by MARY HOCKING
Edward turned from her to the window again. ‘I intend to live a long time yet,’ he said lightly. The sunlight fell across his face, bright, but austere, lacking summer’s warmth; it inspected Edward’s features critically, noting the bloated cheeks, mottled and veined with wine, the reddened eyes, the tinge of purple on the lips. Edward winced and turned his head slightly, and by way of punishment for this evasion, it thumbed grimy shadows beneath each eye. Elizabeth, who was watching, had a glimpse of a man who was sick and aware of it. She experienced a sense that something inconceivable was happening; and, at the same time, there was the recognition of having arrived at some dreaded part of a journey, the stark landscape long anticipated, yet still coming upon her unawares. She cried out, no longer calculating the effect of words and actions, but stretching out her arms from the abyss into which she had inadvertently stumbled. ‘My love! You must take care for us, you must, you must!’
This agonized appeal, and the reversion to a former intimacy, seemed singularly inappropriate to Edward. He was embarrassed and irritated.
‘Of course this cannot continue, nor will it, I assure you!’ He was now brusquely in charge of himself and the situation. ‘But George is important enough in his own eyes without we encourage him by ravings as lunatic as his own.’
She stared at him, her eyes dull as though she had not taken in what he was saying. He had never seen her when she seemed so discomposed; there was a time when he would have been grateful for such weakness. But not now. He took his leave of her, striding out purposefully as though going immediately to put to rights this nonsense of Clarence’s.
In fact, however, he had not yet decided how best to deal with Clarence and, because her words still echoed unpleasantly in his ears, he went instead to the children’s chamber.
It was the hour when the older boy, who was six and a half, should have been receiving instruction from the chaplain (Edward had laid down strict rules for his son’s conduct, being as anxious for his spiritual well-being as he had been careless of his own) but he found both children play-acting in the company of a harassed nurse. The older boy was draped in an embroidered cloth and had a crudely made crown upon his head about which he was now complaining peevishly.
‘It’s heavy. I’m not going to wear it. We’ll pretend I’m wearing it.’
The younger child, more determined a player for all his youth, would have no truck with this kind of pretence and maintained stoutly, ‘If you don’t wear it, I will.’
‘You can’t, because you aren’t king.’
‘But you don’t want it.’
‘It’s mine, whether I want it or not!’
Unconvinced by this argument, the younger boy lunged at the crown and, failing to get it, pummelled his brother, his face becoming crimson with temper. The nurse intervened and dragged the contestants apart. While she quieted the younger boy, the older one rubbed his forehead and grumbled, ‘It’s made a dent, I can feel it!’ He then perceived his father, standing in the doorway, and hastily replaced the crown on his head, but further back so that it resembled a badly adjusted halo.
The nurse, no less embarrassed than her charge, stood back while the father greeted his children. It had been poor weather lately and the children had not been out and were therefore fractious and difficult to handle; but she was sorry she had given way to the chaplain’s suggestion that they should play at a time when Prince Edward should have been receiving instruction. Their father, however, did not seem annoyed, and he now resolved the dispute over the crown by taking off the gold girdle which he wore round his waist and draping it sash-like across the younger boy’s shoulder. ‘All will be well now,’ the nurse thought grimly, ‘until he’s expected to part with it. Then his father will see!’ She considered that the father spoilt his sons vastly, being in the habit of playing with them in a way she had never encountered in any of the other great households in which she had served. When these periods of play, sometimes quite rough, were finished, it took hours to quiet the excited children.
On this occasion Edward did not stay long, the younger boy early developing a coughing fit which he was wont to do when over-excited. While she comforted him, the nurse took possession of the girdle without his realizing it.
‘I see you are here alone,’ Edward said to her. ‘The Princes should be attended throughout the day. I thought such arrangements had been made.’
‘The man who was here was sick.’ He suffered from an inflammation of the bowels, but it seemed to her that he had best explain this for himself.
‘In any case, it is time something more detailed was laid down to govern Prince Edward’s day, else he will grow idle. I will speak to Lord Rivers about this.’
On leaving the children’s chamber Edward made his way to the chapel. He had meant to spend a few quiet moments ordering his thoughts before God, an exercise in which he did not often indulge. Something quite different happened. There was some loose plaster around the window frame and the wall was damp. The smell which came to Edward’s nostrils, however, was of dirty clothing faintly tinged with stale urine. The years performed one of those extraordinary somersaults they were wont to do now that as much time lay behind him as ahead. When he was a young man he had come into this chapel and found that frail, mad king, kneeling in prayer. Later, relating the incident to a friend, he had made a joke about the odour of holiness. He crossed himself.
Most of his life, Edward had been a stranger to sombre thoughts; but lately, as his digestion grew worse, he had been afflicted with fits of melancholy. At such times, it was much in his mind that many of the present evils of the realm had their origin in the long minority of Henry the Sixth. He would not be alone in thinking thus. Were he to die suddenly, the people would have no stomach for another boy king. Undoubtedly, there would be contenders for the throne, and who would have a stronger claim than George, Duke of Clarence, already named as heir by the Lancastrians? Now, as he knelt where Henry the Sixth had once knelt, it came into Edward’s mind that his own son might meet the same fate as that unworldly fool. It could not be! But how could he be sure of that since, when he signed Henry’s death warrant, he had himself proved that such things can be?
4
Edward replied in kind to the affair of Ankarette Twynyho. One of George’s trusted retainers, Thomas Burdett, was condemned and hanged for treasonable writing and attempting to procure the King’s death by necromancy. George would acknowledge no comparison between his treatment of Ankarette Twynyho and Edward’s cynical despatch of Thomas Burdett. So outraged was he that he interrupted a council meeting at West Minster to protest Burdett’s innocence.
One incident followed another; each speech made in private by the main contestants was carried from one person to another by spies and gossips. To Richard of Gloucester it was reported how ‘the Duke of Clarence not only repeats that the King is a bastard, but furthermore that his marriage with Queen Elizabeth is not legal because of a previous contract.’
At this stage. King Louis thought it entertaining to join in the game and let it be known to Edward that George had planned to marry Mary of Burgundy in order to seize the throne of England. By June, the need to teach George a lesson had resulted in his confinement in the Tower.
The following January when Edward’s son, the young Duke of York, was married, George was still in the Tower. For some, this cast a shadow over the festivities, but Prince Edward had other problems. He wanted to know why, since he was the elder and heir to the throne, his brother should be married before him. ‘He’s only four,’ he had protested to his attendant. ‘Only just four!’
The attendant laughed and said to Dr Ormond, the Prince’s tutor, ‘At the ripe age of seven! A proper son of his father!’ Dr Ormond looked disapproving and said nothing.
This was one of the lessons you learnt early in life. Prince Edward realized. It was all right during instruction with the chaplain or the tutor to ask questions; but when it came to the things that really mattered to you, it was very har
d to get a sensible reply.
As the wedding banquet at last came to a close, young Edward stood in the great hall pessimistically assessing the potential to answer questions sensibly of the three men who were with him. His Uncle Richard and the Duke of Buckingham had escorted the young bride to the wedding banquet and had then paid some attention to Prince Edward, but had now forgotten him, although Uncle Richard had one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. They had been joined by Lord Howard. These were not men in whose company Prince Edward had spent much time and he was apprehensive, being a child who preferred the familiar even when it was not particularly pleasing. He was, however, greatly interested in the Duke of Buckingham. Edward hoped that when he grew up he might seem as important as the Duke and he watched carefully to see how it was done. Buckingham stood legs apart, head and shoulders braced back, and every so often he rearranged his cloak, swinging it across his shoulders with a flourish that made Prince Edward think he was going to perform some spectacular feat, although usually he just changed his weight from one foot to the other. He did not speak much. Uncle Richard and Lord Howard were doing most of the talking; but he listened with wonderful vivacity, making himself so much a part of what was said that Prince Edward was sure he had thought of everything before either of the other two men.
As for Lord Howard . . . Prince Edward moved closer to his uncle who gave his shoulder a little shake and went on talking without registering any other interest in his nephew. Lord Howard was a wholly frightening person, big and dark and terribly fierce. His skin was coarse and swarthy and, though by no means inscrutable, his strongly carved features were somewhat slow to express his changes of mood. All of which gave the boy the impression that his face was made of something less yielding than flesh. In speech and manner he lacked the refinement of the courtiers to whose stylish airs Prince Edward was accustomed. It worried Prince Edward if people did not conform to the accustomed pattern of behaviour; if he had had his way people would have been like as peas in a pod. As it was, people represented a series of traps, each sprung differently so that in negotiating them you never seemed wholly to escape injury of one kind or another. Prince Edward looked round the room, seeking in vain for someone to reassure him. Oh, for one kind face among these splendid men!
‘That’s a miserable face to wear at your brother’s wedding banquet!’ His misery had been noticed by Lord Howard. ‘Perhaps he’s hungry. Didn’t you eat when you had the chance? Too busy watching what was going on, I suppose.’ To Edward’s dismay he was led away from his uncle and the important Duke of Buckingham, his arm in the grip of this burly barbarian who now thrust a way through the crowded room and instructed a servant to bring a few tasty morsels for the Prince. Edward was too sick with apprehension to swallow, but fortunately by the time the servant arrived with a dish of fruit and nuts, Howard had again been joined by Uncle Richard and the Duke of Buckingham and Edward and his supposed hunger was forgotten. The Duke of Buckingham was talking about the mummers who had played for the King and his guests the previous week. Uncle Richard said, in the tone of one who puts paid to the pleasure of others, that he had no stomach for such entertainments at this time. The three men suddenly became very serious, and Howard said mysteriously, ‘I never knew a man better able to make enemies.’ While they engaged in a conversation of ever-increasing obscurity, Prince Edward passed the plate of food to an attendant.
The snow which had been falling earlier in the day had stopped and it was very cold now; Edward saw ice on the window pane. There was a bitter draught cutting across the stone floor and his feet were frozen. Then fingers tightened on his shoulder and he forgot about the cold. He looked up, terrified that the disposal of the food had been noticed. But it was his uncle whose hand was on his shoulder, and whoever had done something wrong, it wasn’t Prince Edward. His uncle was looking at the Duke of Buckingham who was saying, ‘He took it particularly ill that the King, while refusing consent to his marriage with Mary of Burgundy, should support the claims of Lord Rivers . . .’
‘Lord Rivers!’ Uncle Richard spat but the words.
‘It is said that the Queen pressed this very strongly.’ The Duke of Buckingham’s voice was as important as his manner and Edward was sorry when his new hero was brusquely interrupted by the grim Howard.
‘Whatever is said, it is of no consequence now, since it seems the lady hasn’t a mind to marry either of them.’
‘It is of some consequence to my brother, who now finds himself arraigned for the treason of hoping for what, it seems, was not begrudged Lord Rivers!’
‘And for much else besides, Dickon.’
‘But nothing he has done recently compares with his earlier follies, all of which were forgiven. Why act now when there is less to forgive?’
‘One person is the more injured this time. You know the rumours he has set afoot as well as I do.’ Howard growled this reply so low his voice seemed to come from somewhere in his stomach rather than his throat.
‘On the contrary, I know very little. It’s only in London where so much attention is paid to gossip and rumour . . .’
Howard said, ‘It’s no use, Dickon. Parliament meets to try him tomorrow and nothing you can say can prevent that—or anything that follows. And best say no more now.’ He spoke the last sentence in a changed voice, quiet and abrupt. Turning his head. Prince Edward saw Lord Stanley approaching them. His face was flushed and unlike the others he seemed in a very merry mood. He had apparently heard the mention of Clarence’s name, because he began to speak of him at once. Although Lord Howard tried to stop him. Lord Stanley went on talking, laughing loudly and slopping wine from his glass.
‘You know what he said to me once? He said, “If I had the choosing of my end, I’d be drowned in a butt of malmsey!” Very good that, I thought. At least it would enable him to die as he had lived!’
Lord Howard said, ‘Careful!’
There was silence. All the rest of the room continued to jostle with noise, but here it was cold and still. Then Lord Howard moved forward and took Lord Stanley by the arm. ‘The wine is talking too loud,’ he said, and he led Lord Stanley, who was no longer laughing, away. The Duke of Buckingham had moved back a step and he was looking at Uncle Richard as though he had never seen him before instead of having looked at him for the last half-hour at least. Uncle Richard did indeed look very strange; against his red hair, his face was a lemon colour and his mouth was very thin and Edward could see that the lips were chafed. He had been told that his uncle sometimes flew into great rages, but as he associated rage with a lot of noise Edward assumed that whatever had made his uncle so rigid must be a kind of sickness. He was very frightened and began to tremble.
Then, with that unreason which is a part of adult behaviour. Uncle Richard suddenly became aware of him. ‘You are very quiet,’ he said. ‘What is the matter?’
Edward, tired and close to tears, said hoarsely, ‘Why is my brother married before me?’
Uncle Richard studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then he bent down and said gently, ‘You are not married yet because we have to find someone much more important for you to marry. Do you understand?’
Edward understood perfectly, and the relief was so great that he forgot all the unpleasant things that had been happening and was filled with simple joy.
Later, as his attendant led him away to his chamber, he heard Lord Stanley grumbling, ‘. . . can’t take the mildest joke . . .’
‘Jokes about Clarence are out of season,’ Lord Howard said.
The door into the palace yard was open, people were leaving; there was the sound of snow crunched beneath heavy boots and the jingle of harness. Edward could see the roof of the opposite wing of the building; the layer of snow was blue and fitted close and snug as thatch. Impulsively, he ran forward and in spite of the protests of his attendant, stood on the threshold. ‘Come away from that door!’ the attendant was alarmed as though the night air harboured murderous intent. There were a lot of stars, very bright and
near. The discomfort of stinging cold on his cheeks, of which Edward would have complained miserably on a less magical evening, now only sharpened his pleasure.
‘Can I go and watch them leave?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Of course not. It would be the death of you with that chest.’
‘No, no, it wouldn’t, really it wouldn’t. I’d only stay a minute, just long enough to crunch the snow.’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ the attendant said.
They always said that, but it wasn’t true. The next time, it was. ‘You’re too old for that, now.’ There never was a time when things were just right for you to do what you wanted to do.
Even over the drapes round the bed, he couldn’t get his way. ‘I don’t want them pulled tonight,’ he said. ‘Then I can lie and look at the snow.’
But the drapes were pulled, and he was cut off from that magical world; the heavy material soon stifled every breath of that sharp, clear air.
Chapter Nine
1
Parliament found Clarence guilty of treason and he was condemned to death. By what means he met his death, few knew, but Stanley’s joke gave rise to the rumour that he was drowned in a butt of malmsey.
Richard of Gloucester founded two colleges where prayers would be offered for members of his family and for the souls of their departed brethren. Over the next five years, Richard spent much of his time in the north and saw little of his brother, the King. He put his absence from court down to the press of duty. ‘Also, the climate here suits me better,’ he said to his friend Viscount Lovell.
In the far north, the country was grimmer than Richard’s beloved Yorkshire. On the wild heights, over desolate tracts, the wall the Romans built still stood guard against the ancient enemy. It was a country where man must always be vigilant, the eye straining in the twilight, the ear alert in the dark night. This suited Richard; he was a vigilant person. There would never be rest here, never a time when a man would walk easily. This was something to which he could accustom himself He was not a man who looked for ease or would have known what to do with it had he found it.
