He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘You must not say such things!’ he shouted.

  ‘You behave as though death was a fate reserved especially for me,’ she mocked him lightly. ‘It will come to you, too. So why may we not speak of it?’

  ‘You torment me!’ he protested like a frightened child. ‘You have always tormented me.’

  ‘I want only to ease things for you, not to torment you. When I die you will marry again.’

  He protested violently, but she said, ‘Of course you must marry, there can be no question of that! Nor will you have far to look.’ She spoke of Princess Elizabeth, hoping that by advocating this marriage at a time when it was unpalatable to him she might thereby prevent it. She did not want him to be denied comfort after she died, but she could not bear to be acquainted with the comforter. She hated herself for this weakness but could not overcome it.

  People pointed at Elizabeth and whispered things in her ear that frightened her. But to whom could she look for deliverance? To Henry Tudor who had contracted to marry her? No one here took his chances of claiming such a bride very seriously. Even so, Elizabeth found herself wondering what kind of a rescuer he would be. Her half-brother, the Marquis of Dorset, had written to her describing Henry as ‘a cold, unfeeling man who would bring little joy to any woman.’ It was not very encouraging. She had her life still to live and there must be love and joy because her heart commanded it. She wrote to her half-brother, saying, ‘I would have you tell me what is good in this man.’

  She had no reply, but her mother received a letter from him in which he sent a brief message to Elizabeth.

  ‘I am to tell you that Henry Tudor is just, though why that should interest you, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Just!’ Elizabeth said in dismay. ‘What is “just” to me?’ But as ‘just’ was all she had, she tried to make a place for it in her heart. If a man is just, will he not be merciful and if he is merciful, will he not be considerate, kind and tender? And from these attributes surely in time, if a woman is patient, love and affection may grow.

  Elizabeth wrestled with the problems of life and Anne set herself seriously to her dying. Richard was told that he must not share her bed for her sickness was contagious. The black winter days crept by. Sometimes he stole into her chamber, but she had little to say to him. His needs no longer roused her and his presence fretted her; she felt him trying to draw her back to life but had barely the strength to be sad for him. She knew herself of no use now to anyone and longed for the end to come.

  ‘I wish the wind would cease,’ she said.

  ‘There is no wind today,’ he answered.

  ‘It is in my head, then. I hear it in my head.’

  At first, the wind brought the stench of the sewers, but gradually this changed, and the wind carried to her the smell of the moorland and its sound was the sound of another wind, a wind that sang on a high, sustained note beyond the range of human sound addressing itself to the great blue vaults that lie between the sun and the stars. She pleaded to whoever was with her ‘open the window; open the window wide!’ She pleaded so incessantly that Richard would sometimes pretend to open the window. She had terrible coughing fits after which she was utterly exhausted; but the exhaustion seemed to bring contentment and she would lie quite still, her tiny claws resting on the counterpane, her head turned to one side, her eyes gazing so raptly at the window that it seemed to Richard that there was something out there which might still at this late stage of her sickness bring about a miraculous recovery. But as he watched her, he saw that she was changing in a way that drew her further and further from him. Days before she died she was lost to him. She lay remote and serene, freed at last from all his claims on her. The lines on her face had been smoothed out and she looked young as he had never known her, and at peace as she had never been with him. It was as though at last all her hopes had been realized. She was beautiful. But she was not his Anne. His Anne’s face had been marked with care and suffering and he wanted this Anne to be restored to him.

  On the day she died it was dark. The sun was blotted out and people all over the country wondered what this might betoken. For Richard, the darkness seemed never quite to clear. When his brother Edward died, something had been taken from Richard which had never been replaced. Then his dear son had died and he, too, had taken something of Richard with him. Now that Anne had died, all his riches had gone. He sought for comfort and came across the Book of Hours for which he had pestered her and been so little grateful when she gave it to him that he had scarcely looked at it from that day to this. ‘I shall keep it with me forever,’ he swore. But the book alone was not enough. His agony was terrible, but it was all he had and he must offer it to God as others raise hymns of praise and adoration. He had composed for him a prayer which he himself transcribed in the Book of Hours.

  ‘Of the blessed Julian. As you wished to relieve those

  burdened with sore afflictions, to redeem the captives, to

  free the imprisoned, to bring together those who are

  scattered, restore the pilgrims to their native land, to restore

  the contrite in heart, to comfort the wretched, to console

  those who grieve and mourn; deign to release me from the

  affliction, temptation, grief, infirmity, poverty and peril in

  which I am held, and give me aid. And you, O Lord, who

  restored the race of man into concord with the Father, and

  who bought back with thine own precious blood that

  forfeited inheritance of paradise, and who made peace

  between men and angels, deign to establish and confirm

  concord between me and my enemies. Show to me and

  pour out on me the glory of thy grace. Deign to assuage,

  turn aside, extinguish and bring to nothing, the hatred that

  they bear towards me. I ask you, O most gentle Christ

  Jesus to save me from all perils of body and soul by thy

  love and deign always to deliver and succour me, and after

  the course of this life deign to bring me to you, the living

  and true god. Who livest and reignest, O God, Through

  Christ, the true Lord Amen.’

  With the penning of this prayer, some peace came to him.

  Another spring came. The great festival of Easter was celebrated and nowhere more fervently than at Foxlow Priory. Already there were legends about Ormond, tales of flowers blooming all the year round near the place where he had been burnt. ‘Heresy blooming all the year round more likely,’ the prioress said grimly when her attention was drawn to these stories.

  Princess Elizabeth watched for the willows to come out. There was one tree in particular which fascinated her. It was an old, gnarled tree borne down by heavy branches from each of which young twigs sprayed out, each making its own gesture, menacing, humorous, provocative. Although the branches dipped down, each twig thrust its tip upwards, and inside the tree a wily green creature had pushed its way up the trunk, along the branches, and now peeped out at each upthrust tip, gay, impudent, and, above all, joyous.

  ‘Why do you keep looking at that tree?’ Elizabeth’s sister Cecily asked.

  ‘It’s so joyful.’

  ‘How can a tree be joyful?’

  ‘I don’t know how, it just is.’ The tree was so old, it had not found its joy, it had grown into it over many, many years. ‘Look at it. Can’t you see?’

  ‘I can see it is coming into leaf

  ‘I wish I was like the tree,’ Elizabeth sighed. This was a worrying time. It was known that Henry Tudor had pledged to marry her and there was the danger that her Uncle Richard might put a stop to that by marrying her himself. She prayed that Henry would come while the willow was still in leaf.

  The days dragged on. Sometimes she was hopeful and sometimes she was so despondent she was not sure that she wanted Henry to come at all. Then she remembered what Anne had said about loving—‘the seed is within you and you must nourish it.’ She tried t
o set aside a time each day when she sat near the willow and composed herself to nourish her love. Sometimes she failed miserably and feared what the future might hold with this unknown man; but the days of the tree outnumbered the days of her weakness.

  Summer came and the days lengthened, for several days the rolling sun stood still in the heavens; then, gradually, the days shortened and it was August. The wind was from the east. It scythed through the long grass beyond the castle of Ludlow; it screeched across the Marches and rampaged in the Welsh mountains.

  From the mountains the small dark men looked down and saw a track like a line of cotton onto which had been threaded a procession of tiny coloured figures which wound through a narrow cleft and then gradually eased into a valley. The figures were so small it seemed that the wind must bear them away; but in spite of their frailty, the tiny creatures held on with surprising tenacity, their mothlike banners fluttering bravely. At the next pass they drew together. The cloud was dark over the pass and they were swallowed up in shadow, but later on they appeared again, winding down into a broad valley, threading their way slowly towards England.

  At the van of the cavalcade, Henry Tudor looked up at the great dragon banner of Cadwallader flying above his head. He fingered his gift stone and hoped that the compact made so long ago would be honoured as more recent compacts had not been. He gave a little sigh, and his uncle, imagining him to be tired, said, ‘Not so far to go now.’

  Behind them the mountains grew smaller and the unfamiliar land of England lay ahead of Henry. He wondered whether it would prove unfriendly as well as unfamiliar. He needed friends in England. He had come with but three thousand men and had expected the powerful chieftain Rhys ap Thomas to join him before now. Thomas had in his time supported both York and Lancaster and Henry had cause for anxiety that he might not honour the promises he had made. It was a relief when, in Newtown, he was joined by Thomas. Even with the chieftain’s support, Henry’s force still numbered less than five thousand and much would depend on the Stanleys. He did not like what he had heard of them, even though Lord Stanley was his stepfather. A week later, when he met Sir William, Lord Stanley’s brother, at Stafford, he had no cause to change his mind.

  Lord Stanley was not present at this meeting. Although Henry met him briefly a few days later at Atherstone, it was this encounter with Sir William that stayed in his mind. Sir William explained that Lord Stanley’s son was in King Richard’s hands and he dared not declare himself at this stage. ‘But he pledges his loyalty to your cause.’ Sir William paused to allow these weighty words to take their effect.

  Henry pushed a finger against the side of his nose and studied Sir William. His nose was now pointing in a different direction to the rest of his face. Sir William thought one might have taken this young man for a buffoon had it not been for the grey eyes which held their direction uncommonly steadily. He went on quickly to state that Lord Stanley was encamped to the east of Shrewsbury with a large body of men while he, with no less a force, was encamped to the north-east. ‘In time convenient’ they would move to support Henry. Henry, looking at Sir William’s thin face, the lids hooding the evasive eyes, thought that this was all very well; but when would time be convenient for the Stanleys, and would it be in time for Henry Tudor?

  Henry had intended to march on London, but Sir William counselled against this. Henry listened to his reasons and put aside his dislike of the man. ‘Richard is at Nottingham and will move quickly, as he has before now. If you march on London, you may well have him on your back and—which God forfend—if things go badly for you, you will be cut off from Wales where support for you is strong.’

  ‘As it is not in England?’

  ‘These are early days,’ Sir William shrugged.

  ‘They are the only days I have,’ Henry retorted.

  ‘There is another advantage in forcing a battle now. I have said that Richard will move quickly; but it is doubtful whether the same can be said of Northumberland, who has no love for Richard. Strike quickly, and you may find him unprepared for action.’

  King Richard’s problems and mine seem to be remarkably similar, Henry thought as he looked at Sir William. This was not a man who played for the highest stakes. He and his brother had ambitions which were practical and so there was some possibility of satisfying the Stanleys: they could be bought and at not too high a price. In an age which had produced far more dangerous men, it was not wise to get rid of the Stanleys; any man who hoped to rule must number such men among his supporters.

  Henry said, ‘It is your suggestion then that I march towards Leicester, rather than turning south towards London?’

  Sir William nodded.

  ‘And you and your brother will join forces with me?’

  ‘We will move our forces in advance of you. This way, we shall not declare our intentions to Richard too soon.’

  Henry could see that this would also enable the Stanleys to position their men to suit their own convenience. They could then sit the battle out and see which way it went and there was nothing that Henry Tudor or Richard Plantagenet could do about it. Henry bowed his head to hide the cold fury which possessed him. He vowed that, if he survived this battle, in future he would fight his kind of battle and on ground of his choosing. Now, however, he needed to know the odds against him. He said to Sir William: ‘I have been informed that King Richard can be expected to bring to the field some six thousand men; and that the Earl of Northumberland, should he be more eager for battle than you imagine, will bring three thousand. So, at the worst, we shall face armies totalling nine thousand. Do you agree?’

  Sir William, a little taken aback that Henry should have available such accurate information, said that he agreed.

  ‘And you, how many men do you bring?’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘Three thousand, five hundred—perhaps four thousand.’

  ‘I see.’ Henry, who could only bring some five thousand men to the field, as against Richard’s nine thousand, saw very clearly that he had small reason to hope if the Stanleys deserted him. When Sir William had taken his leave, he said to Jasper, ‘If these are to be our “supporters” in England, may God have mercy on us!’

  ‘They are the only English supporters of Richard who are pledged to join with you,’ Jasper said wearily. ‘You have no choice but to trust them.’

  ‘They change sides too often for anyone to trust them.’ It seemed to Henry that he was soon to fight a battle which, if numbers were of any consequence, he could have little expectation of winning. He would not forget the indecision of the Stanleys.

  The next day he prepared to march to meet Richard.

  ‘The Tudor is at Shrewsbury and no blow struck!’ Richard made some small amend for this by striking the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Why has Northumberland not alerted the men of York? What are the Stanleys doing?’

  He sounded angry. Yet deep in his heart he was not as angry as Henry had been with the Stanleys. Henry might vow that if he won this battle he would deal with men like the Stanleys. But to Richard this was neither the beginning nor the end of the Stanleys’ treachery but a process which had gone on all his life and which he seemed powerless to prevent. If he could have so ordered himself that he did not care it would have been better for him; but he still longed for the respect and loyalty of his subjects and the battle between hope and despair had wounded him sorely.

  The news from York brought little comfort. The plague was spreading there and many of the members of the city council were staying outside the walls. They would send what men they could but their numbers were bound to be depleted. Richard headed for Leicester where he would join forces with the one commander of whose loyalty he had no doubt, the Duke of Norfolk. To his rear, the army of Northumberland was at last on the move; and the Stanleys, each with their own army, were approaching Leicester from the west. Five armies mustered in support of Richard would converge on Leicester; a formidable force, p
rovided all the men could be brought to the field.

  The commander of the sixth army now approaching Leicester was himself something short of confident. Henry Tudor had come to save England from the ravages of the Yorkists, but to his untutored eyes it did not look ravaged. Now that they had left behind the wilder border area, the countryside, in comparison with that of France, had a miniature neatness and an appearance of self-sufficiency. The sun was reddening the distant hills and long shadows fingered the fields. As Henry regarded this land which was completely alien to him, something more than fear, with which he was well-acquainted, weighed like a stone in his belly. What seeds could he sow in this soil and what would the land yield him in return? A breeze stirred the bushes and thistles at the roadside like a shiver of regret for the passing day. Henry saw that this land would yield him nothing; that it would take and take and take until he was harrowed to the bone. Why had he come?

  These fears are the fears of all men before battle, he told himself. Yet his intelligence told him otherwise. His intelligence told him that a harder road lay ahead of him than any he had yet ridden down; it told him that soon Henry Tudor was to fight Richard Plantagenet for the right to feel the weight of the crown grow ever heavier on his brow; to fight Richard for his cares and disappointments, to take from him the betrayals, the hatred, the envy; to fight him that he, Henry, might be the one to grow old and bitter.

  At this point in his melancholy reflections, Henry noticed that the people who rode with him were also looking anxiously about them. At first, he thought that they, too, were uneasy in this land of England. ‘Now I must say something to reassure them,’ he thought tetchily. ‘They are like children.’ While he was trying to think of something reassuring to say, one of his esquires said to him: