven

  1

  In the spring of 1474, a French nobleman visiting London wrote to the Duke of Brittany. He felt very homesick and disinclined to praise, and his digestion having been wrecked as a result of a royal banquet his account of the life of the court was particularly unfavourable.

  ‘On my last visit,’ he recalled, ‘I was much impressed with the King, but now find him somewhat changed. He lives in great splendour and entertains most lavishly—the more I feel for his own pleasure than for any great concern for his guests’ comfort, since it is assumed that all present share his immoderate delight in food and drink. It is noticeable that he grows a trifle gross in appearance. Louis de Gruuthuse is as ever very impressed, as one might expect from one who has received some very fine presents, including, I am told, a cup of gold garnished with pearl.’ The writer, not himself the recipient of royal gifts, went on, ‘For my part, I must confess I find some want of taste in all this excess, nor is the company always to my liking. The King is altogether too easy with people of very little birth. Indeed, it is said of him that he much prefers such company and on this visit I have been surprised to realize how ill the noble families of the land have fared under King Edward. Some say it has been his deliberate intention to destroy the nobility.

  ‘This is an uncomfortable country, until recently torn with civil strife and still with those ever ready to cause dissent, such as the King’s own brother, the Duke of Clarence. It is said that the King’s council favour a foreign war, believing that nothing else will so occupy people’s minds and dispose them to peace in their own country. There is renewed talk of claiming the crown of France or, at the least, of gaining possession of those provinces which England still regards as her own. The spirit of Henry the Fifth seems to die very hard in this people. It is rumoured the King would wish for a closer alliance with Brittany, provided the Duke can be persuaded to surrender to him the Earl of Richmond . . .’

  It is not comfortable to be a pawn, one can never be sure when the player may decide that it would be to his advantage to put one at risk. Duke Francis of Brittany had given Henry Tydder shelter and had treated him with warm regard, but Henry could never allow himself the luxury of gratitude.

  ‘His stomach gave him trouble today,’ Robin Prithie complained to one of the sewers. ‘The meat was bad, I could have told him that! But he has made a list of all the people who came into his chamber and who waited on him at table during the last three days! The thing which distresses him most is that he dined with the Duke last night and cannot personally inspect every pot and pan in the kitchen because this would give too great offence to the Duke!’

  Robin was now Henry’s personal servant. He found the life tedious and had ceased to look to the time when Henry would be a king with favours to dispense. ‘E’er that happens I shall be too old to enjoy my reward!’ he had said sourly to the chambermaid with whom he slept. To the sewer, he said, ‘I’d as soon have a dagger between my shoulder blades as ever again to check that there is no one hidden behind the arras, or standing behind a tree when he walks in the garden!’ But he had no sooner said this than a messenger from the Duke arrived and he had to allay Henry’s suspicions once more.

  Henry was walking on the terrace with Philippe de Commynes, one of King Louis the Eleventh’s councillors, who, on a visit to Duke Francis, had taken the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the young Earl of Richmond. Although Henry was not aware of it, Commynes had only that day informed Duke Francis that King Louis would take it much amiss should the Earl of Richmond be handed over to King Edward. The French king had no use for Henry save as a bargaining counter. ‘In himself, he is of no importance.’ Commynes, however, was impressed by Henry’s knowledge of affairs in France, Brittany and Burgundy, and the astuteness of his comments. As Henry was also a good listener, Commynes thought him charming as well as gifted.

  But to Robin Prithie, Henry had changed little over the last years. Familiarity had deadened Robin’s interest and he failed either to see or to read the lines of character now lightly sketched on the young face. When the two men turned at Robin’s approach, he delivered his message without observing Henry very closely. At seventeen, Henry was slim and pale and, in Robin’s view, unremarkable.

  ‘Do we know this man?’ Henry asked when Robin told him that a messenger had arrived from Duke Francis.

  Robin assured him that he had seen the man often in attendance on the Duke.

  ‘Then I suppose I had better see him.’

  When Robin departed,
Henry said to Commynes, ‘I dare trust no one here.’

  ‘But it seems you trust your servant.’ Commynes had not liked the servant.

  ‘He has been with me a long tune.’ This did not make Robin trustworthy, but Henry liked to believe that it did. Robin was a talisman, like his gift stone.

  The messenger brought a different kind of gift from Duke Francis. Henry, who had little to occupy his mind save his suspicions, received the gift with what to Commynes seemed an inexplicable lack of enthusiasm. Later, when Jasper Tudor joined them, he found Henry thoughtfully examining a small silver bowl studded with stones which flashed green and blue when he held it to the light. Henry fingered this tangible evidence of betrayal almost caressingly. ‘The Duke sends me presents now.’

  ‘A beautiful piece,’ Jasper pronounced decisively, hoping to impress Commynes, who tended to behave as though only a Frenchman was a judge of good workmanship

  ‘You think so?’ Henry looked slyly at his uncle.

  ‘You have found a flaw in it?’ Jasper was mortified.

  ‘No, no, I trust your judgement in these matters, my dear uncle. You tell me it is beautiful, and I accept it . . .’ he put the bowl down and stepped back to gaze at it, ‘. . . as beautiful.’ Commynes, who was a good judge of a performance, thought that the timing of this speech would have done credit to a player. Indeed, he had observed that there was much of the player about this interesting young man. He knew how to create an atmosphere of drama, but it irritated him when others did so and he then adopted the attitude that he was a plain man and could not stomach such antics. Now, he walked round the bowl, studying it from different angles, his head to one side. ‘Well, well . . .’ he said, as though humbly perplexed, slackening his features slightly so as to present an image of a very simple man.

  ‘You do not like it?’ Jasper asked impatiently. ‘I am sure the Duke intended it as a token of his affection for you.’

  Henry, who regarded the gesture as about as affectionate as the kiss of Judas, merely raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I have news for you.’ Jasper grew weary of the bowl and turned to Commynes. ‘I have it on very good authority that an English army is even now embarking at Sandwich. Edward means to make war on France.’

  ‘This army has been embarking for these past three months, if rumour is to be believed,’ Commynes said. ‘And still it has not yet sailed.’

  ‘I am also told,’ Jasper was determined to be taken seriously, ‘that in the north so many men have answered Richard of Gloucester’s call that people are asking who will lead the army! Edward, you must know, has ever been slow to fight. And now it is said he has grown so lazy that he is content to leave the charge of military affairs to Gloucester, whose zeal no one can doubt.’ Henry said, ‘I suppose it is valuable.’ He had picked up the bowl and was now examining the stones with avid interest. ‘Not priceless, of course. But then, I can never see what value can attach to an article which is beyond price.’

  In the stables, Robin Prithie, who was not beyond price, was talking to a stranger.

  2

  Edward, bowing to popular demand and not averse to the diversion, asserted his claim to the crown of France. There was much talk of the exploits of Harry the Fifth and Parliament was persuaded to make a large grant. In July 1475, Edward landed in Calais. He had raised a fine army and, joining forces with the Duke of Burgundy, he marched towards St Quentin. King Louis the Eleventh, however, had no wish to fight and Edward, at heart, was more of a merchant adventurer than a soldier. So it soon came about that Edward’s commanders, instead of discussing strategy, met to consider terms for a truce.

  ‘On the field of battle, one prepares to fight a battle!’ Richard of Gloucester was uncompromising.

  Earl Rivers studied his finger nails. Lord Stanley picked his nose, Clarence whispered to the Marquis of Dorset and Dr Morton gazed blandly out of the window; the Earls of Northumberland and Pembroke looked owlishly at the King. Louis had offered 75,000 gold crowns to be paid at once and 50,000 crowns subsequently. This was a matter which merited the gravest concern. Edward could understand their feelings. ‘Are we to fight when more can be gained by not fighting?’ he asked. In his view, only a fool would exchange the certainty of such an income for the uncertain glory of victory in battle. He could see that he did not lack support for this view; only Hastings and Dickon had indicated that they were not in agreement. Hastings, he could deal with, but Dickon . . . Dickon was black as a thundercloud. And for what reason? He was now spitting out something about honour. Had honour been put above all things, none of those sitting around the table would be here today! Aloud, Edward said to his brother, ‘You were willing enough to flee from England with me once, leaving honour to take care of itself Why are you so reluctant now to leave a foreign country, not in flight, but . . .’

  ‘We had no choice but to flee before. But here, we have a great army, the men ready to fight . . .’

  ‘The men will grumble, no doubt.’ They had had a long journey and some discomfort, and would now have no chance of plunder. ‘But am I not sparing their lives? Will it not be thanks to me that they will return unscathed to wives and children? In time, they will be grateful.’ He looked at Clarence and Northumberland, Morton, Dorset, Pembroke, Rivers . . . They had a more immediate reason to be grateful, for they had all been offered pensions by Louis.

  ‘What will people think if it is known that an English army can be bought off?’ Richard persisted.

  ‘Why, they will calculate whether they can afford it, I suppose.’ Edward watched his brother’s eyes narrow, the face grow still. What an intractable man this is! he thought. He was surprised to find himself observing Dickon as though he was a stranger. He shrugged off a moment’s uneasiness and said lightly, ‘Why be so eager to let blood, Dickon? Would it make the throne of England stronger if we lost a vast number of good men here in France? Would it provide money so that I need no longer beg for grants from Parliament? Would it make our merchants more successful, increase our trade?’

  ‘A great deal of money has then been wasted in mounting this campaign,’ Richard retorted.

  The point was shrewdly made. Morton coughed and patted his lips. Edward smiled but his eyes were not amused. He turned deliberately to Lord Stanley. ‘You have more years than some of us, my Lord, and can correct our rash enthusiasm with cool wisdom.’

  Most of the men present, impatient to talk about the terms of the truce, looked hopefully to Stanley. But Earl Rivers looked at Richard, amused at his humiliation, and Richard saw the look and stored it in his mind. He scarcely heard Stanley reply, ‘No one is more concerned than I with honour, but as I see it, the only person to lose his honour in this is King Louis.’

  There was a murmur of agreement. Hastings glanced at Richard and made a wry grimace. The others were now talking of amending the terms suggested by Louis. Richard sat silent, nursing his anger.

  A treaty was eventually signed, but Richard still refused to accept a pension.

  ‘You do yourself no good by refusing to take tribute from Louis,’ Edward warned. ‘You will make an enemy of him and we need his friendship.’

  ‘Perhaps you would have me emulate Lord Hastings,’ Richard replied caustically, ‘and refuse to acknowledge what is assigned to me, but allow it to be “put in my sleeve”!’

  ‘You are unjust to Hastings. He expressed his doubts about the wisdom of the truce, as you well know.’

  ‘And having done so, worked the harder to bring it about.’

  ‘Because I wished it.’

  Richard was silent. Edward looked at him. Familiarity had prevented him from seeing Richard clearly in recent years. Now, something sharpened his attention. Richard was staring beyond Edward with eyes that did not like what they saw; the lips were compressed. For all his forcefulness, there was at this moment an unexpected weakness in his face, a hint of the strain felt by a man of whom more may be asked than he is able to give. Edward drew back from speculation. He had no energy at this s
tage to reassess the value of so crucial a figure in the pattern of his life. He shrugged aside his momentary uneasiness and said, ‘The country needs money, Dickon. And so do I. This money that Louis offers will keep me independent of parliament for the rest of my life. Think of that!’

  But Richard could only think that it was not Edward’s craft which had gained this treaty so much as his reputation as a lover of pleasure; Louis had known that he was dealing with a king who had no heart for war and much liking for ease. It would not have been so with my father, Richard thought.

  3

  If Edward had given up the idea of regaining the English provinces in France, he did not so easily renounce his claims to the person of the Earl of Richmond. Over the next two years his agents were active in the matter, until a time was reached when it seemed that his request must be granted.

  Duke Francis of Brittany, in agony of mind and spirit, paced his room and sometimes, since he was a devout man, he knelt and prayed. Time passed. Day turned to night. No one could say his decision, when he reached a decision, had been taken lightly.

  ‘God guide me,’ Duke Francis prayed, passing the burden of decision to a higher authority.

  Time and God, the economic needs of his duchy, and his own pressing desire for food, eventually combined to vouchsafe a decision to Duke Francis. ‘I am convinced that it would be wrong, a very great wrong, to question the word of the King of England,’ Duke Francis argued. ‘And a refusal to comply with his request must seem to question his word; for what other reason could there be for a refusal to a request so reasonable and accompanied by assurances which reveal a most honourable and generous intent? The King promises that, on his return to England, the Earl of Richmond will be handsomely treated and provided with a marriage within the royal family. To refuse such a request would not only cause grave offence to the King, but would deprive the Earl of Richmond of great advantages. What, after all, can the future hold for this young man if he stays here (much though we love him) to compare with the opportunities which await him in his own country?’