An end of strife and sorrow, a time of peace and prosperity—was it coming at last? Did Christ and his Mother at last heed my prayers and take pity on me despite the sins I had committed?
Or was this moment of cautious joy merely the calm before the coming storm?
As if in capricious answer, a sudden gust of wind blew, cold, strong, setting the leaves on the surrounding trees dancing in a frenzy. Before me, the Mere churned, and a cloud broiled up out of the west, tiered like some ancient siege tower, darkening the face of the sun. The waters turned grey, heavy.
I could tarry here no longer, pretending. It was time to go. Tomorrow I would journey on northwards after a brief stop at Maxstoke castle, which had once belonged to Harry Stafford.
After the rebellion, Maxstoke had reverted to the crown, and now I was about to do something with this redundant small red fortress.
I was going to slight it.
The stone from Maxstoke’s broken walls would be used to shore up the defences at Kenilworth and, more importantly, at Nottingham, my base in the middle shires, and one of England’s strongest fortresses.
It was time to make all secure before the enemy invasion began.
It was not a time to dream of peace. It was a time to go to war.
************************************************************
CHAPTER TWELVE: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
The Castle of Care. The Castle on the Rock.
Once again, I was within Richard’s Tower, named for my loving work upon it after Edward’s demise. It was St John’s Eve, Midsummer’s Eve, and in the town below the common folk beat the boundaries as was their custom, a mix of Christian rites and of older, darker practices on which I dared not dwell.
Bonfires were burning on every green spot and on distant rises all the way to Sherwood, beacons in the cloak of night. From my great high eyrie overlooking Nottingham, I could see nothing but distant orange blurs, but I knew men and women leapt through the flames hand in hand and then vanished into the smoky, spark-filled darkness where other flames were kindled.
What I could, however, see a stream of lanterns and cressets bucking and belling past the foot of the castle rock like the swaying tail of an endless fiery dragon.
Men were singing, an old song lamenting the passage of summertime, for after this long night the days would start growing shorter again, wandering towards the bleak months of winter. Their voices lifted above the crackle of flames and the din of the crowd, rough with drink yet strangely poignant:
Merry it is while summer lasts
with birds’ fair song
but now shall draws cold winds blast,
and weather strong.
Ah, ah, but now nights must grow long
and I with much mickle wrong
do sorrow and mourn and fast….
“Summer seems to have just arrived and already they sing of winter.” Rob Percy was beside me, leaning on the sill and gazing at the celebrations in the heaving town.
“Winter always comes,” I said, turning away.
I thought of the north, with its crisp banks of snow, the moors dreaming beneath a pristine blanket of white. It seldom snowed so heavily down south. I remembered my son running through the snow when little more than a babe, squealing as his nurses chased him terrified that he would slip, while my dogs bounded around him, licking his flushed, round, child’s cheeks, and I laughed and Anne laughed with me…
It seemed a thousand years ago.
“Boy…wine…” I nodded to a page.
My cup was filled. I drank. The north…I might never see another winter there but no matter. The north always stood for me nonetheless, and I felt little fear for the loyalty of the lords there. I wondered how Bessy would get on in Sheriff Hutton with my nephew Lincoln and young Lord Morley. Upon reaching Nottingham, I had sent orders for her and her sisters to be removed to that castle for safekeeping, as I had told her I would.
It might seem something of a cruel punishment to confine a girl who had spent most of her time in London in a draughty northern fortress, but such confinement would, pray God, not be for long. She could emerge from Sheriff Hutton when Tydder was defeated, and would travel with me for her marriage to Manuel, once Anne’s year mind went by and it was acceptable that I remarry.
More matters filled my mind, though, than the safety of my nieces. I had not been idle since reaching the Castle of Care. A new proclamation against Henry was distributed throughout England. It was much the same as the last, but I had grudgingly omitted Thomas Grey’s name, choosing instead to dwell upon Henry’s corrupt and bastard ancestry, and his threats to cede all England’s French territories back to the French crown, whilst awarding lands and offices unlawfully to his minions.
Commissions of array had also been sent out across the country in preparation for war. The commissioners were to ‘thank the people for their true and loving disposition showed to his Highness in the last year’ and exhort them to continue to defend my person against all rebels and traitors. At the same time, the commissioners were to inspect the levies, checking that they were fit and able men, with sufficient harness and good horses, and that there were no rascals and knaves amongst them who might bring harm my cause. The same held for the nobility; they were bidden to put away their personal grudges with each other, and assist the righteous cause of their King.
Everything was ready. All I needed now was the news I craved…
A sharp knock sounded on the door of the royal apartments. The lutanist who had been playing stopped abruptly, Rob and I glanced at each other; Will Catesby, who was by the fire studying legal documents, glanced up with a perplexed frown. I nodded to Rob, and he called, “Enter!” to whoever stood outside.
A squire came in, knelt. I gestured him up. “Your Grace, the Lord Stanley begs for an audience. He says it is most urgent.”
“Does he indeed?” My brows lowered, drew together. Stanley was at the castle along with most of my high officers but he had made himself scarce from Kenilworth to present, retiring to his chambers with wry comments that he was growing too old to participate in all but the most pressing business. I had no argument with that; he was there, under my watchful eye, yet not a constant uncomfortable presence.
“Well, then,” I said to the boy, “let him come.”
The youth retreated, and several minutes later Thomas Stanley slouched into the chamber followed by one of his sons, George Lord Strange, both moving awkwardly, their boots scuffling on the tiles. Thomas walked toward me and went down awkwardly on both knees, while Strange hovered near the door, his expression one of unease.
My lip curled. This humble behaviour was not like Stanley!
I let my gaze sweep over Lord Thomas: the closed face, the hooded eyes, the devilish beard streaked with a fork of grey. His colour looked poor, waxen; a thin sheen of sweat coated his face as if he was either ill or in some state of agitation.
“Thomas, what brings you to me? You hardly look your usual charming self.”
I was being unduly facetious and saw a brief little angry flame kindle in those dark eyes; however, it was extinguished almost instantly. “Your Grace, I must ask a great boon of you. It is an impertinent for me to ask, but ask it I must.”
“Speak on, Thomas.” My voice deepened dangerously, and a few new streaks of sweat scored Stanley’s brow.
“I ask that I be allowed to return to my lands in Lancashire forthwith.”
An uncomfortable silence descended; the lutanist in his corner looked afraid. Catesby was like a statue, limned by the flames in the fireplace.
Knotting my hands behind my back, I paced in a slow circle round the still-kneeling Stanley. I had not given him permission to rise and his legs were visibly trembling with the strain. “You. Want. To. Leave.” I spoke with deadly coldness, emphasising every word. “Now. On the very eve of conflict.”
He cleared his throat; his bulbous eyes rolled under those drooping lids. “I do, my lord, of necessity.”
/> “Go on, then, Thomas, convince me. Tell me all about this ‘necessity’.”
“I am not well, your Grace. Surely it is evident to your eyes that I am not hale. I am growing old. There is trouble in my lands, thieving and violence—I have been long away, serving your Highness.”
“As you are sworn to do,” I reminded him.
“Your Grace, I mean no disrespect…but I fear that if I do not attend to my duties at home, and have time to rest and recover from whatever ails me, I will be unable to participate in the forthcoming battle.”
Another terrible silence fell over the royal apartments, broken a moment later as Catesby’s sheaf of documents tumbled from his hand onto the tiles. He muttered a curse and an apology, and grabbed them from the ground, red-faced.
“Get up.” I flicked my hand at Stanley, commanding him to rise. Wavering and unsteady, he did so; cautious, he peered at me, his hands opening and closing as if he wished he had a weapon.
I drew in close to him; our noses nearly touched. In such close proximity I could see hairs sprouting from his nostrils, a livid pox scar on one cheek. Sweat was oozing from his pores; his breath was rank, sulphurous. Sickness…or nerves?
I flung myself away from him, suddenly revolted. “I am no doctor—if you say you are sick, I must needs believe you are sick. I don’t want you in my presence if you are. Go, go to your lands…but be ready to answer to my call, and deny me at your peril. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your Grace,” he murmured. “You are most kind.”
“No, I am not,” I said. “He stays!” I pointed at Lord Strange, still hovering near the door. He was a lanky fellow, somewhere near thirty years of age, who bore little resemblance to his father, with his close-cut, curling hair, freckled face and snubbed nose.
Lord Strange began a feeble protest, then shut his mouth as I cast him a dangerous look.
“That is the deal. Thomas Stanley goes, George Stanley stays…as my guest.” I smiled mockingly. “Oh don’t look so terrified, Lord Strange, I won’t be flinging you into a dungeon. You won’t even be under house arrest. You will join with my merry band of advisors, eat with us, discuss with us. You have done nothing wrong, and so far, neither has your sire. Just be aware—your father’s good behaviour is essential for your continued good…health.”
Lord Strange cast an evil and yet terrified glare at his sire, who ignored him as if he had ceased to exist. “I promise His Highness I will be on the field of battle when the time comes,” Stanley muttered.
“Yes, you will. And preferably with your brother Sir William. I must inquire, where is he these days? He’s not been much at court.”
Stanley made a grumbling sound and flushed red. “I believe he is also attending to problems on his holdings.”
“In Wales?” I said. “What a coincidence. I have my eye on him, and I’m well aware of the funny little game you and he play every time there’s a battle. Oh yes, I know all about the proclivities of your brother…Not so long ago he was overheard complaining that ‘Old Dick’ was so dull and earnest, he insisted on work, work, work, and would not permit him any leave! With the additional jibe, ‘No wonder his banner is a rampant bore!”
Stanley sputtered; Strange’s face was an aghast blob of crimson.
“Old Dick indeed! What do you say to that, Thomas? Do you find me a bore like your disrespectful brother?”
“William must have spoken in jest. Just jest, sire.”
“I should hope so; impertinence aside, the bastard is more than fifteen years my senior! He’s old, not I. What an insult!”
“I will speak to him when I see him,” mumbled Stanley.
“I hope you will, Thomas,” I said quietly, in his ear, “I hope you will.”
I truly did hope it. The horrible truth was dawning, the thing I had always feared. The Stanleys with their huge personal armies were undecided and wavering, loyalties spinning in the wind. I had been good to Thomas Stanley but we had a troubled past, and to add to the dangerous brew, he was married to Henry Tydder’s mother. Did he wish to be father-by-marriage of a new King of England? As for William, it seemed his loyalty was strictly to Edward and his progeny—never to me.
With impatience, I gestured towards the door. “Go now, I dismiss you, Thomas. Take to your bed or do whatever the devil you wish to do…Just be on the field when I need you!”
Stanley bowed and rushed away, his earlier shuffling gait having mysteriously vanished. George Lord Strange stood looking helplessly after his father, his face still flushed, his eyes those of a cornered beast. He struck me as a man of low intellect, at least in comparison to his sly kinsmen, but I had no real quarrel with him.
“Strange, stop looking like you are about to be beheaded on the spot!” I ordered in annoyance. “Here, have a drink…” I thrust my own half-filled goblet in his direction. “You, my lord, look like you could use one.”
The Great Seal arrived at Nottingham, delivered to my hand by Thomas Barowe, keeper of the chancery rolls, who had ridden from Westminster upon instructions from Chancellor John Russell. Within the oratory of the castle, I stood waiting, while Barowe presented the white leather bag that held the precious seal. The hour was seven in the evening, and the light through the mullioned windows made glowing, warm jewel patterns upon the floor. The Archbishop of York stood beside me as witness, along with Thomas Scrope, Lord Scrope of Upsall, John Kendall and, ever in my eyeline during his father’s absence, the sullen and nervous Lord Strange.
In the presence of those men, I conferred unto Thomas Barrowe the position of official Keeper of the Great Seal, which authorised him to seal all my most important and urgent writs and declarations. The time was drawing nigh when Seal would become necessary, burning the parchment it was struck upon like a brand. The spies had done their work in France, their eyes keen and their ears picking up truth out of a maelstrom of rumour and gossip.
Henry Tydder was moving. My enemy was marching through France, with his French mercenaries and the rabble of France’s gaols behind him, and Jasper Tydder and John de Vere riding at his side.
Lammastide, August 1, a day of thanksgiving.
My thanksgiving was that the long, dragging wait for war, for victory, would soon be over. For others, different things mattered more. The peasants were finishing bringing in the hay after Midsummer and praising the goodness of God for the year’s bountiful crops. Others remembered it was the Feast of St Peter in Chains, celebrating the saint’s liberation from King Herod by the mercy of a heavenly sent angel.
The unbinding of the chains struck me as significant and I, too, prayed to Saint Peter, as well as to God for the bounty on my table. Maybe in the days to come, I would be liberated from those bitter ties that bound, even as Saint Peter, and I could be the just ruler of my imagination.
I stared from the window into the fading eventide sky; below, the rock glowed red, and torches and lanthorns glimmered in the town where the taverns were brimming. Music of the hurdy gurdy drifted up from the Trip to Jerusalem Inn nestled at the foot of the castle walls. It seemed but days ago that I had watched the Midsummer revels from this very spot. How swiftly time flew by; how soon it was irrevocably lost to us.
“You know what I desire most?” I said to no one in particular.
“What, your Grace?” queried John Kendall, finishing some letters patent as he sat at the desk in the rear of the chamber. “Name it and I will see to it that it is brought to you.”
I shook my head. “I need nothing brought to me. I merely wish to go hunting. At Beskwood Park on the morrow.”
Beskwood was a royal deer park on the edge of the city. Once part of old Sherwood, the haunt of the outlaws of legend, it now stood separated from the tracts of deeper forest by the presence of a Pale, a tall fence of sharpened stakes that enclosed a space barred to any save the King’s foresters and verdurers.
Within the Pale, the red King’s deer flittered between the oak, ash, and elder, the silver birch that swayed like ladies’ gowns
in the dance. As I rode through the palisaded gates, accompanied by only a small party of friends, well-fed deer dappled with light and shadow darted through the maze of trees, dislodging birds within the ferns as they fled to deeper woodland, seeking safety from those who would hunt them down.
No one remembered what King first hunted here, sporting beneath the trees, but Henry One had allowed peasants to drag away a single cartload of brushwood, and my esteemed ancestor Edward Three ordered Robert Maule, the park’s custodian, to fell trees to build the palisade and the Lodge it protected. Ned had come hunting here whenever he had been in Nottingham, but this was my first time at Beskwood.
The shimmering trees parted, and the Lodge appeared within a man-made clearing. White plaster gleamed on the exterior walls, and the pitched roof glowed with red tiles brought in from the kilns at Lenton, Dale, and Beauvale. The timber-framed building was not overly large, maybe thirty or forty rooms, with a cluster of outbuildings in the rear comprising domestic quarters, stables and kennels, where a fine range of dogs, from terriers to mastiffs, could be heard barking and howling.
It was early; my entourage had departed Nottingham castle after Mass, and we had worked up an appetite upon the road. Although some still considered early meals as decadent, we retired to the Lodge to break our fast—a repast of ling, hake and salted herring complimented by cheese, fresh bread and wine.
Once the party had been refreshed, I ordered everyone out into the park to begin the hunt. A strange urgency was building in me, a need for action, a need to prove myself. I was given a fine bay courser to ride, fleet of foot as I spurred him into the tangle of woodland with alaunts, running-hounds and greyhounds bounding alongside, their yelps ringing merrily through the trees.
Informed the previous day of the hunting party’s arrival, the chief huntsman of Beskwood had been out stalking a fine hart with a trusted lymer, a dog-breed with a superb sense of smell. He came riding through the greenwood, a sturdy yeoman in a dark leather tunic that blended with the trees, to inform his King that a fitting stag, a mature hart-of-ten tines, had been spotted drinking from the river, and he had sent his best lymer-dog to sniff out the beast’s spoor in what huntsmen called the fynding.
I, Richard Plantagenet: Book Two: Loyaulte Me Lie Page 38
