Some Touch of Pity

by Rhoda Edwards

  Nevertheless, Robert appeared to have less confidence than myself in Lord Stanley’s neutrality. We rode the few miles to Kenilworth in a silence that after a while plunged me deeper than ever into gloom. The towering elms that lined the road made a green tunnel of mould-smelling shade, keeping the way miry as in mid-winter. The place had the air of a graveyard. I am not much given to daytime fantasies, but for a short space I lost awareness of White Surrey’s solid bulk between my knees, and fancied I stood pinned against a tall elm’s trunk, unable to move a finger to free myself. I’d been there some time too, waiting for an end — exposed, pinned down and helpless, like a corpse laid out for a surgeon’s anatomy lesson, nails through my hands, neck, feet and heart. There was nowhere behind for me to go, nowhere in front.

  I must have shivered and jerked at the reins, for White Surrey threw up his head and shied in protest. When he was quietened, I thought: I looked too sadly upon the Smiths’ play, the hammer, nails and bloody hands. But I knew that my words to Rob had been left unfinished. The crown is not the only stake I must play in this deadly game, this war of which the very thought drags me down to despair, it is my life. Men of God say that to live without hope is a grievous sin. Then among my many transgressions I am guilty of this also, and I admit it daily to the Almighty Father — Confiteor Deo omnipotenti… Peccavi, peccavi, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa… It makes me greatly afraid.

  June–August 1485

  11

  Castle of Care

  Told by George Stanley, Lord Strange

  ‘That dungeon in the dale . that dreadful is of sight,

  What may it be to mean . madame I you beseech?’

  ‘That is the Castle of Care . who-so cometh therein

  May curse that he was born . to body or to soul.

  Therein dwelleth a wight . that Wrong is called,

  Father of Falsehood . and founded it himself.

  Adam and Eve he egged to ill,

  Counselled Cain . to kill his brother,

  Judas he fooled . with Jewish silver,

  And since, on an elder . hanged him after.

  He is destroyer of love . and lies to them all,

  That trust in his treasure . betrayeth he soonest.’

  William Langland, Piers Plowman

  In the third week of June, I came to Nottingham to join the King on his arrival from Kenilworth. There I had the briefest of meetings with my father. In his letter, he had said that he intended going home for a while, to rest, and that the King had requested my attendance in the royal household in his place.

  The great outer courtyard of Nottingham Castle swarmed with servants bearing the Stanley badge of a gold eagle’s claw. Under the close supervision of my father, they were loading chests and coffers on to carts, trussing canvas bundles with cords, and falling over the dogs. He bustled to and fro, snapping his fingers at obsequious menials, with his usual air of the Lord God ordering the first day of Creation. No one could doubt he is a great lord — there were enough of his men about to make me think the King’s household was on the move.

  He bestowed a paternal kiss on my cheek. ‘George,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I am unable to stay longer to enjoy your company. But affairs — you realize — affairs…’ I wasn’t quite sure of his meaning. ‘To tell the truth, George,’ he went on in a rather irritating undertone, ‘I can’t wait to get home. I feel a trifle unwell. The last few months have been most wearisome — too much work, distressing events. It’ll be a relief to have nothing more pressing on my mind than a little hunting in Lathom Park. The sooner I see one of my own huntsmen, in Kendal green, the happier I shall be. I’m tired of mourning crows.’ He gestured vaguely around. Everyone was clad in black. My father was even more dapper than usual, in black silk, not a hair of the lavish sable facings on his riding gown out of place. A grease-spot on his doublet will agitate him more than a bill for £100. He wears well for his age. He’s of medium height, spry and active. For a man of fifty-one, his figure is trim, a very small pot-belly rendered invisible by a clever tailor. His dark hair is very grey now, but not too thin, except for the top, which has a bald patch neat as a tonsured monk’s. I’ve noticed he only removes his hat when etiquette demands.

  ‘So you leave me to nest with the crows,’ I said, sourly.

  He gave me a sharp, reproving look. ‘My dear son, things are nothing near as bad as they were. You won’t be overworked. The King has a craze for hawking — spends more time talking to his falconers than to his lords and council. You’ll be out in Sherwood Forest for days on end, sitting on the ground to eat your dinner.’

  ‘That,’ I said, ‘should be pleasant enough.’ I met my father’s eyes, which are round, brown and slightly protuberant; they had a moist, sympathetic look. He was disposed, as ever, to be conciliatory. Though he perpetually worries over his health, his only bodily defect I know of is the long-sightedness of middle age, to aid which he obtained a set of gold-rimmed spectacles from Italy. These, perched upon his nose when reading, elevate him almost to the dignity of a churchman, or as my uncle William put it, ‘make Tom look like some whoreson bishop, living in hopes of a cardinal’s hat!’ As he hadn’t mentioned what seemed an important matter, I spoke up myself. ‘What of Tudor? You expect him to invade?’ He looked away.

  ‘Without a doubt, between now and September.’

  ‘Father…’ But he was already beckoning to a groom, who led up his horse, a fine, strong animal of the Wirral breed. As a fly alighted, the glossy bay hide twitched; it was groomed so sleek, the blood-vessels could be seen pulsing. As he swung himself into the saddle, I tried again. ‘What will you do?’

  He arranged the folds of his gown into comfortable order, while the groom adjusted a stirrup-leather. ‘Hold myself in readiness, of course.’ He put out a hand and squeezed my shoulder. ‘Remember, George, you are my son and heir.’

  As I watched him ride away, raising his hand in farewell, I thought: an odd thing for him to say. The old fox has something on his mind. You might search the breadth of England to find a wilier old fox than my father. Considering the history of his past twenty-five years, one wonders that he has ruled the northwest unchallenged, from his fine houses at Knowsley or Lathom, lord of all the Lancashire plain he surveys, and much of its moorland, too.

  This departure with a train of baggage-carts and servants into his own great territory is dictated by more than reasons of health. The wonder is that King Richard allowed him to go at such a time. He knows my father’s reputation, yet has given him leave to hatch whatever plots he may please in the safety of home. No more demanded than my presence in the household, and an understanding that defence of the north-west and Marches of Wales lies in Stanley hands. There is nothing out of the way in this, but I am certain that as the eldest of the Eagle’s brood, I am hostage for his good behaviour. This is no surety — he has other sons. Despite a pledge to prevent my step-mother Beaufort from all communication with her son Tudor, letters continue, I am sure, to pass between Lancashire, London and France. I do not know the full extent of my father’s treasonable meddlings, or how much is suspected by the King, or rather, how much he has found out. Sometimes, when confronting Richard, I feel an urge to run a finger under the neckband of my shirt, to still an itching in my neck. I’ll admit I fear him.

  My father fears him too, face to face. Though twenty years the younger, Richard is the only man I know who can make my father turn red as a cock’s wattles, as if obliged to acknowledge the presence of a despicable or devious thought in his mind. That is painful to him, as it diminishes his self-esteem. At heart he might wish to rid himself of a King he fears; a Tudor stepson, deeply indebted to father Stanley offers a more reassuring prospect.

  As for my uncle William, he swears that he would rather run stark naked in January up Halkyn Mountain in wildest Flintshire, than make war on Tudor. Of Richard, he muttered, ‘I’ll serve him a breakfast of trouble, such as no subject ever gave a King!’ and I’ve never seen his dark grim face l
ook grimmer. Apart from wealth he can weigh in gold nobles, for some years he has desired the Earldom of Chester, a prize held tight by the crown for generations. He is as likely to get it from Richard as he is to play football with the moon.

  While they sit at home, my father at Lathom, uncle William at the Deeside fortress of Holt, I am obliged to remain under the eye of the King. Whatever Richard knows, he will not say. He’s a strange man; who can tell what currents tug at the deep waters of his mind? Even the direct gaze of those slaty-blue eyes reveals nothing. I felt like a mariner lost between shoals, unable to fathom the depth of his passage. Richard left me puzzled. Like any monarch possessing supreme power, he is in a sense two men. Since I had been thrown more closely into his company, I had discovered a man one would be honoured to call a friend; I found myself hoping he thought well of me. But as the King one fears him, for his strength, his intelligent, thinking mind, and because he is as incorruptible as anyone could be who wields such power. Yet behind these two men, lay the black spectre of rumour, which he could no more cast off than a sundial can its shadow.

  Most disturbing, of course, is the fact that the bastardized King Edward V and Duke of York have not been seen since the late summer of 1483, when they were still in the Garden tower, under the eye of Robert Brackenbury. Soon after, the King was riding five hundred miles across a storm-devastated, quagmire England, dealing with Harry Buckingham’s rebellion. No one I spoke to knew if or when the boys had been moved from London. As there was so great a danger of further rebellion focusing on them, it is reasonable to suppose they might have been moved to some secret hiding place. On the other hand, persons who are a political encumbrance might as easily be hidden underground, sheeted and stiff!

  Poor Henry of Lancaster, I remember my father saying, when I was too young to know he spoke with tongue in cheek, had died in the Tower of mere displeasure and melancholy. Yet King Henry’s secret execution or murder, call it what you will, had been followed by a seemly display of his corpse and a decent Christian burial, all done openly in public. Well, I reasoned, if those boys had met a similar fate, why was it not proclaimed, settled, sealed and buried for ever with them? For children measles, or any contagious spotty fevers, would have made a good substitute for displeasure and melancholy; they could have been laid out in St Paul’s, like poor Henry. Every time I tried to weigh the pros and cons, my head began to spin with questions to which I’d never get an answer. I could hardly believe that Brackenbury, with his soft Durham voice and amiable manner, could be a party to the murder of children. The King’s other intimate friends and councillors I found it impolitic to question, and the King himself is a deep-minded man — no one better at keeping his own secrets.

  The mystery nagged at my mind a little, though, and on my last home-coming had made me shudder. I held up my son, little Tom, to see how he’d grown. He’s a beautiful child, with a curly thatch of dark hair, round brown eyes and rosy skin, as sound and healthy as a russet apple in October. Child murder is a monstrous sin, and I don’t believe any penance on earth may absolve it in God’s eyes; He will punish it, either in this world or the next.

  But it is not good for either one’s political or personal health to dwell on dangerous secrets. I have to admit, morality in my family is flexible, and I myself have never suffered from the perpetual need to run to the confessional. In all, I am prepared to take the King as I find him, and as he is King, I am tolerably content. It remains to be seen if my father will take the same view.

  Throughout July, a month of dazzling sunshine, sudden storms and overcast days of humid, enervating heat, we waited on Nottingham rock for news of the inevitable invasion by Henry Tudor from France. By the time a full six weeks passed and July almost ran into August, tempers began to grow a trifle frayed. John of Lincoln, in particular, lost no opportunity to twit me with my father’s inconstancy. He and Robert Percy fell silent on my appearance, suddenly hushed conversations in corners betraying their unease; if they’d been dogs, I’d have seen their hackles rise. Richard himself showed me no hostility, indeed, he went out of his way to make me feel welcome among the small circle of intimates. Often, he seemed very withdrawn within himself, his friends perpetually trying to find new diversions to bring him out of brooding silence. He could sometimes be persuaded to shake off these distressful moods by taking part in sport. Before, I’d never thought of him as having either time or inclination for athletic pastimes, but now he seemed intent upon hardening himself, as if visualizing personal combats with giants in the future.

  In the court at Nottingham, I played many games of tennis with Richard, sometimes singly, sometimes partnering with Lincoln or Percy. This is a game at which I fancy myself adept, and one which Richard, as far as I know, has never had much time for. Yet whether we played with the gloved hand, or with those new-fangled French ‘raquets’ made of gut stretched on withy frames, I only beat him by a narrow margin, and as he got into practice, increasingly often he beat me. Whatever he lacked in height and reach to command the court, he made up for in speed of movement, and he put the balls over the tasselled rope as hard as anyone I could remember playing against! When I asked him where he had learned to play so well, I received a rather short answer: ‘In the courts at Westminster, when I was a boy of fourteen, kicking my heels for occupation. I played Dorset, to learn to beat him.’ Well, Dorset had been acknowledged the best player at King Edward’s court. If Richard had beaten him then, out of sheer stubborn antagonism, it was not surprising that even after seventeen years with little practice, he played a fast game.

  But it was at the more serious sports of a knight-at-arms, that he really astonished me. Lincoln, one evening, half-seriously, challenged his uncle to fight with swords, on foot; Richard agreed amiably enough. We all trooped off to the castle tilt-yard to watch. After a thundery night the day had been hot and humid, one of the July dog-days, when hounds hang out a yard of pink, dripping tongue, as they flop about, following patches of shade. St Swithin’s Day, I think it was. If we were in for forty days of similar weather, Tudor would probably take advantage of it.

  Long evening shadows had crossed the sanded width of the yard, though it remained warm as a summer beach under our shoes. The sky beyond the rim of the jutting castle rock was clear of all cloud, but the distances misty. Wheeling in the soft air were multitudes of black, bat-like specks-jackdaws coming home to roost. A great twittering and crooning came from the high castle walls, as if all the birds of the air were nesting up there, in cracks and ledges of sun-warmed stone.

  We watched the squires arm Lincoln and the King. As they fought with blunted swords, they wore only half-armour; brigandines covered with velvet, breast and backplates, a gauntlet and guard on their right arms, guards on shins and thighs, and neckpieces, the visors of their sallets pulled down over their faces. As Lincoln is a hand’s breadth taller than Richard, and though slim enough, probably two stones heavier, in addition to the ten years between their ages, I wondered if he might not emerge the victor. Bets were laid, about equal on either. Robert Percy fished out a rose noble, laughed and wagered it on his friend the King, saying he’d do the same if it were himself in Lincoln’s place. He should be in a position to judge, so I followed suit, but venturing only a couple of groats.

  I found myself standing by Captain Salazar, the Spanish mercenary soldier who has been about the court for the past year, rather in the manner of a privateer riding at anchor on a trade route. They call him Juan ‘le petit’ or the lesser, which Englishmen have corrupted into ‘little Jack’ as a joke, for he is built like a big hairy ape! He was entering into the spirit of the contest with glee, tossing up English coins, making it clear that he was an expert in feats of arms and prepared to offer his advice freely.

  When the slither and clang of sword on sword hit the walls and sprang back, making the yard echo like an armourer’s workshop, all the birds flew up in an agitated flock. Salazar voiced his approval in foreign crows of delight, grinning and displaying a set of
horrible teeth nearly as brown as his skin. Watching Lincoln’s efforts, he said, ‘No te dispares — poco a poco — gently!’ The advice — I suppose not to lay on too hard at first — didn’t work. I began to think it would need a giant to knock Richard clean off his feet before he gave an inch. If that lopsided tilt to his shoulders resulted in this, I wouldn’t mind having it myself!

  After a while, Richard decided to change his tactics to attack. He fought with an intent ferocity I’d have thought more appropriate to a mêlée joined with enemies, than to a practice-yard. Lincoln found himself jammed against the wall, his sword clattering on the ground from a cracking blow on the wrist. When he pushed up his visor, he was laughing ruefully, between gasps for breath, as if he had almost expected such an end. Salazar applauded enthusiastically.

  Richard handed his sword to a squire, and stood removing the gauntlet from his right hand, calm as if he had just walked through the door from a stroll in the castle garden. Though the thick, curly hair had been flattened in sticky clusters against his cheek by the sallet’s pressure, he breathed more easily than his nephew, who was as I would have been after such an effort — blown. Lincoln turned to me, saying with an underlying, abrasive note of mockery, ‘Would you care for his Grace my uncle to fight with you now, George? You might have better luck than I, being the second!’