“Well, I am glad he told you that. And he, of all men, must have known the sharp penalties that go with fame — or infamy. But let us hope it will not be complete obscurity.” Relaxing, Moyle sat down again and sampled Tansy’s wine, “Since, for my good fortune, you have no other work, I have a proposition to make. And, believe me, I have formed so high a regard for your skill that it is no mere compensating kindness. Sit down, both of you, and listen. Your wine is good, Mistress Broome, and if this obstinate husband of yours will come and work for me in Kent you will probably find yourself making it for my entire household!”
“Work for you in Kent!” they both exclaimed, with excited anticipation beginning to break through the anxiety on their young faces.
“At Eastwell Court, I am going to be married. To a relative of my late mother, who was of the wealthy Drury family. So, with my father’s permission, I intend to pull down most of the old house and rebuild. My father may not live much longer, and then the title and both houses — there and in London — will be mine. I shall need a house convenient for Court, of course, but my betrothed and I are both country-lovers and hope to make our real home at Eastwell. You know my ideas about building, Broome, and I should like you to be in charge of both places.”
Dickon was almost speechless with relief and gratitude. “Here indeed is something which I accept with joy,” he managed to say.
“Do we have to thank our good friend Tom Hood for this?” asked Tansy.
“In a very small measure, perhaps. But I liked the work you did on that fireplace of our London hall, and the fountain. And, as I told you — and in spite of what is being said of you — I liked your refusal to Robert Vertue. Also I intend to make Eastwell one of the most beautiful houses in England, and I believe that you are the right man to help me do it.”
He went to the open door and called to Jod to bring a satchel from his saddle, and began laying drawings on their table. Soon he and Dickon were bent over them enthusiastically, with no other thoughts in their minds. String courses, spandrels, mullions for the windows and hammer beams for the roof of the hall, they discussed them all, while Tansy — silently executing an ecstatic pas seul with the Moyle kitten clutched in her arms — watched this strange, splendid man, half-lawyer and half-artist, who held the rest of her life in his clever hands.
“After my marriage we shall be away in France for some months on the King’s affairs, so I should want you to be on the spot to work it all out in your own mind and begin the demolition work.”
“And since you will be in France, Sir, could you possibly order a shipload of stone from Caen?”
“It will come expensive with the freightage, but I know the late King used it for King’s College chapel and most of the many castles he repaired — ”
“May we bring our horses, and old Jod?”
“By all means. You will certainly need a horse. I should want you to keep an eye on the Strand house. And to scour the neighbourhood for the best team of local workmen you can find. They can begin by pulling down the west wing. If you and your wife will ride with me to Kent next week, my people will see to bringing all your household gear.”
And then, for Tansy, came the most splendid miracle of all. “Here, by the orchard wall,” Master Moyle was saying, stabbing some spot on the rustling parchment with a decisive forefinger, “you can build yourself a cottage while I am away. Some of the men will help you. Make it your first job, and while you are about it, build big enough for your family, Richard Broome, because it looks as if you may be with us for the rest of your natural life!”
As Master Moyle began to roll up the precious parchments, Dickon raised his head at last, and met his wife’s ecstatic gaze. He knew then that, as far as she was concerned at least, nothing which he had hitherto refused to do had been in vain. “I think you would find it difficult to get rid of us with such a generous master,” he said laughingly. “But for one who scarcely knows me, you seem to put remarkable trust in me.”
“I hope to enjoy some of that hard-proved loyalty of yours. And don’t forget that I have heard much of you both from Tom, whom you sent to my father in the first place, and who seems to be completely incapable of relinquishing the hope of becoming my brother-in-law.”
“Do you think he ever will?” Tansy could not resist asking. “Mistress Amy will be so desperately unhappy if she is forced to marry someone else.”
Moyle smiled kindly at her anxiety. “Well, she is proving remarkably stubborn for so small a person, and my father has not beaten her yet.”
“I have known Tom all my life, and no one could help loving him,” said Tansy.
“But we have never told him about — my birth,” put in Dickon, anxiously.
“Our loyalty will count both ways,” promised Moyle. “I shall never tell either him or my chatterbox of a sister. Nor — if this is what you are both fearing — will I ever tell the King.”
“Any fervent Lancastrian who knew the truth might think it wise to get rid of Dickon.”
“You are probably right, Mistress Broome,” agreed Moyle, gathering up his papers and preparing to depart. “So do you not see, his best chance of security, and of your happiness, lies in honourable anonymity? That I can give him, with comfort and a fair wage. Though I cannot give him the fame and fortune which his skill deserves.”
Hand in hand, they stood to watch him go. All the bustle of removal would come after.
“Dominus providebit, I prophesied casually last evening,” recalled Dickon. “And indeed the Lord has provided, although in a way that I could not possibly have foreseen.”
“But then the unexpected always does happen to you,” Tansy reminded him.
‘Though it is unlikely to from now on,” thought Dickon, looking ahead rather ruefully into what seemed to be the even tenor of a happy but uneventful life. To have had first adventure and then fame within his grasp, and let them go, had not been easy. To exchange cheerfully the excitement of notoriety even for security and happiness would take discipline. But when he thought of everything which Lord Lovell had given up, he felt himself to be in good company, and was strengthened.
And now that they knew of their change of fortune, Tansy drew him back into the shelter of their first home and told him that they were to share the joy of parenthood. And Dickon, in common with most expectant fathers, hoped that pride in his own achievements might one day be transmuted into a vicarious fulfilment of himself in the successes of his son.
26
It was apple blossom time in Kent. White and pink, it waved above the orchard wall at Eastwell, every now and then scattering petals as if for a bride on the Broomes’ garden path. Tansy sat at her spinning-wheel just outside their cottage door, with honeysuckle scenting the air, and her small son prancing on his hobby horse towards the open gate.
“You have the best carved horse in the world, Robin,” she told him.
The fair-haired three-year-old nodded vigorously. “Dear my horsey! Dick-Dick made it,” he confided proudly, not as yet being able to pronounce the word father.
“Well, ride Horsey down the path and up to the house to where Dick-Dick is working, and tell him to come home to dinner,” said Tansy. And as Robin set off at full canter with only a few spills, she glanced back over her shoulder and called through the open doorway to the young wench from the village who was setting the table. “The master will be in soon.”
And these days “the master” meant Dickon, for he had a dozen men, including carpenters, tilers and glaziers, working under his control.
From where she sat Tansy could see across courtyard, lawn and terrace to the manor house, where the fine new wing was rising beside the best part of the old. She could see her husband among a group of workmen pacing out some important measurements, and presently saw Sir John, who had recently inherited both house and tide, come across the terrace to join him. They stood there talking, measuring and gesticulating. She had no idea what they were discussing, but as usual they seemed to be enthus
iastic and in the utmost accord. And presently some of the workmen caught sight of young Robin Broome, trying to reach them on his fiery-looking, unmanageable steed, and stood around to give him a laughing welcome. When he fell off for the third time, seeming to think it all a splendid joke, his father turned and caught him up in his arms. What Dickon made of her message transmitted through such a limited vocabulary, Tansy could only imagine. But she laughed aloud, thinking how good life was.
The sun shone. There was scarcely a cloud in the early summer sky. And so it was with her. Her home had been built to her own desires. Her husband had found contentment in his work, their child grew strong and tall in such healthy surroundings, and they all three seemed to have become part of the Eastwell household. Only a few days ago Tom and Amy, now married with her brother’s consent, had been staying at the manor, and the rich Drury heiress, who was now Lady Moyle, instead of resenting the successful fletcher’s humble origin, had been completely captivated by his charm. “So, as with us, their troubles are over,” thought Tansy.
Her husband was striding up the garden path, his precious plans in his hand and stone dust in his hair, and — as usual — joy in his eyes at seeing her.
“Where is Robin?” she asked anxiously.
“Having a plaster put on his nose,” said Dickon, pausing by the well to wash the sweat from his face. “Horsey had the ill manners to throw him again, and Lady Moyle is comforting him. Sometimes I think they could not pet him more if he were their own child.”
“They will soon have one of their own, and if it is a boy they intend to call him Thomas,” said Tansy. “How is the chapel work progressing?”
“Excellently. This morning we have hoisted my carved reredos into position. I have always wanted to build a chapel. And although this is but a small private one, when it is finished it will compare with any in the land.” She guessed at once at the comparison which was in his mind. “And into this one you are able to put your best creative work?”
“It has been a joy. And using Caen stone, too. In the chapel at Westminster I should have been only an underling, seldom free to use my own ideas. Whereas here — ”
Dickon stopped short and sat down abruptly on the low garden wall as if some thought had cut short his pleasure.
“The Moyles are inordinately pleased with it, aren’t they?” asked Tansy, puzzled by the half-humorous, half-angry grimace on her husband’s face.
“So pleased that they have persuaded the Tudor to dine with them next week on his way to inspect the new defences at Dover. Lady Moyle is sure to ask him to inspect the new chapel as well.”
Tansy sprang up, her unwound wool twining about her. “King Henry — coming here! Oh, Dickon, you will hate that! And as likely as not he will ask to see the head mason.”
“His visit betokens sure advancement for Sir John. And, anyway, there is nothing I can do.”
She went and laid a hand on his shoulder, as if to still the tumult of his feelings. “Here, surrounded by so much peace and kindness, it has been so easy to forget.”
“Easier, yes,” qualified Dickon.
“Holy Church tells us to forgive our enemies — ”
“It takes the end of living memory to wipe out a war”
“You mean that there need be no bitterness in Robin’s generation?”
“It is always easier to forget what one has heard of than what one has actually seen. He will not have been forced to see King Richard’s body, naked, stabbed and bloody, thrown across a pack horse, and brought back with a felon’s halter about his neck — and heard Lancastrians jeering. His hackles will not rise as instinctively as a dog’s at sight of any Tudor — ”
“The Tudor may not have known. After all, he gave permission for your father’s burial as soon as the Abbot asked.” But Dickon was not to be propitiated. “Then, when he is older, you will tell Robin?”
“I think not. Do you suppose I could tell him dispassionately about Bosworth, and not make it ‘come real’ as he calls it when we tell him stories now?”
Tansy tried to hide her disappointment. “We called our first son Robert after my father, but I should be extraordinarily proud to tell him about yours,” she said. “And a long time ago, when I asked you, you said that — even with all the dangers and disadvantages — you yourself would rather have been told.”
“But not wholly because my father was a king. It was because I had at last found someone of my own — some sort of background. It was before I had met you, beloved.” Going towards the gate, Dickon laid an arm about her shoulders in passing. “But our lad has no need of love and security, and I would not have him know that awful sense of — apartness — from his fellow men.”
“Apartness. That is the word dear Tom once used, when speaking of you.”
Dickon swung round. “But he does not know!”
“He said it without knowing. He must have felt it. Tom is more sensitive than you suppose.”
An affectionate smile warmed away the strain which was now so rarely on Dickon’s face. “One day I should like to tell Tom,” he said.
He went to meet his master and his son. Robin’s happy face had been carefully patched, and Sir John was carrying the wooden horse. “We had trouble with our mount this morning,” he said, handing it to Dickon.
Robin ran to his mother, announcing that he was hungry. “It must be a perpetual state, for my injudicious wife has just been stuffing him with sweetmeats,” remarked Sir John, amused. “I came across to tell you that I think you had better find time to build a new parapet to our courtyard well, Dickon. The kitchen maids are grumbling that it is not safe. And soon we too may have an adventurous little horseman to think about.”
“We have been praying for that good news,” said Tansy.
“I will see to it, Sir,” promised Dickon.
But clearly that was not all Sir John had come about. Although it was past the dinner hour at manor and cottage he did not go immediately, but stood picking a sprig of honeysuckle and thrusting it through a button-hole of his doublet with rather unnecessary care. Then, quite abruptly, he said, “I am not too happy about that subsidence of the river wall along the Strand. We might get the water into our town house with any high Spring tide. I think you will have to leave things here for a few days and ride up to London to see about it for me.”
There was a moment’s silence, while only the birds chirped in the apple trees. Both of them were very well aware that the worst of the Spring tides were over. Then the eyes of knight and master mason met in a long look of mutual understanding and regard.
“Thank you — more than I can express — for everything,” said Dickon. “I will start to-morrow.”
“The day before the King comes,” murmured Tansy, gazing at their benefactor with deep gratitude.
Sir John must have heard her. He turned and leaned for a moment or two on their garden wall. “His Grace is not likely to have forgotten what Richard Plantagenet looked like on the only brief, terrifying occasion when he ever saw him.” And then, as if lightening the dangerous subject, he nodded towards their son. “Do you intend ever to tell him?” Although it was the first time he had alluded to the circumstances of Dickon’s birth since that day in their old cottage at Richmond, save implicitly by occasionally borrowing their books, they both knew what he meant.
“How strange!” exclaimed Tansy. “We were speaking about that just before you came, Sir.”
“Not so strange, Tansy. The King’s coming must have put it into your heads,” said Moyle. “And what did you decide?”
“For myself, I should have liked Robin to know,” she said, gathering the boy against her skirts. “But it is more Dickon’s concern than mine. And he says no.”
Dickon faced him with easy confidence and his most charming smile. “Considering the wisdom and kindness with which you have reshaped our lives, I think that it should be for you, Sir, to cast the deciding vote.”
Sir John looked at the robust, fair-skinned boy considering
ly. “How like his mother he is!” he said, realizing cause for relief. “No need for him to be handicapped by any fatal family resemblance or bitter memories! Let him grow up zestfully, without prejudice, into this bravely expanding new Tudor world.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a story set in a framework of authentic history, but some of it is based on very plausible legend and much is fiction. Most of the events really happened, but in some cases I have condensed them into the space of a few years rather than a lifetime.
Dickon is mentioned by his real name in John Heneage Jesse’s Memoirs of Richard III and also by John Harvey in The Plantagenets, and his burial in 1550 is recorded — with the mark V which signified that the deceased was of noble family — in the register at Eastwell in Kent. Actually, it was Sir Thomas Moyle, John Moyle’s son, who had the home built for him there, when Dickon was an elderly mason, and even today the site of it is known as Plantagenet Cottage.
The Blue Boar at Leicester was pulled down in 1836, but before the demolition a Mr. Henry Goddard made careful drawings and descriptions of it, which are preserved in the City Library. The original High Street, in which the inn stood, is now known as High Cross Street. Blue Boar Lane and the King’s bed still exist. The fate of the landlady is recorded in the city archives of Leicester, but she was in fact a Mistress Clark, who lived and owned the bed at a later date.
Many years after the battle of Stoke workmen repairing a chimney at Minster Lovell came upon a walled-up, secret room. To their amazement they saw, seated at a writing table, the body of a man which disintegrated almost as soon as the air penetrated. This was always believed to be Francis, Viscount Lovell, about whose disappearance there had been so much conjecture. My thanks are due to the Leicester City Library and the Ashford branch of the Kent County Library for putting so much helpful information at my disposal, and to the Isle of Wight County Seely Library for getting me so many reference books.
The King's Bed Page 24
