I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie
Page 26
“You fucking hot-headed little idiot!” he had bawled at me, as Will Hastings lurked in the background, hiding his mirth by pretending to cough into his sleeve. “I’ve had to make reparations to the fucking Scottish King because of you! How do you think that makes me look? My own brother, supposed to be defending the borders, but acting like a common pirate.”
“I gave back all the goods,” I sniffed sullenly. “I’ll make my actions good, I promise, your Grace…Ned…when I have some money.”
“You never have any fucking money, Gloucester!” Ned bellowed. “I even let you and that Neville wife of yours off from paying your taxes—which were already well in arrears!”
My scowl deepening as I cringed, embarrassed that Hastings was listening to this heated exchange and learning about my private finances…or lack of them. Suddenly Edward shook his head, rolled his eyes heavenward, and to my surprise began to laugh.
“Jesu, Richard, you should see your face! You look like you would bite my ankle if you could get your teeth into it. Bloody hell, I love you, brother…but think, for Christ’s sake, think before you act. You are too rash, just like our father was. Rash! It will bring you to grief if you do not have more control.”
I went on my knees, took his hands, kissed them. “Forgive me, your Grace, I want no bad blood between us.”
He had put his hand on my hair, gently, just as he did when I was a small boy at Baynard’s and he came daily to see George and me. “I forgive you…”
My reverie about those long gone days was broken by a shout from the forecastle. We had long passed the cliff and headland at Scarborough, its long arm thrust out to shelter the bay, and the castle keep was a dim fang fading into the lowering clouds.
Visor raised, I squinted into the sea fog. Tiny shapes moved amidst the billowing clouds on the distant horizon—the ships of the Scots darting about on the swell. Around me, I could see my own archer-laden ships and those of Jockey Howard, the Edward, the Mary, the Trego, the Paker, and the newly wrought Barbara. Jockey was commanding the Edward, named in honour of my brother—a fine carvel with three masts and fifteen bombards; a trading ship that could likewise be used for warfare. Painted shields gleamed upon its sides, and an image of Our Lady faced ahead into the froth of the sea.
Slowly, our ships moved into a crescent formation. We would approach the Scots with all speed, as the wind was in our favour, and attempt to form a blockade while ramming them on their weak flanks. If we managed to board any craft, we could take high status prisoners, which I could then ransom.
Our ships drew in closer to their quarry; I could see the Lion Rampant banner of Scotland fluttering in the wind amidst those of various Scottish nobles. Arrows began to skim over the waters, some of them aflame with pitch. One sent from the forecastle of my ship struck one of the sails of a Scottish carrack, and it caught on fire to great cheering. With steel-eyed amusement, I watched as Scots dashed up the mast like rats, trying to beat out the blaze.
Jockey Howard’s ship the Edward, being a smaller, lighter boat than mine, slid stealthily forward toward the enemy craft. Artillery fire blasted from its bows and the whole vessel rocked, as I bit my lip in momentary alarm—for if there were too many cannons or the bombards were too heavy, it could destabilise a ship and even cause it to sink.
But Jockey was experienced, had been sailing the seas since the 1460’s, and he immediately managed to right his vessel and ram it straight into the unprotected flank of a Scottish caravel. Wood groaned and buckled; grappling hooks were thrown over, drawing the caravel towards the Edward, and then, amid flying arrows and flashing blades, Jockey’s trained crew stormed aboard the deck of the Scots vessel and began frantic hand-to-hand fighting.
A carrack lurched towards my ship, equal in size, guns booming in a frenzy of fire and smoke. I flew a standard bearing the Arms of England so the enemy captain knew I was personally on board. I wondered who might be the commander; some grizzled old veteran like Archibald Bell-the-Cat, no doubt, perhaps seeking vengeance for the shame of losing Berwick.
Arrows soared over me, shrieking, skimming off the top of crashing waves. The prow of my ship turned and smashed against that of the enemy vessel. It was a direct ram that nearly knocked the crew off their feet, and even I staggered, dragged to the side-rail by the weight of my armour. Then men were yelling, and ropes and hooks flying, and the two vessels were straining at each other like unwilling lovers.
I drew my sword, its blade cold white fire in the misty daylight. “Board! Board! Take prisoners if you can!” I shouted.
I flung myself over the railing, landing heavily on the heaving deck of my adversary’s ship. A brawny Scot rushed at me with a mace and my blade pierced him through the gut, the tip of my sword emerging from his back. Blood fountained from his mouth as he fell onto the brine-soaked timbers, and I leapt over his corpse, slipping in the gore and the froth.
“Surrender!” I shouted, striking through another crowd of jostling, battering soldiers that impeded my path. “And maybe some of you will live to see another day!”
In the distance, through the slit of my visor, I could see some of the Scottish ships had broken through our attempted blockade. But they were not seeking to do battle anymore—they were fleeing down the coastline as fast as they could go, leaving their fellows behind.
The captain of the Scottish carrack—I could see him now—a square-headed and dour old man with the pained expression of a hooked trout, had seen the abandonment by his fellows too. From the height of the aftcastle he gestured wildly to his men, calling the surrender. The guns fell silent, and the Scottish archers let their bows droop, though mine kept their arrows to the string. Swords and daggers clattered to the deck as my men disarmed the Scots.
The enemy ship was mine and the King of Scots humiliated at sea. Soon, I thought, James would come begging me for a proper peace between our peoples.
As the tide had brought us victory, so too, maybe, would the tide now turn for me…
Great rejoicing took place in the windy castle on the cliff. The whole of Scarborough town celebrated, and bonfires were lit and processions took place from St Mary’s down through the market place, where much ale and beer was consumed and many a boisterous, inebriated youth ended up with a broken head. Even the lepers from the Lazar hospital by Newboroughgate joined in the festivities, hobbling around in their rags and ringing their warning bells, while the townspeople made a wide berth around them.
Anne joined me on a celebratory tour of the town, the people pressing in to view us as we strolled under an elaborate golden canopy held by upright young squires. Anne wore silver blue cloth of gold trimmed with marten and a jewelled crespinette that held back her hair, and for the first time since our Edward had died, she seemed to have certain life in her again. In the face of the love of our people, her lethargy had lifted somewhat; she smiled and waved. She was not just the dutiful Queen; she was my Anne once more, friend and companion as well as beloved consort to the King.
“Anne…” Having left the town for the comforts of the castle, I followed her straight, palely glimmering back to the Queen’s apartments, well aware but uncaring that the courtiers were whispering.
“Yes, my Lord King? “ She looked at me, inquiring, as I licked my lips, flushed with embarrassment.
“Are you pregnant?”
She laughed, then bit back the sound. “My dearest, it is far too early to tell such a thing…but I would not expect a man to know about such matters, even a King.”
“There is something about you, Anne; something different.”
“I am content, Richard, something I thought I never would be again. Not the same kind of happiness and contentment I knew before, that is gone forever, but I do not walk in bleak despair. I see your face, for the first time with the darkness of grief lifted from it, I hear of your victory…and I am joyful for you. I have accepted what happened and put my trust in God. He will be good to us—and he will look after our son, God assoil him.”
“Oh Richard.” She bowed her head. “I want what you want. I want it more than anything in this sinful world. And the doctors say they know of no reason why I do not conceive save ill luck. It is so for some women. But I am afraid to hold out too much hope after all this time.”
“I will write to the Pope, ask for a dispensation for you to eat meat on Fridays. He will give it to you; he will not refuse. Eating more meat will make you strong and healthy…and the babe when I put it within you.”
She put her arms around my neck, clinging, smelling of old roses and the sea salt from our walk along the harbour walls. “If it’s his Grace’s wish to fill that empty space within me, then I say let it be so.”
“It his wish. By the Virgin and all the saints, it is his wish.”
Later that night I awoke with cold wind blasting over me. Disoriented, I peered around; the tapers near the bedside dimmed, near to guttering in the violent tumult of air. “What, by Christ?” I murmured angrily, rolling over.
Anne was no longer beside me. She was standing in a window embrasure, the shutters thrown wide, with the roaring wind clawing its way in around her. She had donned a shift, light as gossamer; it lifted in the wind, twining around her thin pale legs like a winding sheet. Her hair was a beacon, a wild banner that streamed out behind her, and a terrible strange light was in her face.
Her expression struck fear into my heart; I thought I had just got my ‘old’ Anne back, and here she was changed again, fey and touched, the light from a moon high about the castle silvering her brow, robbing the blue from her eyes, the warmth from her unbound tresses.
“Anne, what in Christ’s name are you doing?” I sat upright, the coverlet falling back around my midriff. My arms were rimed with goose pimples; the night, even though it was July, was fiercely cold upon that towering height. “You will catch your death.”
“I…I heard something—something out there in the dark!” she cried, and her voice was high and strained, somehow unearthly. “Richard, Richard, I heard a child crying! Crying for me to come to him!”
“It was just a fancy, Anne; it was but a seagull seeking its nest!” I insisted, caught between annoyance and fear. I knew no gulls flew abroad after dark. “You were having a dream, a bad dream. That is all. Come away! Come back to the warm where it is safe.”
It was as if the ensorcellment passed from my wife. She suddenly slammed the shutters, blocking out wind and livid moonlight. “Yes, a dream, a nightmare. Richard, I am so cold…so cold, and yet, I burn.”
Her knees sagged; I caught her as she fell and carried her to the bed. She was shivering, and yet her skin felt heated and a thin veneer of sweat gleamed on her skin. “This is not right! You are ill! I will summon a physician!”
“No, no; there is no need.” She began to laugh, though it was not an open laugh, but a nervous sound, shrill and hard. “It was just a fancy. A stupid woman’s fancy. I will be fine. Fine, I tell you. Do not fuss, Richard!”
Her laughter abruptly died and she pressed her hand to her mouth.
And began to cough.
And cough.
And cough till the blood came, reddening the lips I had so recently kissed with passion.
Three doctors were summoned but by the time they arrived, scurrying down the wind-chilled halls of Scarborough Castle, the coughing fit had passed. Sweat no longer gathered on Anne’s brow and she claimed to feel fine, although very weary. The physicians stroked their beards and murmured amongst themselves, debating whether on not she should be bled.
“It may be bad humours gathering in Her Grace’s blood. They may need to be let out.”
I had seen wounded men, stabbed on the battlefield and already half devoid of blood, getting their veins opened by foolish medics who believed more blood loss would halt putrefaction and provide a cure. They always died.
“The Queen shall not be bled!” I thundered. “I forbid it. I summoned you here not for butchery but to tell me what ails her.”
The eldest of the doctor licked his thin lips. “It was likely but the night air; it can be deadly for weak lungs, and it is apparent her Grace the Queen is not robust. I will prepare a linctus that will ease the cough should it come on again. My Lord King, I must ask you, though—does her Highness cough in this manner often?” There seemed to be a look of worry in his eyes, and he was trying to shield them from me, staring here and there about the chamber, anywhere but at my face.
“No,” I said. I was not lying. Not exactly. I had never seen her gasp so, or blood upon her mouth. But for years…a niggling cough. However, such a malady was hardly a strange thing. In the close smoky confines of one’s castles, whole households seemed to choke and gasp all winter long.
The doctor looked relieved by my words. “I would advise then that her Grace stay out of the wind and the evening chill. They are sucking the air from her throat. I would also advise she dines more, on richer food. With greatest respect to the great lady, she is far too thin for good health.”
“Excellent, I will see she stays indoors in the evening and keeps the windows closed, “I told the physician. “I am already writing to the Pope to get a dispensation for her to eat meat at all times. Now, man, go and prepare that linctus for her throat. We must be on the road to York upon the morrow.”
Shortly after dawn, my entourage set out to York as planned, Anne riding in a litter at my insistence, although she claimed she was fully recovered and strong enough to ride. I would not risk it. Passing through the Forest of Galtres via its prime settlement at Easingwold, at last we spied the mighty walls of York, and the tall battlements of Bootham Bar, the entry point into the city for travellers coming through the north.
The Bar’s portcullis was raised, teeth glittering, as we rode beneath in a fanfare of trumpets. It was market day for the monks of nearby St Mary’s and they were hawking wares on stalls in the maze of streets around us; with amusement I watched their faces fall as passersby abandoned the Brothers’ wares in order to gape at the royal presence.
We continued to the castle, with its vast water defences and high round tower on a motte. Like many older castles, it had fallen into a poor state of repair and I had already ordered several derelict and dangerous structures dismantled. As there was still a mint at the castle, it was worth repairing, and I planned to do so when finances allowed. Perhaps next year, in 1485, when Tydder’s threat was over.
York was, to my mind, not only the prime city of the north but the greatest in all England after London and Canterbury, and it deserved adequate protection from harm, especially as its location rendered it open to Scottish raids. Many years ago, in the reign of Edward Two, the Scots surged down as far as the walls, seeking to capture the Queen Isabella, who was resident at the castle.
York had always given me much support, and the north was loyal to me, and I had decided both needed due reward. One thing had become apparent to me as King; the south was truly favoured while the north scorned, seen as a place of poverty where men spoke a strange tongue and did not follow the southern courtly rules. I had witnessed such derision toward northern folk myself, when I summoned my forces to attend my Coronation and the Londoners mocked their old-fashioned armour and weapons.
Determination filled me. It was all going to change from now onward. Loyalty to my cause would be rewarded. Loyaultie Me Lie was, after all, my own motto—Loyalty Binds Me.
In York castle, I gathered all the friends and advisors who had journeyed with me these past months—Frank, Dick Ratcliffe, Rob Percy, Ralph Assheton, James Tyrrell, John Howard, James Harrington, John Scrope, John Kendall—plus some notables from York, the Mayor Thomas Wrangwish and my frien
d Miles Metcalfe, the city’s recorder. Lord Stanley had cried off with intentions to attend to his Lancashire holdings and had taken his surly brother with him, a true blessing. Henry Percy had ridden in from Alnwick after receiving a summons from me; wearing his dark, outmoded clothes, he stood a little away from the other lords, always a dour and close man whose thoughts were hard to read.
Wine was served, while my travelling troupe of musicians played, weaving in and out the sturdy pillars supporting the centre of the hall. But it was not pleasure I had gathered those men for, it was business. The problems in the north would be dealt with.
“My Lords!” Putting down my goblet, I signalled for the musicians to cease. A horn caterwauled to silence. “In the brief months of our reign, it has become apparent that the two halves of England are not equal, even though under law they should be so. The problems that trouble the southern counties are vastly different from those that assail the north, with its harsher climes and the threat of Scots on the borders. You all have lived in the north and know of what hardships I speak. I believe it may be impossible to govern the northern counties adequately from London alone. So far, over many centuries, such governance had repeatedly proved unsatisfactory, to the point that it is as if there are two countries within this one country of England.”
“And you seek to unite them.” Francis craned around on his seat to look at me.
“It may not be entirely possible, at least not in these times. But the north must have representation, which at present, is inadequate. As you know, my brother, the late King, decided on a council to deal with northern issues back in 1472. He appointed me as its president, and through its offices, I guided the north with an even hand and stood up for its interests. You may remember I even interceded with the King so that York’s tax burdens might be eased because of the city’s loyalty.”