I could tell she was cross and perhaps a little hurt by my remark. “It does not matter, do not vex yourself, wife; here, this gift will brighten up your sombre attire…”
Smiling, I reached beneath my robes and brought from a pouch a small wooden box. Opening it, I lifted up a brooch I had commissioned from the goldsmiths in Nottingham’s Bridlesmith Gate. Wrought of gold, the brooch was shaped like a heart and enamelled. On the back was engraved—‘je suys vostre sans de partier’. I am wholly yours.
“Oh Richard, it is very fair to behold.” Anne blushed, her ill-mood fading. “Forgive me; I have been insolent to you today, snappish like some fishwife. I will retire at once and change into a gown more pleasing to you.”
“As I said, you need not; the colour of your dress matters not one whit. All fault was mine. Stay as you are, but wear my heart above yours.”
She leaned forward and kissed my mouth as I pinned the brooch upon her breast. My hands slid down to her waist, held her. A few of her women were still fluttering about in the back of the room; they started vigorous needlework, pretending not to notice the unseemly affection between their king and queen. The minstrels in the gallery above swept into a rousing tune, one warbling some maudlin French love song.
The idyll was broken by the thundering of feet on the stairs that wound up to the tower’s topmost level. Annoyed, I frowned; it was definitely a fault of wooden buildings that sounds were so much more evident than in structures of stone.
Anne pulled away from me in alarm. “Whatever is going on? Could it be that Henry Tudor has finally invaded?”
“I pray so,” I growled. “I want this conflict finished, and the pretender’s head off his shoulders.”
There was a crashing and a flurry of raised voices directly outside the door. Francis was speaking rapidly and others I did not recognize. Frank was saying, “I must be there, I must tell him…Christ Jesu, stop gawping at me, let me pass!”
It must be the invasion. Grimly I rubbed my hands. The little pretend Welshmen would soon trouble me no more. Hopefully his annoying mother would retire to a convent after his demise and never again emerge into the secular world. I wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Stanley were as happy as I if such an event occurred, providing Margaret ceded him her bountiful lands.
Heavy knocks sounded upon the door, and I beckoned for it to be cast open to allow the newcomers entrance. Francis nearly fell into the room, accompanied by a man I did not know and followed by a small, rotund priest. Frank looked ill, ghastly ill, lurching and stumbling towards me. The man with him, muddy, wearing my livery, was equally white; he was also shaking. The priest fared not much better, yellow and waxy faced, beads of sweat popping on his lined brow.
Above us in the minstrel’s gallery, the music stopped abruptly. A bagpipe wailed out its last plaintive notes, died away with a gasp.
“Francis?” I glanced to my friend. Doubts were filling my mind now. Frank would be as glad of invasion as I; he would not look so grim and ill.
And the priest, why the worried little priest fumbling with his beads and mumbling prayers?
My mother? Was it my mother? She was old now, her health had declined in recent times and she was in retirement at Berkhamsted, living as a nun though not professed as one. Or was it another betrayal, another Buckingham from unseen quarters?
“Your Grace…Jesu, Dickon.” Frank put his hands to his face and I could see he struggled not to weep. “The news I must tell you, the news this messenger has brought…God, why has this been put upon me to deliver this blow to one I love, but better my lips than a stranger.”
Anne began to look panicked; she came forward with her hand outstretched. “Francis, Francis, just tell us, tell us!”
Francis took a deep breath and put his hand on the shoulder of the messenger, for support as much as anything else, even though the shorter man came near enough to collapsing beneath his weight. The messenger’s face was taut, his eyes distended, wild; I had seen horses in battle with eyes like that, filled with pure terror.
“My Lord King,” croaked Francis, his voice rasping from an unwilling throat. “This man has ridden like the wind from the north. He brings evil tidings, the most evil tidings. God rest his soul, your son Edward has died at Middleham after a short illness.”
It was as if someone had struck me. Struck me in the belly, knocking the air from my lungs. I heard an animal scream in pain somewhere in the castle…Who was torturing a beast at this time? But it was not a beast. It was Anne.
She ran as if to escape the dreadful news, flung herself against the wall, tearing down the tapestries in her flight. A unicorn collapsed, horn buckling; a picture of lovers fell to crumpled ruin. “See to her! See to her!” I roared at her women, who began to shriek, cry, and wail themselves.
My head spun, and a crescendo of pain rose in me, seemingly from deep in the core of my body, ripping upwards like a knife. This is what it must feel like to be gutted by the enemy’s blade, to feel it tear up and up, until it clove your heart asunder and finished you.
But there was no blade, and I would not die.
But in that dreadful instant, I wished God would smite me dead on the spot.
“No, no, NO!” The words were torn unwillingly from my lips, in the same way the inhuman screams had ripped from Anne’s throat. Staggering away from Francis, I struck my curled fists upon the surface of nearby table, smashing the imported German green glass bowl that stood as a centrepiece, full of water for laving the face or hands. Shards of glass flew, water ran over the floor like tears, and blood blossomed from rents in my palms.
Blood spilling onto my rich clothes, I cradled my hands against my body. In horror and despair, I stared down at my bloodied fingers, the torn palms…Was this loss my punishment for all I had done, the blood I had caused to be shed? Edward’s son had lost his life, and as retribution God had taken my son too?
Frank grabbed my shoulders as I toppled over, suddenly overcome, my knees giving way beneath me, as if I were boneless. “Get off me, how dare you touch me!” I screamed at him as I went down, but bless him, he did not listen even though I was his King, and he clung to me, lowering me gently onto the floor so that I would not harm myself in falling. I was glad of his recklessness then.
I lay on the rumpled, now-bloodied carpet, stricken, looking like a mad man, pressing my bleeding hands against the cold clay of my face. “Get Dr Hobbes!” I heard Frank shouting, but his voice seemed faint, as if from a great distance.
“Anne, where is the Queen?” I tried to sit but fell back, dizzy and confused. “I must comfort her. Where is the Queen?”
I could only see what appeared to be a crumpled doll in the corner, a child’s rag-doll covered in streaming, rent, tangled hair. Corpse-pale, arms outflung, motionless. Dressed in deepest, richest mourning blue.
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CHAPTER SEVEN: A KING MUST BE STRONG
A King must be strong. A King cannot cry.
In the following days, I attended to all my duties in my accustomed manner. I saw men whisper behind their hands, knew I looked ghastly, a walking lich, my face etched with pain and care.
Care. Nottingham would ever be my Castle of Care, which I had once loved and sought to beautify; now a place of sorrow and death and ugliness. Langland had written it in his poem, and so it seemed to me:
That is the Castle of Care,
Whoever dares to go in there,
Will curse the day he was born
in both body and in soul.
Wrong is the name of the Wight who lives there…
Ever my stalwart friend, Francis was constantly at my side, tending to my every need, making sure I rested when I would have worked like a madman to chase, for one moment, the torture from my mind. Hobbes tended to Anne, who could not rise, could only weep and then but weakly, her face pressed to the bolster of her bed. Her ladies pressed sponges with wine to her dry lips for she could bear no food and would scar
cely drink.
At month’s bitter end, I left my Castle of Care. Anne was carried in a litter alongside me, shrouded in black satin. The weather had turned; the spring was damp with chilling rain and grey cloud formed a winding sheet over my precious tower. I glanced back at is as I rode north, and wished, in that second, it would crumble before my very eyes and I would never have to see it again.
The entourage journeyed straight up the Great North Road to the walls of York .Entering through Micklegate, the atmosphere was hushed, subdued, unlike the riotous joy of last summer when the townsfolk celebrated their Duke becoming King and his son Prince of Wales. As I passed by, an iron-faced wraith in black, I could see the dismayed, uneasy looks of people in the streets, as if they did not know whether to cheer their monarch or bow their heads in mourning.
Anne and I sought the refuge of the Lendal priory, our favourite lodgings within the city, with the generous monks and the great library where I could lose myself in learning for hours. I had commissioned apartments there just for the use of the Queen and I, so as not to inconvenience the brothers with the trappings of our more worldly life. As I strode in, the Abbot blessed me and whispered comforting words; while my poor Anne was brought in like an old, infirm woman, furled in a huge, warm cloak and supported by four of her ladies.
However, Anne Neville was the daughter of Warwick. Duty bound her as it bound me, despite the wound to heart and soul that would never heal. She slept one more night, under the sleeping draughts of Dr Hobbes, and then she rallied and stood upright and bade her ladies to dress her as befit a Queen.
Solemn but tearless, wearing her deep mourning blue, but scorning any jewels, any adornments, she joined me for morning Mass. “Anne, are you sure you wish to rise?” I asked her, concerned. “If you are still unwell, you must stay abed. You must not tax yourself so soon.”
“I will rise,” she asserted. “The blessed Virgin lost her son and so have I; Our Lady had to endure and her suffering was so much greater than mine. I will take my rightful place at my husband’s side. I will go forth to my people as Queen.”
Later, we attended the Mystery Plays, as was our custom, but it was hard to feel mirth, or awe, or indeed any sensation at all. Watching the actor who played Herod blunder across the stage, a figure of fun as much as of menace, huge-bellied and with a bristling beard made from a horsetail, a sudden jolt of sickness stabbed through me as I thought of how many men claimed I was another Herod, the murderer of children who threatened my eminence. But if such belief was common in the south, it did not appear to have taken hold in the north; the rumours must have reached Yorkshire, for rumours always spread like cankers, but the people of York, who knew me best, sustained me with their love in the worst days of my life.
At this time, a Silesian knight on a mission from Emperor Maximilian arrived at my court; his name was Niclas Von Poppelau. Nicholas in English. He claimed to be writing a diary of his travels across Europe, and apparently, he was most eager to meet me.
Von Poppelau was a short—yes, short, even next to me!—man who was of great girth and rondure, like one of the great beer barrels used to hold drink in his home country. He had a round little head and a jolly round red face, more like that of a flesher or a country farmer than the average knight, and twinkling blue eyes under overhanging yellow brows. He wore an enormous oiled moustache but shaved his chin, and his receding blond locks were brushed straight back from his forehead. He rode a fine black horse, and carried the most enormous, heavy-looking lance I had ever seen.
He was an excellent conversationalist and I soon warmed to Von Poppelau, but I did not mention any of my troubles in our discourse. I did not want weakness on the part of the King of England to find its way into his half-written book.
We dined together on several occasions and I found the Silesian genial company indeed, raising my mood from the black pit of despair. Fortunately, he seemed to find me a decent companion too.
One evening, at table, we both got staggeringly, blinding drunk.
“You have talked all night, Lord King Richard,” said Von Poppelau, “but you have hardly eaten a thing. Eat!” He pushed a tray of sweetmeats in my direction.
It was true. I had felt little hunger since my son died, but drink numbed some of the pain, and rapid speech caused the mind to linger on other than death. I had scarcely eaten a bite all evening.
“You help yourself, my friend,” I offered, pushing the silver tray back towards him with a finger. “I do not crave food…only to hear your marvellous tales from far off lands.”
Von Poppelau picked up a sweetmeat and popped it in his mouth. “Tales from afar. Aye, Highness, I have many tales, have seen much in the world both fair and foul.”
“What have you seen that is foul?” I asked, and turning to the servers, clapped my hands: “More wine. Quickly!”
“The Turks!” Von Poppelau’s blue eyes glittered and a grin made his cheeks plump up like big red apples. He grabbed a cup of wine, emptied it down his throat. I did likewise.
“Turks!” I gulped, wiping my mouth and banging my jewelled goblet down on the table. “Mahometans! Tell me more. What are they like?”
“Furchtbar!” screamed Von Poppelau, and I jumped in sudden alarm at that harsh shout, sounding half a war cry. Then I burst into laughter, realising that he had fallen into German, always a brash-sounding tongue, due to being so impassioned by his subject.
His ruddy face turned even more florid. “Forgive me, your Grace! I did not mean to shout in a language you do not know! I meant to say…they are terrible. Terrible. Swarthy-hued men with great curved swords and spikes upon their helms. Barbarians, to be sure. Not content with the ravishment of Constantinople…”
“A great loss,” I sighed, shaking my head.
“…they also threaten the entire east of Europe. Always rapacious, the foul heathens. However…” he twirled his great moustache, “the Hungarians have recently trounced them in battle, driving their foul hordes away from their borders! The tide will turn, King Richard, the tide will turn!”
“I would that I could help this effort to keep the paynim out of Europe!” I exclaimed drunkenly. Another cup of wine was in my hand. Down it went. ‘Ah, how I wish that my kingdom lay upon the confines of Turkey! With my own men alone and without the help of any other princes, I should like to drive away not only the Turks, but all my enemies!”
“Ha ha!” Von Poppelau roared in delight. “You have a great heart, Highness—a great heart!”
I changed the subject; my nose and lips felt a little numb and I realised the drink had made me sound like some over eager youth, striving to prove himself in warfare. “They say you have a mighty lance, Sir Nicholas, so heavy that none but you can lift it.”
“It is true, your Grace. I am small in height but I am very strong, like an oak tree…” He flexed his arm; the muscle bulged, huge and rounded. “I wrestled bulls as a boy, you know! And won!”
“I am sure!” I grinned. “I want to see this lance of yours. I want to see if I can lift it. I will wager than I can. Have it brought.”
For a moment, the Silesian’s grin faltered. “If you wish, my Lord King. But, with greatest respect, the lance has been fashioned with me in mind. It may not…”
“You fear I will not be able to lift it and will be offended,” I said. “You fear that because my arms and hands look small and thin, I might cause myself injury. Do not fear, good knight. I believe you may be surprised by my ability. Get the lance.”
Von Poppelau spoke to his squires in his own guttural tongue, and they scuttled out of the chamber. They soon returned, puffing, panting, and crimson-faced as they dragged between them the famous lance of the Silesian knight. It was indeed one of the biggest lances I had ever seen, far longer than the usual twelve feet, and thick, with an ornate handle and guard. It was painted in stripes of silver and red and shone dully in the light of the flambeaux in the banqueting hall. It truly was a fine weapon.
Dutifully the squires pla
ced it on the floor before their master, bowed and departed to their allotted places. “You first.” I nodded to Von Poppelau.
The Silesian knight rose and grasped the great lance in both hands. He hefted it up, muscles bunching in great ropes, and brandished it with a cry, to an accompanying cheer from the feasters assembled in the hall. I wondered how Anthony Woodville would have fared against this man in a joust. But Von Poppelau’s lance was not made for such sport; it was for warfare.
Placing my goblet on the table, I rose and walked over to my guest, who had carefully laid the lance back on the floor. I was a little unsteady. “I will have my turn.”
All eyes were on me; the noisy room became suddenly hushed. I suspected many, like Von Poppelau himself, did not believe I could lift the great weapon. A little frisson of doubt niggled at me; drink had made my speech rash. I did not have mighty limbs, and my prowess came more from speed and skill rather than from brute strength. Bending might also reveal my shame, the curve that marred my back, although my shoulders were well padded and evened out by my doublet and robe.
It was too late to back out. I had to make the attempt or lose face; even failure would be better than refusing to try. I eyed the lance, thinking how best to go about lifting it. Unlike ordinary men, I could not use my back to bear weight; I could only use my arms to lever it up. Stooping slightly, bending at the knees, I grasped hold of the handle of the lance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Von Poppelau grimace. I bit my lip, ignored him, ignored the faces of the watchers, concentrated on my task only. I could raise the lance. I might be of finer build that most men and afflicted, but I was still a warrior with a will of iron even where my body was weak….
I lifted Nicholas Von Poppelau’s famous lance. Only a minute or two, mind, and pain rippled through my shoulders and down my spine, but it was enough.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 22
