by MARY HOCKING
‘I shall have my life if I stay here.’ Henry supplied the answer to the emissary who conveyed to him the Duke’s decision.
‘The Duke is completely assured that the King intends to treat you with the utmost generosity . . .’
‘But I am not assured.’
This was beside the point and the emissary continued to elaborate on his master’s pious hopes for the future well-being of the Earl of Richmond.
‘How seemed he to receive the news?’ the Duke asked later.
‘He received it well.’ But the emissary had not enjoyed his task. This was not because he had fears for the young man’s safety, he was not given to scruples of this kind. It was simply that his reception had not been what he had anticipated, and he did not like the unexpected; his success in life depended to a considerable degree on his ability to assess people and situations and a failure to do this was therefore disturbing. He had found Henry, Earl of Richmond, something of an enigma. The young man was but nineteen and had no particular grace of manner, nor did he bear himself with marked distinction; yet it could not be said that he was awkward, and though he spoke little he did not give the impression of being inarticulate so much as begrudging the use of too many words. The face was sharpish and belonged to an older man, the face of one who misses very little of what goes on around him and is not at a loss to interpret its meaning for himself The pale blue eyes were shrewd; the mouth was thin with no fulness to the lips, but was not mean nor entirely lacking in humour. One would need to be well-prepared in one’s dealing with this young man. The emissary said cautiously, ‘When I say that he received the news well, I mean that he made no violent protestation. But he did say that he had not been well and had some doubts about undertaking the journey . . .’
‘The climate here does not suit his constitution,’ Duke Francis said, and added hopefully, ‘He will be better in his own country. Do you not think he will be better in his own country?’
‘I have heard the climate there is very different.’ He had, in fact, heard quite the reverse, but one was hardly likely to be called to account for inexactitude about the English climate.
‘If he is really ill, then of course he shouldn’t travel,’ the Duke said uneasily.
‘No doubt Lavigny, who is still with him, will report to you on the arrangements made for his departure and on the state of his health.’
The Duke said, ‘Ah, yes,’ but he still looked unhappy.
His unhappiness was shared by Henry himself ‘Well or ill, they mean to bundle me into the next world without delay,’ he said to his uncle. ‘But try to convince them that I must have at least an hour’s rest to gather my strength for this journey.’
After his uncle had departed, Henry wrote a letter to his friend, Pierre Landois, who was the Duke’s treasurer and a man of influence with the Duke. Henry was not gifted with great powers of persuasion, nor was it in him to make a strong emotional appeal; but he was good at using the facts at his disposal to the maximum advantage. He wrote:
‘There is only one person whose word is to be trusted in this matter of the wisdom of my returning to England, and that is my mother. I have only recently had from her a message warning me in the most compelling terms that the King intends my life, and has said in the hearing of several people at court that he means to lay his hands on “the only imp now left of Henry the Sixth’s brood”.’
He had not, in fact, heard from his mother for some time; but Edward had indeed made some such remark as that now attributed to him and Henry had stored it away in his mind ready for use should the occasion arise. It brought his brief note to a not insignificant climax. He did not enlarge on it; he had never been given to excess. He despatched the letter by a messenger who seemed to him the least unreliable of those at his disposal. Then he lay on the bed where he remained staring at the ceiling and praying for a bad road and a wild sea—he thought it incautious to go beyond these moderate requests, since flood or earthquake might well do Edward’s work for him.
His uncle and three others were to accompany him. Robin, who had reasons of his own for wishing to return to England, begged to join the party.
‘I have never been far from you, my Lord, since first we came here.’
‘There is little advantage in being with me now.’
‘Where you go, I would go.’
‘You are a fool,’ Henry said. ‘But I have a need of fools, so you shall come with me.’
When the time came for him to leave, Henry refused food, and was careful to stumble twice on the stairs in the sight of those who might be asked to report on the circumstances of his departure. He was determined that there should be nothing done on this occasion which would lighten the conscience of Duke Francis.
Lavigny later reported that ‘he was very pale and walked unsteadily but he made no protests and his manner was gentle and resigned.’
He was far from resigned. In the view that he took of his situation, resignation of such an order would be a submission to death. Rash gestures, however, would gain him nothing. He was not a believer in turning to confront one’s fate head-on; at least, not until all else had failed. And if he were to escape, where could he hide? On either side of the track along which they rode was moorland, bleak, inhospitable country offering no shelter for the body or comfort for the spirit. He looked at Robin who rode beside him.
‘In all your adventures, Robin, you must have been in more desperate situations than this. Tell me how you escaped from them.’
‘I don’t recall a situation the like of this one.’ He seemed in poor spirits.
So, Henry thought wryly, even my friendly sprite has little advice to offer me! I must fend for myself, it seems.
As he looked across the moors, desolate in the level light of evening, Henry was conscious of a great loneliness. He had a long way to go and he would always be alone. Just for a moment, he saw what he had previously been careful not to see, a puny, slightly ridiculous figure, with a poor straggle of supporters and no wealth, not the proud rose of Lancaster but a briar in a hedgerow. He felt small and unequal to the demands which life would make of him. But the briar has a vicious prickle, as anyone who has tried to pluck its rose must know. After a time. Henry’s spirit revived, and as it revived, so his body drooped and he presented a pitiable figure. The ambassadors of the English king conferred among themselves and agreed that it would be advisable to take the journey in easy stages. There were several villages on the fringe of the moorland, and they decided to make a number of stops for refreshment and the greater ease of their prize whom they were anxious to deliver in good condition.
The people, however, were no more welcoming than their country. The first village to which they came was a dour place, with men sitting hunched against the walls of their hovels talking among themselves. As the party approached, one very old man who, in spite of his rags, had an unmistakable air of dominion, greeted them with mock obsequiousness, bowing very low and muttering asides which were obviously obscene and aroused the raucous laughter of his companions. There was nothing good-natured in this display, it was menacing and primitive. These were a malevolent people who nursed a fierce hatred of strangers. There were no strangers in the village, a glance at the upturned faces gave proof of this; there was something closer than resemblance of kith and kin, one model had served them all but instead of being perfected with repetition had, in the younger generation, deteriorated into hideous grossness. Here, if ever, the dark forces gathered.
They had stopped outside a low, shambling building, dark as the pit inside, but bearing a sign which pronounced it an inn, or whatever was the equivalent in this uncouth place. As Henry crossed the threshold, he stumbled and fell on the floor which was covered with filthy straw and the droppings of animals. The stench very nearly made him sick. The Englishmen bent over him. Henry yielded his body to the floor as though he would bury himself in its loathsome depths; they were unable to raise him. While they shouted orders to others to come to their aid, Henry
began to babble some of the strange words he had heard in childhood in the Welsh hills. The King’s men thought he must be speaking in the language of these parts and kept asking suspiciously, ‘What is it that he says?’
‘I don’t know what he says.’ Jasper, hastily summoned, was genuinely alarmed and this greatly enhanced the authority of Henry’s performance. ‘He is possessed.’
One of the King’s men crossed himself; the other, more prosaic, said, ‘He has a fever. I have heard men talk such nonsense in a fever.’
The villagers, however, believed Henry to be possessed by spirits foreign to their own particular demons. They ordered the party out of the inn. There was much shouting and threatening, and the wrath of Duke Francis, the King of England, the Pope, and God Himself, was called down upon the villagers; but these were rude men not to be bound by any law other than their own and the strangers were forced to quit the inn. Henry recovered sufficiently to allow himself to be supported to a bench by the side of the building.
The Englishmen regarded him sourly, wondering, no doubt, why it could be of such importance to their king to obtain possession of so miserable a creature, although years later one of them was to recall with what quiet courage and dignity he did comport himself on this occasion.
While they were wondering what to do, Robin approached them. ‘If you leave this to me,’ he said, ‘I will see that he accompanies you.’
‘What is your name?’ one of the men asked.
‘Robin Prithie.’
‘If you can help us, you shan’t be forgotten, Robin Prithie.’
It was on the tip of Robin’s tongue to say that he had already been enlisted in King Edward’s service, but as he had done little to justify the payment he had so far received, he thought better of it and devoted himself to his present task.
After half an hour of gentle persuasion, Henry consented to continue his journey, but made such heavy-going of it, swaying this way and that, and sometimes rising in the saddle to shout wild words at some phantom he swore accompanied them always a little ahead on the road, that they halted for the night earlier than they had intended. The small town where they stayed was somewhat less barbarous than the village, but even so the accommodation available was squalid. Henry’s fever became worse and as he was apparently suffering from hallucinations a priest was sent for. Henry and the priest conversed, the one in Breton and the other in his own eccentric Welsh, while the onlookers stood uneasily by. The priest, a sly, obdurate peasant, was not prepared to admit ignorance of Henry’s condition and pronounced him to be in a fit. Several remedies were suggested, but as these were rather extreme, and as Henry seemed suddenly to have become quieter, it was decided that it would be better for him to be treated in England.
They set off early in the morning, by now a somewhat anxious party. When they had been on the way for some time, Henry said to the man who rode beside him, ‘Were you asked to deliver me alive to your master?’
‘Of course.’
‘I doubt if you will do that.’
‘As soon as you get to St Malo you shall rest awhile,’ Robin assured him. ‘You will be better then.’
‘It warns us!’ Henry rose in the saddle and pointed excitedly ahead. ‘See, it comes to warn us against this road!’
‘There is nothing there.’ But the light on the moors played strange tricks, and Robin could have sworn that an eerie light flickered above the deep green grass ahead and some way to their right.
‘I have seen such a light as that before,’ Henry said truthfully, for he had seen it hovering above bogs in Wales. ‘It is a sign of evil. I have known men ride out towards it and never return.’
‘It is not directly in our path,’ Robin muttered. But for the sake of Henry’s soul, and perhaps for his own, he persuaded their escorts that the party should halt for several hours when they reached the next village. It was late afternoon when they set out again.
They had now travelled a night and a day and were but three miles from St Malo. The wind had salt on it, the stunted trees and bracken bent to it and pointed its passage inland. It was getting dark and the moon was up in a cold, clear sky. Henry felt the air on his throbbing face and was glad of its sharp sting. He wanted to live: life had not offered him much, but he had acquired a taste for it. He believed in his power to survive, but he knew that he must pass through a time of agony and doubt when the last flicker of hope would seem to be extinguished. He was like a child who has been assured that a story ends well and yet is racked with terror at the fear of what might be.
The stone walls of St Malo rose dark against the skyline, and then, as they came nearer, they were silvered with moonlight; Henry watched, unbelieving, as the walls grew higher and higher until the moment came when he must pass beneath them. He could not believe that this was happening to him, that he was being carried remorselessly into the stone heart of a fortress from which there could be no escape. He experienced the same feeling of outrage he had had when as a child of four he had discovered that the stones he had so diligently hoarded had fallen out of his kerchief He had asked little enough of life, taken few risks, indulged no rash fantasies; he had not arrogantly challenged his fate nor made great demands for himself; he had been patient, long-suffering, frugal of his emotions, had conserved his energy and disciplined his mind, had avoided all bodily excesses. If ever a man had husbanded his resources and made good use of every talent God gave him, he was that man! It was not right that he should be so ill-rewarded. The small-minded meanness of life overcame him. Now, as a grown man, he could not put back his head and bellow his rage to the indifferent stars; but fall into a fever he could and did. He let all control slip, the fever opened out for him and he passed through into the centre of it; it closed around him, keeping him safe within a wall of fire which none should penetrate.
‘I told you we should not have come thus far.’ The Englishmen began to quarrel among themselves. It was agreed that the party must lodge that night in St Malo and that the best physician must be summoned. Henry tossed and turned, dreaming he was riding round and round an arena of fire, trying to find a way through the flames. Occasionally, the dream lost its impetus and he heard voices. Once, a man was saying that King Edward would be angry at the delay. How impatient people were to despatch others! A wait of a few hours, a day, what was that to King Edward? How could it be compared to the luxury of another day of life? The fever carried him soaring away again out of the range of people as greedy and ruthless as King Edward. Foolish. It came into his brain, sharp as a needle, that this way of killing off anyone whom one regarded as a threat was foolish, something belonging to a system which had worked its way out, there were other more effective ways . . . He saw this with tremendous clarity as though it had been cut in glass on his mind, and the next moment it had gone and his thoughts were muddled and incoherent. He roared away again. Then, something jerked him out of the dream. New voices. Different rhythms of speech. No longer men who knew each other well whispering among themselves; dialogue, back and forth, the two parties clearly distinguished. Interesting. Wished he could have stayed long enough to find out . . . But he was away again, riding that monstrous circuit of flame.
They came in the dark, he tried to fight them but he was too weak; he tried to cry for help, but they muffled his face, nearly stifling him. They carried him down narrow stone stairs, he knew that they were narrow and stone because as he struggled and thrashed about he smashed his fist against the wall, grazed his cheek and had the taste of blood in his mouth. He tried to pray but the wrong words, terrible blasphemies, came to his lips. He could see nothing, he was half-strangled and in great fear and pain. The wickedness of it, this ignominious bundling of a man into eternity!
‘In here,’ one of them said. ‘In here with him.’
They laid him down and he clung to one of them, pulling him forward so that the face was close to his own. It was Robin. He groaned, ‘Oh Robin, Robin, Robin!’
‘Tell him he is safe,’ Jasper commande
d.
‘You are safe,’ Robin said.
Henry lay back on something that was soft and yielding as a wave of the sea; he floated up and down, up and down, thinking how wonderful it was to be safe. Then the wave reminded him of something and he said to Robin, ‘The children! We’ll go round the headland and see what games the children play.’
Someone tried to intervene, but he clung to Robin. ‘They are singing. Listen, Robin, the children are singing. Sing me the song, Robin. The children’s song.’
Robin sang and Henry floated out of the reach of the shore.
After a time, however, he seemed to grow heavier and the wave steadied and became remarkably hard. He was aware of pain all over his body. He heard someone say, ‘The fever is leaving him now.’ He opened his eyes and found that he was lying on the floor, wrapped in a blanket; the room was small and seemed to be full of well-intentioned people. His uncle Jasper bent over him and spoke slowly and clearly as to a child.
‘The Duke has decided that it would be advisable for you to remain in Brittany after all. As your condition necessitated so many interruptions on our journey it was possible for your good friend, Pierre Landois, to get here in time to convey this message to King Edward’s men. He is with them now. We thought it prudent to remove you to this place in case they are unable to accept the decision calmly; and a hard task it was, with you shouting and struggling all the while! Now you had better rest and compose yourself for your return.’
Henry closed his eyes, his fingers still holding the blanket, rubbing it gently between thumb and forefinger. It had a coarse, but not unpleasant, smell.
Duke Francis received Henry back with lavish protestations of affection and remorse. Henry, enfeebled by fever, was spared the necessity of responding with a similar outburst of emotion; but he contrived to look so pitiful, woebegone, and yet withal to display such a pathetic dignity, that the Duke was all the more touched and swore to protect him so long ‘as I, Duke Francis, shall live.’
