by MARY HOCKING
‘So?’ Richard appeared to take the news quietly, and repaired to the inn where it had been arranged that he and Buckingham would spend the night. But to his secretary, John Kendall, he voiced his unease. ‘The Lord Rivers is in great haste; the Duke of Buckingham delays. What think you of this?’
‘I think that the Duke of Buckingham has had far to travel,’ Kendall replied soberly.
‘And Lord Rivers must as easily be excused in that he had not so far to travel?’
Kendall, who was standing by the window, said, ‘He comes in person to make his excuses, if I mistake not the colours of these men.’
Richard joined him by the window and saw that he was right. Rivers, however, had arrived too late. The time for excuses was past. There was in Richard’s character an element of rashness which led him to favour attack when diplomacy might have served him better. Now he was ready for a clash with Rivers, and it was irksome to find that instead he must listen to the man’s explanations about the difficulty of quartering troops in Northampton and the great advantage, which he was unable to specify, of quartering them in Stony Stratford.
‘You must be hungry after so much exertion,’ Richard cut him short and sent a servant to bring food and wine. When they sat down to dine together, he picked up his flask of wine and leant forward; he was laughing and seemed to have shed all the restraint which had been apparent in his manner when he first greeted Rivers. Torchlight flickered across his face, making something extravagant, and a little grotesque of its impish gaiety, a gaiety which the bright eyes invited Rivers to share. Rivers raised his flask to return Richard’s salute. He seemed bemused by this unexpected vivacity in a man he had deemed unduly sober.
‘This is well met indeed, for I must confess I was afraid you intended to press on to London without me. Yes, yes! I assure you!’ He treated Rivers’ protest with amusement as though they both knew it to be an empty gesture. ‘I know that the Queen, your sister, has no liking for me and I had it in mind that she had exhorted you to make all haste without me.’
‘As you see, this was not so,’ Rivers answered uneasily.
‘I see at least that you have not complied.’ Richard flung himself back, tilting his chair; he was restless but still seemed in a good humour. ‘I am very glad to find you here; because I shall need to examine your stewardship and, I am sure, to compliment you upon it.’
‘My stewardship?’
‘You have for some time been in charge of my nephew. He must have learnt much from you.’
Richard’s face was in shadow now. Rivers, a natural actor, began to assert himself. ‘I take no credit.’ He made a light movement of one hand as though bidding credit stand aside. ‘He is a studious boy.’
‘Studious? Oh, I feel you should take some credit for that.’
‘And pious.’
‘Studious and pious! The realm will indeed be well-served by this youth. He has learnt something of the affairs of the state, no doubt?’
‘As much as befits a boy . . .’
‘Who at any time may find himself a king?’
‘It was very sudden. We none of us . . .’
‘As long as there is nothing to be unlearnt.’ Richard swung forward into the light, elbows on the table, chin propped on clenched fists. He smiled at Rivers, one eyebrow raised. ‘What, for example, have you taught him about me?’
‘You are his uncle . . .’
‘He would have known that without your teaching.’
The eyes were extraordinarily compelling. They convinced Rivers that he was indeed guilty of something, though he knew not what. He protested, ‘I assumed that, as the boy’s uncle, you would have had the opportunity to teach him anything you wished.’
For some seconds the two men sat staring at each other; then Richard laughed and, leaning forward, shook Rivers’ shoulder. ‘I have had no such opportunity, as well you know!’ He sat back, seemingly in good humour again. ‘But this will now be remedied so we will talk about it no more. Come, the food gets cold. I am hungry, if you are not! Tell me, while we eat, what news you have from London, for I am sure you are better informed than I.’
Rivers favoured him with a long, melancholy dissertation on his weariness with London and the intrigues of the court; all of which he expressed so fastidiously that Richard, who might well have agreed with some of his sentiments, found himself wondering what place could possibly satisfy a man of such exquisite sensibilities. As Rivers talked of the wonders he had seen on his pilgrimages and how they had made him dissatisfied with the life of a courtier, the door behind him opened. Richard raised his eyes to meet those of the man who stood there. Rivers, imagining that a servant had come with more wine, continued to extol the glories of St John of Compostella while Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and Henry, Duke of Buckingham, looked into each other’s eyes and understood one another a deal better than they would have done had words been demanded of either at that moment. By the time Buckingham and Rivers had greeted each other, and the three men were seated at table, it was as though Buckingham was a player in a scene long- rehearsed between himself and Gloucester. The stage was now his and he filled it magnificently.
‘They tell me you were unable to accommodate your party here,’ he jested with Rivers. ‘You must travel in great splendour.’
‘These are uneasy times.’ Rivers’ thoughts were now much with St John of Compostella, else he would surely have minded his words more. ‘There must be many who are not pleased at the prospect of another long minority. We must look to the safety of the young King.’
‘Indeed,’ Richard acknowledged with mock gravity, ‘this will ever be my purpose.’
‘And those who have long memories will surely recall how during the minority of our late but little lamented Henry the Sixth the country was bedevilled by the weakness of those in power; and none weaker than the man then named as Protector.’ Buckingham looked at Rivers. ‘We are more fortunate because the affairs of the state will be in firm hands. Do you not agree with me?’
While Buckingham behaved in a lively and provocative manner which made it obvious that he enjoyed challenging Rivers, he also made it apparent that in his view the authority of Gloucester was beyond challenge, a thing as little subject to chance or change as the rising of the sun in the east. His broad, fair face glowed as though, sitting here opposite Gloucester, he felt the touch of that same sun.
Rivers did not seem to find the prospect of a long protectorship any more pleasing than a long minority. Perhaps to make up for his lack of fervour, or perhaps because he was singularly unable to assess his situation, he said, ‘I have no liking for these matters, and shall be glad to relinquish my authority over the young King.’
‘I may be able to assist you in this,’ Richard murmured. In the flickering light Buckingham’s eyes glinted merrily.
‘I had thought I might go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.’
‘Our thoughts could scarcely be more in accord,’ Richard said drily.
‘I swear life is almost too easy for a man such as you!’ Buckingham exclaimed. ‘You have no ambition and intrigue must, therefore, be unknown to you; your tastes are austere,’ he re-charged Rivers’ glass, ‘your desire’s so stern you would prefer to mortify the flesh rather than to satisfy its lusts. Your very presence is a rebuke to such as I, who have enjoyed the food which you have tonight eaten with the utmost reluctance. Your purity condemns my weakness, you make my faults the blacker. This is not kind. Rather than go on a pilgrimage, I think you should do penance for so shaming lesser men by your virtue.’
‘I have been no stranger to vice,’ Rivers assured him a trifle querulously. He began to recount incidents from his past to show that whatever else he might be, he was no prude.
It was after midnight when he left them. They watched him ride away, the sparks flying round his horse’s hooves.
‘Who is this man?’ Buckingham said. ‘Is he a soldier, a scholar, an artist, a religious? It seems he scarcely knows himself! You seek his c
ounsel and he will give you an account of the binding of a book; you look to him for stern judgement, he will be exquisite; he dines well, yet when you seek him as a companion he will fast! You talk to him of purity and he becomes bawdy. Above all, when you look for him at your side in danger, you will find him lost in meditation.’
‘He should not be denied the opportunity for meditation.’ Richard turned away from the window to where a group of their more trusted followers awaited them. ‘I shall give him much to think on.’
‘But beware!’ Buckingham joined the group, dominating it by the liveliness of his personality as much as by virtue of his rank. ‘If he meditates for long it is extraordinary how his thoughts turn from things holy to schemes of a baser kind.’
‘What think you?’ Richard turned to Kendall, whose judgement of men he respected.
‘I doubt that you have much to fear from Lord Rivers. He is the kind of man who would never be resolute for fear of being thought rash.’
‘Aye, that may well be so,’ Buckingham intervened. ‘I too doubt whether on his own he is capable of action. The danger lies in his joining forces with those who can put him to good use.’
‘Is such a man good for any purpose?’ Richard looked at Buckingham.
‘He has young Edward’s confidence. I hear much of this for, whether I wish it or not, I have my wife’s confidence and have to listen to endless talk about the Queen and her brothers. And if one thing is certain, it is that it will take more to wean the young King from Rivers than ever it took to take him from his mother’s breast.’
Buckingham did not seek to temper his dislike of Rivers with a pretence of reasonableness; but he spoke with a passionate conviction which was irresistible. Richard, watching him as he argued, thought that here was a man who had qualities which he himself did not possess; together, they would be eloquent, zealous, wise and resolute. He could have stormed London, there was something so wild in the air that night! The fate of Rivers seemed unimportant and Richard ended the talk abruptly by announcing that Rivers was to be arrested in the morning. Buckingham applauded. This was his first cause and he was resolved to give himself to it with all his heart. To Richard, it was the only cause. They were close to each other at this time.
Although Richard agreed to see Rivers the next morning, nothing that the Earl could say was of any avail. Richard knew that he was fighting for his own survival and a strong gesture was needed to show the Queen that the Protector had every intention of assuming power.
The first who must learn this lesson was the young King, who now awaited them at Stony Stratford. The boy greeted his uncle and the Duke of Buckingham quietly, his pale, thin face looking chilled in the spiteful April wind. He asked repeatedly after Rivers and did not seem much comforted when it was explained to him that from hence he would be guided by his uncle.
‘A poor, queasy boy,’ Buckingham said.
‘No doubt he will grow stronger,’ Richard replied somewhat brusquely, being reminded of his own delicate son.
As they set out for London, Richard settled himself more easily in the saddle. He had taken a step of some consequence but had no regrets; whatever else might one day lie on his conscience, it would not be the fate of Rivers. This was no time for temporizing when he who moved first might gain all. He began to discuss plans for the future with Buckingham.
‘Hastings grows impatient and fears conspiracy.’
‘Hastings has done you good service.’ Buckingham’s voice lacked its customary enthusiasm.
Richard said, ‘I need friends in London. Things have never gone well for me there.’ He had no illusion that the man who had been so close to Edward would serve his brother as faithfully: whatever Hastings’ feelings for Edward had been, they were not of the kind which can be transferred to another. Nevertheless, he owed much to Hastings and must put his doubts aside for the time being.
3
Two pigeons on the ridge of the stable roof were performing an elaborate courtship. It was a surprisingly intricate ritual and Henry, Earl of Richmond, observed it thoughtfully because he had nothing else to do at that moment. The footwork seemed to follow a pattern, three steps forward, a bow of the head, three steps forward, another bow, then a return to the original position; while the female perched with downcast head, her beady eyes fixed on a patch of moss a pecking distance away. Finally, goaded by this lack of interest, the male jumped up and perched on her back, a manoeuvre which she accepted with complete unconcern. This, however, appeared not to be the consummation, for the male then returned to his original position and began to step neatly forward again, while his chosen partner raised her head and gazed towards a distant birch tree. Henry said over his shoulder to Robin Prithie, who had come in bearing a tray, ‘Even the pigeons know that something strange is abroad.’
‘Something strange?’
‘It is spring.’ Henry turned from the window, amused by the concern in Robin’s voice. ‘That season about which the poets have so much to say. The drumming in the blood . . .’
‘Why, yes . . .’ Robin seemed unable to pick up the thread of Henry’s discourse. Yet who, Henry thought, should know more of spring than my spritely Robin, this devil-may-care green shoot, this wicked thrust that prises open the clenched bud, that cuts the knotted weeds and plays havoc with the stagnant water? Even now, in this dull room, the light singled him out and quivered around him as he moved to set the tray down on the table. Henry seated himself and picked up the knife, then paused, the knife poised above the plate. ‘I think that perhaps the coming of spring should be celebrated in some small way.’ He wondered whether he should send for wine; last week the wine had given him stomach ache and he had drunk water since then, but the water often had a bad effect and did not taste as pleasant as the wine.
‘You should indeed celebrate!’ Robin was as fussed as a nurse whose charge shows signs of becoming petulant. ‘Will you but eat this now, and I will see that you are provided with more substantial fare tonight. With roast ox and venison, perhaps salmon . . .’
Roast ox and venison! Henry felt his stomach distend. Robin was talking about pigeon and swan now. He knew that Henry was not apt to gorge himself, yet there was no humour in his manner. Some lack of nerve prompted this agitated chatter. Henry put the knife down slowly; he felt as though a great hole had been opened in his body and that although he was surprised, he had nevertheless always known that one day this would happen. He stared at the fish. He had not eaten any of it; yet his body told him he had already suffered a terrible injury. He pushed at the fish with the point of his knife; out of the corner of his eye he saw that Robin, who had now become silent, was watching him closely. Beyond, the ripple of water in sunlight was reflected on the stone arch of the window, like gentle, mellow flames of light. I have never trusted him Henry thought, so why is the pain so bad? Is there some indulgence more dangerous than trust which I have unwittingly permitted myself? He speared a piece of fish and saw a flash of relief light up Robin’s face.
‘And you will bring me roast ox and venison tonight?’ he asked softly.
‘Roast ox and venison! Did I say that?’ Robin laughed.
‘And pigeon and salmon. Indeed, we are celebrating!’
‘My wits must have been wandering.’
They both laughed. Then Henry extended the knife with the speared fish towards Robin. The liveliness drained from the impudent face, leaving it dun-coloured and unwholesome.
‘I have already tasted it.’ Robin’s mouth was so dry he could scarcely speak.
‘I am not concerned about poison.’ In truth, Henry cared so little he was tempted to eat rather than make the effort to speak lightly. ‘But that fish we had last week did not agree with me. I should like to know if this is the same; you remember, we commented that it was uncommonly oily. An unmistakable flavour.’
Robin’s tongue flicked across his dry lips. ‘I had forgotten.’ His voice was shaking. ‘It is the same, I particularly noticed the flavour. I had forgotten . . . I
will take it away.’
There was silence. Henry looked at him and Robin stared at the knife with the piece of fish on it as at a sword pointed at his stomach.
Henry said, ‘Yes. Take it away.’ He put the knife down on the plate. Robin moved forward, his head bent, and reached for the plate; a hand came down and gripped his wrist. Robin fell clumsily to his knees. Henry was not a strong man, but the grip on the wrist made Robin moan with pain. Henry looked at the dark head with its strong, black curls and it seemed that it was he and not Robin who was moaning. But moaning is a ritual lamentation: this pain needed tongues of fire. Henry’s face was grey, its withered lips parted slightly; as he twisted Robin’s wrist so Robin began to scream and when the wrist was broken he screamed the more unrestrainedly so that he who had given so little at least now gave to Henry the sound of his own pain. It was only when the door was flung open by his uncle that Henry let go of Robin.
‘Dear God, what has happened?’Jasper summoned others to his aid.
‘I don’t like the fish.’ Henry turned his ravaged face from them. ‘Send him about his business and see that he finds something more to my liking this evening.’
Robin was dragged half-senseless from the room.
Henry was not given to violence and this scene would at any other time have aroused some concern; but Jasper had news which could not wait the telling. ‘King Edward is dead.’
Henry said, ‘Is he indeed.’ He laid his hand on his thigh, clenching and unclenching it to relieve the cramp in his fingers.
