Kings of Albion

by Julian Rathbone

  He's moving slowly, his horse barely ambling, and from the slight rise I am on I can see that shortly he will pass by a mill-pond with a grassy sward starred with daisies on its bank. The mill itself is a ruin, surrounded by willows and rushes and yellow flowers they call flags growing out of the mud around it. Such is the lawlessness of these times many such places set apart from villages, towns or castles have been plundered by wandering bands of robbers, the inmates killed, their gold stolen and often their dwellings fired. Certainly a melancholy that should have served as a warning hangs over the scene, in spite of the healthy-looking sedge and the singing birds.

  Moving swiftly, despite flowering brambles and thickets of dogwood, I get to the sward ahead of him and quickly divest myself of my Virgin's robes, crown and all, so that when he comes on to the grass, there I am, sitting beneath a willow, entirely as nature made me, with my knees pulled up and my arms hooked round them, apparently watching the emerald and sapphire dragonflies cruising and copulating over the lotus pads, whose flowers are just on the point of bursting from their glans-shaped cases.

  'Oh, shit,' he says, then, 'Holy Mary Mother of God.'

  Come on, I think. You cannot be serious. But no, he is not, the statement was an oath not a guess as to my identity. He swung a leg over his pommel and dropped to the ground.

  'You're going to disappear, aren't you?' he said. 'Or turn into a wicked old crone? They always do. In the stories.'

  Now I can see him I feel a touch disappointed. He's no more than fourteen, and rather plump, with blond almost white hair and a haze of yellow on his upper lip.

  'Who?' I ask, still sitting, looking up at him over my shoulder.

  'The naked ladies knights come across when they're out questing.'

  'Are you a knight? Are you questing?'

  'Not a knight. Chaps don't get to be knights until they've done some deed of derring-do. That's in the stories. In real life it's more a case of having forty quid a year and being called to be in Parliament.'

  His voice still flukes up every now and then – not a promising sign.

  A moment passes. I straighten my knees, lean back on my elbows, let him see my tits. 'I'm not going to disappear. I'm not going to change into anything. I'm not even going to bite. Not hard anyway.' And I shake my hair, now growing back and glossy black again. 'Do you think you could move your horse off a bit? It's attracting a rather nasty son of fly.'

  He looks at me. looks at his horse, whose tail is slashing the air behind him and whose withers shudder spasmodically to shift the brutes and, 'Come on, Dobs,' he says, and leads him away to the other side of the lawn where he loops the reins around an alder branch. As he conies back he's already unlacing his jerkin. I stand and give him a hand. Also a full view of what I have on offer.

  'This really is real, isn't it?'

  'You bet." And I fumble the buckle of his belt, which is heavy with his scabbarded sword.

  'I'm John Coombe of Annesbury,' he says. What's your name?' 'You can call me Uma.'

  Well, it still is quite small, long, thin, pointed, yet somehow fresh and unused, which is nice, standing up and pinging, and, of course, he's all over me before he's properly in. but at his age he's no shrinking violet and we get where I want to go second time round, and third too. Then I suggest we have a swim in the mill-pond because it's a hot sultry day and by now we are both very sweaty and smeared with misdirected semen. I stay near the edge, squelching the mud between my toes, and give myself a bit of a wash, then I tell him I bet he can't swim to the other side, having it in mind that while he's taking me up on this I can filch his clothes and his horse.

  Now. what happens next is something I do not have in mind. I have no idea how treacherous these mill-ponds can be. You see, he can't swim, which I have not properly understood, he's just been wading about pretending to, and being the very young man he is, this is not something he is going to admit. So he wades off towards the other side. A shout, a cry, a gasp, a podgy white arm flailing amongst the lotuses which, even while we've been there, have opened their sixteen petals to welcome the light of their lord the sun into their fragrant hearts, and he's gone.

  Sorry.

  Still. I had just taken him to heaven and back, introduced him to the goddess within, in a way he would never have managed with the local girls, and, since he was a gentleman, probably saved him from being hacked up by some grown man with an axe. Lots of" people get a far worse deal out of life.

  His clothes are not at all a bad fit, and his buttercup-coloured horse is quite happy to take me on board. Together, horse and I, we set off towards Malpas Castle. We have not gone far when, rounding a bend, we come upon what looks like a robbery.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Clearly this is to he a day of chance meetings. Well, every day is, is it not? But meetings of some significance are rarer. What is happening is this. Within a group of four or live people a thin, pale man with a straggly black moustache and a black felt hat with a large brim is pulling his way through a large-leather sack with a drawstring, sorting the contents into two heaps – what he wants to keep and what he does not want to keep. On the keep side is a fair amount of good-quality jewellery and clothes made from expensive stuffs, such as velvet, fine cotton and silk, while on the other side go toiletries, wool, leather, gaberdine and so forth. He is watched by a pale, tired-looking woman, basically handsome but now in a real cow of a rage, dressed in crimson velvet riding gear with gold embroidery, and very fine soft-leather boots. Her blonde hair is pulled up but coming adrift from beneath a velvet cap with a feather. As I come on to the scene she has a riding crop with which she is attempting to slash the pale thin man. but a fat man, his companion, is contriving to hold her back. The final character in the scene is a small boy of about seven years old who is screaming his head off. I know them all.

  The pale man is John Clegger, the fat man is Will Bent, the woman is the Queen and the screaming child is her son, if not her husband's, Edward, Prince of Wales. I low did I know who they were? Clearly you have not been paying attention. I came across them all in Coventry, on the day I was taken, and at my trial.

  But I, of course, am not Uma the Witch, hut John Coombe of Annesbury, and my horse, Dobs, is not only an unusual yellow in colour but very big. I think they are all more frightened of the hone than of me, although I have managed to get poor John Coombe's sword out of its scabbard and am waving it, as best I can, over them all. I manage to give Clegger a full knock with the flat of it over his ear, which nearly takes off his head and sends him sprawling into the ditch. Yet he gets out of it and is soon running and stumbling through the corn on the other side. Will Bent makes off on the other side.

  Madam, of course, since she is a queen, has forgotten me, doesn't know me from Adam. Or Eve. She collects herself, as a queen should, gets back her breath, boxes her son's ear, which he correctly takes as a request to stop his row, and does so, apart from an irritating snivel. Then she draws herself to her full height and gives me a most severe look.

  I get the message and get down off Dobs' back.

  'Young man, your manners are despicable. Do you not know who I am? Of course you do.'

  What am I meant to do? Bow? Fall on my knees? Knock my head on the ground?

  I give her a nod and say, 'Glad to have been of service, ma'am,' before I begin to lead Dobs away. Then I stop, gather the reins in my hand, and grasp the pommel, which I can only just reach, as if intending to mount again.

  'Stop. What is your name?'

  'John Coombe,' I say, remembering.

  'Master Coombe, you will take me to Denbigh. In Wales. It lies some thirty miles or so away to the west. I have friends there who will pay you well. Your horse looks big and strong. I will ride in front of you, my son will ride behind you. But first, please pick up the belongings of mine these ruffians, who were meant to be looking after me, were attempting to steal.'

  I think about it for a moment. I have a maxim in life that has always, or almost always, sto
od me in good stead. You may, Mah-Lo, be able to guess what it is. Quite simply – say yes.

  Say yes to everything that comes along. I think my tale so far demonstrates how well I follow this maxim. So, although I have no reason to like this woman, or her brat of a son, I say yes. The prospect of payment helps, of course. I have already established that the total of John Coombe's readily negotiable wealth is a sixpenny piece and two farthings.

  'All right,' I say, 'but your son can pick up your things.'

  She gives that some thought. Then: 'Edward? Do what the young man says.'

  I manage to make a cushion from the less expensive of her clothes and strap it on Dobs' crupper. I then give Madam a bunk-up. She sits pertly, in the side-saddle position, and gets a good grip on Dobs' yellow mane. I get up behind her. Then I get off again because Edward can't climb up on his own. I hoist him on to Dobs' back behind the saddle. It's impossible now for me to get between them. I get down again, lift Edward down, pick up her sack, tie it behind the saddle, put Edward on top of it and get up again. We're off.

  After five minutes she begins to talk.

  'When we heard that vile bastard Warwick was on his way north, Buckingham said it would be best if the King went with him and the army while I and Edward went the other way. That way, if things went badly, they wouldn't get us all in the same net. Not that we expected any such thing. Not only are right and God on our side, we had six very big cannons. God tends to side with the big guns.' We jog on. 'So I went north to Eccleshall, and waited for news. Lord Lovell was the first with them and told us how a rainstorm had rendered the cannons useless, how our army had been beaten, Buckingham killed, and the King taken. So I took horse and, with my two stewards and my son, set off for Denbigh. At Malpas more news reached us. York, the most evil-minded sod of a bastard of the lot of them, was on his way from Ireland and would be made king. Those cretins Clegger and Bent decided to make the best of what now seemed a bad situation by robbing me. And you turned up.'

  Not a word of thanks.

  We jog… on and on.

  I am apprehensive that she will penetrate my disguise. Of course she does. As soon as we have crossed the first brow of a hill and are descending on the further side, Dobs takes it into his head to break into a slow gallop or canter. I am thrown forward. To avoid falling over the horse's ears the Queen forces herself to lean backwards. I let go of the reins and clutch her waist, which is small but strong. Behind us the Prince screams again. Once we are on the level, his mother turns her head a little and brings her cheek close to mine.

  'I think, mistress, we should change places.'

  I assume my gruffest voice. 'Why should we do that?'

  'Because you are a woman. I felt your breasts against my back. And because you do not seem to be properly in control of this beast. Probably, being of low birth, you do not have the art. Anyway, I am taller than you and will be able to see better where we are going than you can with me in front of you.'

  So we go through the whole rigmarole again, including, of course, getting the Prince down and up again.

  We spend the night in a tiny Welsh inn, three rooms, of which only one is made available to us.

  Her Majesty allows me to share it with her and her son, only requiring me to leave the room when she wants to pee in the bucket provided.

  'A Commoner,' she says, 'should not see her queen pissing.'

  My lowly rank does not preclude her from asking me to pick up the tab. Since Her Majesty has insisted that she and the lad should dine off three brace of skylarks and a couple of quail grilled on skewers over a charcoal fire with strawberries and cream to follow, and a breakfast of hot milk, new-baked wheaten bread and half a dozen coddled eggs, we are lucky that the woman who runs the place (she wears a shawl and a tall conical black hat) professes herself satisfied, just, with sixpence-halfpenny.

  I thus learn two important lessons about the rich and powerful. They become rich by never spending their own money. They become powerful by having horses to ride and knowing how to do it.

  On the evening of the second day we arrive at Denbigh Castle in the principality of Gwalia or Wales. This is a wild and inhospitable land, peopled with savages much like our mountain and forest tribes. It lies along the western borders of Ingerlond. Denbigh itself is close to Ingerlond and the country is not much different, though bleak, featureless hills with impenetrable woodland in the valleys lie to the west. When we arrive we find Denbigh, or Dinbych, as the Welsh say, to be a small town nestling in the shade of a large castle. The outer wall was a mile in circumference, enclosing the town, with a large, almost palatial keep set in an inner area laid out to terraced gardens. It is occupied by a Welshman, a sort of chieftain, called Owen ap Maredudd ap Tewdyr.

  I think 'ap' must mean 'son of.

  Forgive me. I have to weep when I think of Owen.

  Ah… Hah!

  He was six feet tall, had broad shoulders, strong arms, oh, very strong, and legs like trees. His chest was deep and formed like a barrel or a bell. His hair was white, cut short, but with one black lock or streak in the middle. His brows were still for the most part black. His lace was coppery red and his hands too, but his body white as snow. His mouth was broad, and small-toothed, his breath sweet like well-water or milk… All, in their way, marvels, for he was an old man, sixty years old.

  Well, well. He welcomes us, he and his children and his children's children, for he is by family tradition and his own history a supporter of the King and Queen's cause. There are good reasons for this, which he tells me when I catechise him about it all.

  We are in bed at the time. We spend a lot of time in bed after the Queen has gone to Scotland to raise a new army and I have been there long enough to feel I can express my resentment, well, jealousy, really, of the beautiful girl whose portrait hangs on the wall by the door.

  'Ah, me,' he says, in that deep voice of his. Even when he speaks softly it resonates in my ear, which is pressed on the white hairs in the middle of his chest. 'She was the first love of" my life. A king’s daughter and the wife of a king."

  'Wife? You are not a king, are you?'

  He laughs. 'Who knows what a king is? I am a king in everything but name. She was, look you, the daughter of the mad old King of France and after the big battle there, on St Crispin's Day – I was there, though I was only fifteen years old – the Inglysshe King married her, though she herself was a year younger than I.'

  'Which king was that?'

  'Henry, though Harry was what he liked to be called.' I frown, trying to work it all out. He senses my puzzlement. 'That's right,' he says. 'The father of the present king.' 'So she, your lover, was his mother. The mother of the present king?'

  'That's right too. But King Harry died when she was just twenty-one. Now I had been a page in the King's court, and was by then a squire in her service.'

  'And you fell in love?'

  'That's right. Of course, they didn't like it one bit. I even went to prison for her after the birth of our son Edmund but in the end they let it stand, let us live as man and wife, so long as we kept out of the way of things. You see, in some ways they were grateful to have the Queen off their hands. She was French, the old wars had started again, as the child king's mother she might have interfered, insisted on being part of the regency, messed up the war effort

  'But instead you brought her here and lived happily ever after.' He hears the envy in my voice.

  'No. We remained in the south, in or near London, mostly at the palace of Waltham where I was master of her wardrobe. As a mother she continued to look after her son, the King, as well as the children we had together, so we had to stay down there.'

  'There were more children?'

  'Three more.'

  'And then she died. In childbirth?

  'No. Of a long and painful illness. The one with claws. Like a crab's.'

  'I can cure it. When was that?' 'Twenty… twenty-three years ago.'

  I take heart from that hesitation. At least
he isn't counting the days.

  He sighs a little, then runs his hand through my hair while the other strengthens its clasp round my back, pushing my breasts into his midriff. He answers my questions before I have to ask them.

  'You are every bit as lovely as she was. But in a very different way.'

  Well, I can see that. The lady in the portrait is fair-skinned, though dark-haired. Later, on my own, I look into her hazel eyes, and kiss her rosebud lips. She was all right, you know? But different.

  How does all this begin? You mean this passion shared with Owen ap Maredudd ap Tewdyr?

  When we arrive, the Queen, the Prince and I, through the gates of that massive long wall, and ride Dobs up the gravel paths between rosebeds filled with blooms, and past ponds where carp drift in the summer heat, Owen is already there, beneath the keep's portcullis, with his family about him to welcome us. His son Edmund died some four years previously but his daughter-in-law is there with their son Henry, a three-year-old who never knew his father. This son is already an earl, the Earl of Richmond, a title granted his commoner father since his wile was the great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt by his third wife. There was, therefore, a connection by blood to the royal family, as well as that by marriage through Katherine of Valois, Henry the Fifth's queen.

  This little boy is a serious soul, whom I get to know well in the next few months. He plays most seriously and is advanced for his age-in manner and speech. He also has a certain low cunning, playing off one grown-up against another. His grandfather, my Owen ap Tewdyr, which the English call Tudor, does not much like him, detecting a meanness of nature foreign to the old man's disposition, but says he will go far. Maybe. To go far in Ingerlond, if you are a man, requires only that you should be strong, violent by nature and cruel. This Henry so far displays none of these, save perhaps cruelty, but even then only when it serves his ends. But, as I said, he is cunning.

  I'm sorry. You ask how it all begins between me and my Owen. Simple enough. A day soon dawns when it is decided the Queen should go to Scotland whose queen is an old friend and may help her to raise money and an army. While they are all seeing her off, I nip upstairs, take off my man's clothes and get into his bed. Where, an hour or so later, he finds me.