6
“In his tent — the night before the battle — he told me that I was his son,” said Dickon slowly, staring unseeingly at the hayloft wall.
Tansy had the good sense not to hurry him. It was as if he were trying to reassemble his memories. Amazing memories only a day old which had been almost shaken from his mind by the violence which he had since suffered. Memories which would alter the self-image of his whole life. He lay on his stomach supported by his elbows, with a half-munched apple in his hand, and his face clearly visible in the early morning light from the waggon shed below.
“A king’s son eating bread and apples for breakfast in a hayloft!” thought Tansy, squatting with her back to the wall and her feet curled up under her, near the top of the ladder. “Were you alone with his Grace?”
“Except for Gervase. I think he was there all the time, somewhere at the back of the tent. It was late afternoon. There was an unlit lamp on the table beside the King’s crown. An ordinary lamp like the one hanging up there above that bit of old harness.”
He stared at the rusty, worthless thing as if trying to reconcile the familiar with the fantastic in all that he had seen and all that had happened to him in the last two days. With the same intent, perhaps, he bit again into his apple, chewed, and threw the core across the hay.
“He said that he fathered me when he was not much older than I am now. That from the time he could bear arms he lived a rough soldiering life with far too much responsibility, so that his elder brother could cease fighting and keep Court at Westminster. He didn’t even know who the girl was, but afterwards, when some of his friends told him she had died of the sweating sickness soon after childbirth, he arranged for me to be cared for by that good cottage-woman I told you of. And they all laughed at him for a conscientious fool.”
“Then you are his eldest son,” said Tansy, wide-eyed.
“His bastard son,” corrected Dickon. “And the only one, he said, except young John of Gloucester whom everyone knows about and whom he made Governor of Calais because his mother was a lady. Only a courtesy title, of course, because he is not much more than a child. They say in London that the King never cared for any woman except Anne Neville, his wife. How cruel that their real son, Prince Edward, had to die!” Dickon rolled over on the straw and sat up. “Come to think about it, that was when he sent for me, just after his heir died — ”
“But as you and John of Gloucester are both illegitimate, he could not possibly have thought of — ”
“Oh, no, of course not. There is his sister’s son, the Earl of Lincoln. And his elder brother Clarence’s son, Warwick, has always lived in the royal household. His mother was Queen Anne’s sister, as you know.”
“Then why — ”
“It was just perhaps because he did have a conscience, as they said — and some kindness. It must have been the King himself who chose Master Paston as my tutor, and I could not have had a better one. Do you remember, Tansy, saying that it must be hard to have no one of your own? It is almost harder to find a father one day, and lose him the next. And to see his body so — ”
“What did they call you at school — besides Dickon, I mean,” asked Tansy hastily, trying to divert his thoughts from whatever he had seen which had so grievously shaken him.
“Broome. Richard Broome.”
Tansy wrinkled her small nose. “Not a very attractive name.”
“No. But one with a useful implication. The bigger fellows at school often told me to sweep our classroom.”
“Broom means a flower, too,” she reminded him.
“Yes.” Then suddenly he leaned forward and gripped her hand as she plucked idly at the hay. “Yes, of course. I see now. He even gave me his name. Chaucer’s plain English for the Latin planta genista.” His face was illuminated with the joyful pride of a child who finds his way home. “The lovely yellow bush which riots in Acquitaine, they say, and from which the Plantagenets took their name.”
“And which riots on every English heath, too,” said Tansy, glad that he had found some measure of happiness.
“Dick Broome. Richard Plantagenet,” he said, experimentally. And added after a moment’s thought, “A mercy he did not fully acknowledge me! It would indeed be dangerous to be called Plantagenet now.”
“A mercy all those hooligans last night did not know or they would have torn down our walls!” thought Tansy. Aloud she said, to prompt his absorbing story, “So you and Master Gervase caught up easily enough with the army?”
“Well before sundown. Everything seemed quiet and orderly. The sentries let us through. His squire must have unbuckled the King’s armour. It lay across an improvised table with some untouched food. But he still wore his sword belt. He spoke to me very kindly, but could not spare much time and I was too dazed by what he first told me to take in all he said.”
“Why had he sent for you?”
“It seems that he was not displeased with me when I was brought to him in London. God knows why, for I have no courtly graces. But I remember — shall always remember — how he said, ‘You have both modesty and intelligence. If the day goes well with me to-morrow I will acknowledge you as being of my blood, and will find you some position in my household. A few days ago I sent young John to Calais, that he might be well out of all this chancy bloodshed. I am a lonely man now, Dickon.’ I mumbled my sympathy — about poor Queen Anne Neville and the Prince — and he turned away so that I could not see his face. But I think he was perhaps a little comforted — because I was of his blood — and cared. For after pacing back and forth across the tent for a minute or two he came closer to me and stood twisting one of his rings — his wedding ring perhaps — and spoke slowly in what must have been a rare, painful effort to explain himself. ‘Some say that it is a judgment. That I have been too harsh. I had two strong, handsome elder brothers and from childhood had to fight against delicacy to join in the sports of other boys. This is the sternest test of all. It probably hardened me — in more ways than one. Since I was your age, I have lived by my sword arm, and always successfully, until my brother died and the accursed Woodvilles tied my arm by treachery. I am still fighting treachery. But there is another part of me that loves beautiful books and buildings — that wants to watch Caxton’s printing-press and meet explorers from far lands — a part which has had so little time. So little time!’ He sighed, and laid a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Perhaps, Dickon, you will fulfil that part of me — the more peaceful, creative part.’
“He became all terse commander again then and spoke to Master Gervase. ‘A tent is prepared for you. As soon as it is light take the lad up to the top of this hill. Ambien Hill, it is called. You can see the whole of the flat ground from there and even the Tudor tents. Watch how the battle goes. You will be able to follow it by our various standards. If we win, join me in Leicester afterwards. But if I should lose, go back at once to London.’
“‘But, Sir,’ I cried, breaking in unpardonably, ‘It is in just such case that I should want to stand by you.’
“He smiled at me, patient with my meagre understanding of him. ‘Do you imagine that I should let the Tudor take me alive? If I should be killed’ — he substituted the word, and I think that he had some strong premonition then — ‘get away from here as quickly as your horses can bear you. Before the soldiers disperse and all manner of revenges are taken. And neither in boast nor jest tell anyone what I have told you. There is always the dangerous chance that they might believe you. You are too much like me, Dickon.’
“‘But, Sir, there are so many who love you with loyalty,’ I croaked, hating the suggestion of losing him.
“‘And they would be the greatest menace of all. You have no conceivable right to the throne, but it is of such stuff as you — and even by means of chance likenesses — that Pretenders are made. And there would be no mercy then. No more than if one of my enemies happened to believe your tale. No, do as I say. Go back to London. See Master Aeneas Paston and he will arrange your appr
enticeship to some prosperous merchant.’ He took some gold from the wallet at his belt — a handful of gold nobles, I think — and gave them to Master Gervase, saying that in case the day should go against him, there would be sufficient for our journey and for my indentures. And to toe he said, ‘If I do not see you again, my son, live the enviable life of an industrious craftsman, marry some kind girl of ordinary station, mix with the uncaring crowd and forget all that I have told you.’”
Tansy sat very still, trying to enter into the extraordinary experience with him. “If you live to be quite an old man, how can you ever forget?”
“How, indeed? It will make me always — different. But I may often wish that I had never known.”
“Yes.” She had scarcely taken her eyes off him. The strangeness of his story had drawn her out of her own life, compellingly. The natural way in which he had shared it with her now perplexed her. “Dickon, he told you to tell no one — yet you have told me.”
“Somehow that does not seem a betrayal. Perhaps because I have never before had anyone — ‘special’, I think you said? No one who listens to other people’s problems as if they cared.”
“People do tell me things,” admitted Tansy, momentarily wondering if it was always safe to speak of such peculiarly important ones. For she had heard a furtive footstep in the shed below. Glancing cautiously downwards she was just in time to see Diggory, the yard boy, standing in the doorway with a pitchfork in his hand. Probably he had been about to mount the ladder to toss down some hay, but Jod came hurrying across from the stables and called to him to take Master Marsh’s mare to the farriers.
“‘Er be only just shod,” argued the boy impudently.
“But ’tis a good opportunity while the master be laid up. So get moving,” called back Jod. “I’ll get the hay myself when I be finished with Black Boy and Pippin here.”
Tansy blessed him silently, but she was worried because Diggory, who usually stumped clumsily about the place, must have come in between the two waggons very quietly, and she could have sworn he had been listening. Whether he had overheard anything or not, his curiosity must have been aroused by hearing voices. She decided that she and Jod would have to think up some way of keeping him out of the loft if their secret visitor were to stay many hours longer.
Making sure that the boy had laid down his pitchfork and departed, she turned back to Dickon, warmed by his appreciation of her friendliness. “And then?” she prompted.
“Then we were hustled away. Important people were waiting for some eve of battle conference. I don’t know who they were. But as soon as it was light we heard the trumpets shrill and saw the lion standard flying as the Duke of Norfolk and Surrey, his son, charged down this Ambien hill. They forced attack before ever the invading enemy was astir. But soon arrows were flying and terrible cannon balls of stone. How I wished the King had been able to bring some of those great guns which now fortify the Tower of London! Or that the Stanleys and the Earl of Northumberland would move to support him!”
“You mean — they disobeyed orders?”
“I suppose so. Because after a while the King sent a few men to protect Norfolk’s flank. Sir William Stanley was to the north and Lord Stanley to the south. And between them Norfolk’s forces were spread out like a bow, having to face all fronts. At first they seemed to be gaining the day — reaping the benefit of a surprise attack. But because the King was obliged to spare some of them as protection against men who were supposed to be his own supporters, and the heavy French cannon had wrought havoc among them, the royal bowmen became very sparsely spread.”
“And Henry Tudor, Duke of Richmond?”
“He was on a small rise across the valley. As the sun rose higher we could see his great red dragon of Cadwallader flying there. The King must have seen it too, for he called his own special friends and followers and just as Norfolk was being pushed back he charged right through the midst of them. Down the hill, across what they called Redmore Plain and up the little rise, in a cloud of dust. He didn’t use his sword. He made straight for the Tudor, hacking right and left with his battle-axe as he went. The sun glinted on its sharp blade and on his crown. There was a great shouting of men, and screams of wounded horses. Poor White Surrey was shot under him, but his squire caught at some dead man’s horse and King Richard mounted. Lovell and Brackenbury and all his friends fought with him. But it was he who killed a great giant of a knight who, seeing the Tudor’s danger, galloped up to bar his way. He who trampled both standard bearer and dragon in the dust. He was within a few yards of the Pretender, and Henry Tudor must have been a very frightened man. And then his squires yelled a warning and we saw the Stanley cavalry bearing down upon him from either side, scattering his personal followers. From right across the plain I could hear him yell ‘Treason!’ He tried to shake them off. He was still struggling to reach the Tudor — with only a few yards to go. One man fighting alone in a milling sea of enemies. But they closed in on him like hounds at a kill and beat him to the ground. We couldn’t see him any more. They must have been stabbing at him as he lay dead on the ground. He had so nearly reached his objective that they butchered him with the terrible cruelty of fear. There were no priests in his camp. He went unshriven to his Maker. But I tell you whatever sins a man ever committed must have been expiated by such a brilliancy of courage!”
There was a long silence in the hayloft. Then the bastard Plantagenet said shakily, “It was as if I were lying there, living with him, and then dying.”
“Oh, Dickon!”
“I couldn’t believe. My eyes were blinded with tears. It had seemed like an eternity, watching. But the whole battle was over in a couple of hours.” It was as if some shutter had fallen between one scene and the next before he added in quite a different kind of voice, “And when I turned round, that cur Gervase was gone.”
“And the gold with him?” surmised Tansy, who had lived more than he among money and men.
Dickon nodded and reddened. Painfully, he pulled himself upright. “So that I am no more than a beggar,” he admitted, glancing down at the empty platter she had brought.
Tansy picked it up. “We are not all cast in the Gervase or Stanley mould,” she said angrily. And then saw that, with the same swift change of expression as had characterised his father, he was smiling down at her. “No,” he said. “Some ministering angel must have acted as model when Nature carved you. My first thought out there at Bosworth was to get back to you.”
“How did you get here?”
“I fled before die battle was well over. On that horrible horse. Back to Leicester, which was the only place I knew my way to in these parts. To the White Boar, which had sheltered me. To you. And a sorry sight I must have looked! You know how ill I ride. I think I must have missed my way. The Tudor had long since ridden in. Some of his men caught up with me at Bow Bridge. They were bringing in their prisoners — those they had not butchered. I dismounted and ducked down into the monastery grounds for safety. And then I saw they were bringing — something else. The King’s body — flung stark naked across a horse. Tom all over with stab wounds so that the blood ran down and matted his hair. They’d put a halter round his neck as if he were a felon, and forced one of his heralds to carry his torn White Boar banner before him. They were jeering at him — at him — who had shown more courage than both armies put together. And as he came over the narrow bridge — ”
“Don’t, Dickon!” she begged, seeing how it distressed him and remembering with what splendour the King had ridden out.
But he had to tell someone, this once, even if he never spoke of it again. “Down in the Friary garden beside the river my face was level with the humped roadway of the bridge. I was so close I could almost have touched him. They were all grabbing at the reins, pulling his bedraggled mount this way and that, so that his down-hanging head — his bleeding battered head — banged against the posts of the parapets as he passed.”
“His anointed head,” murmured Tansy, bowing her
face between her hands.
“I couldn’t bear it. I ran to the Canon who was standing sorrowfully in his garden and fell on my knees, clutching at his habit, and beseeching him to take King Richard’s body for burial. Seeing me so distraught, he put a hand on my head and said, ‘Do not worry, my son. I will send to ask permission of the victor — who calls himself King Henry.’ It may well be that he would have done so anyhow.
“He did. This Henry Tudor had ridden in at noon — not at a cart-tail as people had predicted but with the crown of England on his head. He gave his gracious permission,” said Tansy scornfully. “Tom Hood, a friend of ours, says that he did so to ingratiate himself with the people of Leicester, but our schoolmaster thinks that he may not really have known until then with what indignity Richard’s body had been treated. In any case he has made it a condition that it must be on public view before burial.”
“Wasn’t it enough to kill him without gloating over him?” exclaimed Dickon, with clenched fists.
“Master Jordan — the schoolmaster — says that he was only being cautious. So that no one could start a rumour that he had escaped, and set up some pretender.”
“As the King himself warned me they might do.”
Too late Tansy clapped a hand to her mouth, realizing the sense of danger which must always dog his bastard son. But his mind was back in the horror of Bow Bridge. “How could he show him — all bloody and mutilated? How would he dare?”
“Oh, the Grey Friars have washed his poor, brave body. He lies beneath a catafalque covered with a velvet pall. Only his face — ”
The King's Bed Page 6
