I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  In contrast to the two of them, Louis, King of the French, was a shocking sight. I had long heard rumours of his ugliness, but rumours are often just the tittle-tattle of the idle or malicious; however, in this instance, they were true. He was wearing motley, like a fool, and had eschewed bright jewels and other symbols of kingship. Squat and slightly stooped, he loped along like the spider he was said to resemble. Even at a distance, I could ascertain the hugeness of his nose, dominating the droopy frown of his face. He looked like some kind of jester or jongleur or village idiot…but deep in my heart, I realised, with reluctance, he was not the fool on the bridge that day.

  Wet by the light rain that had swept in again, the two kings faced each other, gazing through the mesh of wooden bars that bisected the middle of the bridge. Bowing shallowly, they approached the barricade and leaned through its bars for a brief embrace. Edward completely dwarfed the Spider King, blinded all around him with his beauty and manliness. Yet it was he who first set his hand upon a relic of the True Cross to show the French his words were true, and he was first to set his seal upon the documents that would end our ill-fated foray into France.

  As Edward’s hand moved upon the parchment, the rain stopped and a beam of light shot through the lowering clouds, turning my brother into the figure of a golden warrior-angel and drawing a gasp from the crowds assembled on the muddy banks of the Somme.

  I turned on my heel; I knew my face was pinched and sour and no one would wish to see it. I sought my pavilion yet again; kept the flaps shut to the sounds of rejoicing and the spilling of French wine outside.

  The lords of my brother’s court had received handsome rewards for agreeing to the truce with Louis. The French King was eager to please, to give them pensions, which they, in they folly, called a ‘tribute.’ I, in secret, to the darkness in my pavilion, whispered, ‘Bribe money,” and felt my heart wither and sink into my boots.

  Hastings got the most of all, men whispered, and I had no doubt the whispers were true. 2000 marks a year, so rumour had it! No wonder he was wearing a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He was doubtless imagining what sort of revelry and lewd entertainments he could devise for himself and the King.

  Such was the gloom of my mood that all but my dearest retainers avoided my presence…certainly both my brothers did. So I was surprised no end when of a sudden I received an invitation to the Spider King’s palace at Amiens to dine. I was wary; Louis was no fool and his host of spies would have informed him that I had counselled war, not peace. He was trying to get the measure of me, perhaps even preparing to bribe me to my face.

  A hot little fire burned within me; I agreed to go. With a small retinue, I fared to Amiens where the Spider King was waiting.

  The French King spared no expense to entertain. I was escorted into the great hall of his castle as though I was his long lost brother. Wine flowed, and the best food was rolled out before me. Louis sat in tousled disarray, a pack of tail- wagging dogs surrounding him, sniffing at his none-too-clean attire. He liked dogs; I could not fault him for that; hounds were more loyal than most men.

  Louis’ queen, Charlotte of Savoy, had come to join him along with some of their children: a girl, Anne, of similar age to me, with large, stony brown eyes, and Joan, a maiden several years younger. I was startled to see that Princess Joan was of very low stature and had a visible hump upon her back. The two youngest children, the little Dauphin and his younger brother, both only babes, were safely somewhere else.

  “Are you married, my Lord Duke of Gloucester?” asked the King of France, eyeing me thoughtfully and then moving his gaze to the diminutive shape of Joan who was limping down the castle corridor, a pale shadow behind her imperious sister Anne. “Once long ago your brother, noble Edward talked with me about a possible marriage for you with my dearest child, Joan. She is very pious. I think you might well be suited to each other…”

  I shifted uncomfortably, forcing my expression to remain bland. Was the French King jibing at me, insulting because of my crookback? Did he know? In my finely tailored clothes, my raised shoulder was nigh invisible…but Louis had his spies everywhere, and perhaps they had heard whispers about the curse I strove to hide.

  “Any marriage negotiations with King Edward were in the past,” I said coldly, “I am indeed since wed to another.” I needed not tell him to whom, as I assumed he already knew, for all that he had asked; the Spider was attempting to spin his webs anew, casting them out over the unwary. I was not unwary, and for all that I had drunk his fine wine, my head was clear and my purpose unwavering.

  “Ah, pity!” he murmured, and gestured with his grubby hand for more wine to be poured. “My dearest lord of Gloucester, I can see in your eyes that you trust me not. I want peace, I assure you… peace between our countries stretching far into the future. Too long have two realms so close been wrenched apart by war. It need not be so; men need not die. Instead of smiting with weapons, we can instead bring peace through venison and wine.” He lifted his ornate cup, sparkling with blood-red garnets, in a toast.

  No smile would come to my lips, even by force. That was what the Universal Spider thought of the English—that we were greedy gluttons easily bribed by money, food and drink.

  Quick as ever, King Louis realised that his easy manner made no impression upon me. He frowned, his eyes growing shuttered; he rose amidst his snuffling and growling dog pack and the beasts lunged for the crumbs of swan pie that tumbled from his speckled hose. His voice, however, remained neutral and cheerful.

  “I am sure we will be best of friends, my lord of Gloucester. To show you my good intentions…gifts.”

  He clapped his hands. Two huge gilt doors carved with images of the Trinity ground open and a dozen servants wandered in bearing valuable plate. Bowing, they placed it at my feet. “For you, my Lord, as a friend of France. And that is not all…come…come.”

  Guiding me through the halls of the palace, he took me out to the royal stables. In a cobbled courtyard, grooms were exercising scores of beautiful and impressive horses. “The finest steeds from my stables. Have your pick, my lord. More than one. Just for you.”

  “And what do you wish of me in return, my Lord King?” I admired the horses, fancied a tall grey with a mane the colour of moonlight.

  “Nothing…nothing at all!” He threw up his gnarled and knobbly hands, large hands with black hairs that bristled on the knuckles.

  I smiled then, for the first time since he had invited me to the palace at Amiens. It probably was not a very nice smile; it certainly was neither friendly nor sincere. “That is well then, my Lord King. I will accept your gifts, and depart as soon as possible for my brother’s encampment.”

  A little flame leapt into Louis’s eyes, to be quickly extinguished. “Take your gifts,” he said, gesturing to the horses. “It has, my Lord Duke, been most interesting getting to know you. May peace last long between our countries as agreed.”

  I walked away from the uncouth French King, giving instructions to my attendants to bridle the new horses and bring them along within my train when I departed. “And a cart!” I said, glancing at Louis. “Is it possible to have a cart for all the plate you have given me? Another little bit of your famous French hospitality? I would be most grateful if you threw in some of that delicious wine too.”

  I was being impudent now, casting caution and good sense to the wind in a way I seldom had before…but I was angry. Angry at Ned for succumbing to bribes, angry with the Spider King for using them.

  To my surprise, Louis did not react with fury. He was looking me over again, evaluating, judging. “The cart is yours, my Lord Duke. So is the wine. This meeting has been…interesting—you, Richard Plantagenet, are a most extraordinary man.”

  I had not expected a compliment, but I was not naive enough to think his words did not have a barb. He would not forget, nor would he forgive. But he might be careful in giving offence to me; he was realising I could not be bought.

  Giving him the courtesy of a
small bow, I walked away from the French King, my head held high and my back as straight as I could make it.

  Spin your web, Spider…you will never ensnare me…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: CHIEF MOURNER

  September arrived with its settled days and cool sunshine. At last, France and its shame lay behind me and I walked upon the good, wholesome soil of England. Although eager to head to Middleham, I decided it might be politic to ask for an audience with Edward in London. It was granted. And despite my defiance over his policies in France, Ned showed no anger towards me; indeed, he embraced me no less warmly than before and spoke the words of a loving brother.

  Perhaps he wanted to make certain I would remain firmly on his side; there were men of all ranks disgruntled by the outcome of the French Campaign, malcontents who said Ned had gone soft, got fat and too greedy. They mourned taxes paid to fund a foreign war that never happened, that only put more money in the pockets of men like Dorset and Hastings. Soldiers from various disbanded troops, released from their bonds, began to loot the highways and byways of England, angry that plunder in France had been denied them. No man’s purse was safe, and no woman’s honour. Edward acted with speed and saw that the guilty were apprehended and hanged, but the rot had set in.

  It should not have been this way.

  Following the old road, I reached Wensleydale just after dusk on a night when a full moon hung like a lantern above the lip of the hills. The road gleamed silver-gold; the air was alive with the beating wings of nighttime moths. Wind soughed in the grass, and ahead I could see the amber gleam of torchlight in the castle windows. The castle walls themselves glowed a deep blue, surreal in the increasing dusk, as if my home had become some dwelling from the age of King Arthur, touched by the hand of Merlin or of the Grail Kings.

  I could hear music, born faintly on the breeze: the crumhorn, the lyre, and the tabor. I had sent word to Anne that I was on my way home, and knowing I greatly loved music, she had gathered minstrels to please me on my arrival.

  Glancing around me, I could see anticipation of the faces of my men, all eager to return to their own families. “Come on! Hasten!” I cried, laying my heels to the flanks of my steed. “Let us get to Middleham before moonset!”

  “Richard, why are you not asleep? Are you not glad to be home?”

  Anne reached out, touched me as I lay on my side gazing towards the window of our chamber. The night sky was paling from black to a lighter blue, the stars fading out.

  “Of course I am,” I murmured, twining my fingers with hers. “Did I not show you enough ardour, woman, on my homecoming? Give me a few more hours of rest and I may well show you again.”

  She choked back a surprised little laugh. “I have no complaints, my love, but I can tell when something bothers my dearest lord.”

  I rolled onto my back, stared up at her face through the gloom. “You must have heard what happened in France. Not one blow struck for England.”

  Anne nodded solemnly. “Yes…but the French king has to give tribute to Edward and the Dauphin will marry Elizabeth when she is of age. That means, we won, doesn’t it?”

  “Anne, you’re a woman, you don’t understand. Louis bribed Edward. You should see all the rewards Hastings got! It was disgusting to behold… dishonourable!” I practically spat in my fury.

  “Shhh…rest gentle, Richard.” Anne pressed her cool lips to my forehead. “Everyone here is glad of the outcome, for all the menfolk have arrived home unharmed… And, for myself I am glad my dearest lord is safe and unhurt. Glad that your head is still on your shoulders, and you have both your arms and legs, and all your fingers…” She raised my hand to her mouth and kissed each knuckle gently. “Every one of them.”

  “Yes, and fortunately I still have all the other parts a man is meant to have too….which my brother the King seems to have forgotten he has, except when he plays with his whores!”

  “Richard!” Anne was genuinely shocked; I had never spoken of Edward with such disrespect before, to her or anyone else.

  Immediately I regretted my outburst. “I’ve had too much drink tonight, I have been long upon the road…I’m over-tired,” I murmured.

  “Sleep then,” she said, “I will be here to watch over you.” She pressed herself in against my back, her arm protectively over me.

  But I could not sleep, for all the weariness in me. I kept having visions of Ned counting gold, French gold, ill-gotten gold, while England crumbled around him.

  Near to our young Ned’s second nativity, we moved our household from Middleham to Barnard Castle, another of the great holdings in the north granted me through right of Anne. All our clothing and personal goods were packed into chests and loaded onto wagons; it would be some months before we returned, while Middleham castle was cleaned top to bottom, its floors scrubbed, its chambers aired, and its garderobes flushed out.

  Barnard was my second favourite dwelling after Middleham. Dominating the town that had grown around it, its founder had been one of the Balliols, relatives of the Kings of Scotland. A few Balliol tombs remained in the chapel of St Margaret as a memory of their tenure. Barnard had a sturdy shell keep with four wards, and an airy, modern Great Hall only recently completed. It had a great round tower that served both military and domestic functions and could be seen for miles around, guarding the hall-block where my personal apartments overlooked the wide blue course of the Tees.

  As my entourage began to cross the many-arched bridge into town, the sight of the castle’s distinctive drum-shaped tower made my heart leap with gladness. Freed from the dovecot, doves soared into the clear sky and wheeled about our heads as if they were welcoming us to our second home. The river beside us roared, churning over rocks and sending up spume; local lore that claimed this froth was the spittle of the witch Peg Powler, who dragged unwary children into the Tees’ sullen depths. None of the local bairns seemed much affrighted, however; they clustered on the riverbanks with their parents, yelling with excitement as their Lord and Lady arrived at their castle.

  Since Edward granted me Barnard, the wellbeing of the town had remained uppermost in my mind, and I had commenced with much building and repair work. Hence, one could see my Boar rising rampant everywhere: Boars on window ledges, Boars on walls, Boars on merchant’s houses, Boars on the friary, church and the hospital. A town of Boars, belonging to the Lord of the White Boar…

  St Mary’s church, standing without the castle walls, had special significance to me, for a carving of St Anthony between two great boars had stood there from time immemorial. I considered the saint’s presence something of an omen. To show my personal good will towards the church, I ordered carved heads of King Edward and me to be placed upon the chancel arch. Ned’s image was the larger, crowned and stern, the carving of myself smaller and less finely crafted, so as not to diminish my royal brother’s pre-eminence.

  “It looks nothing like you,” Anne whispered, when she first saw the rather crude image meant to be me, the eyes oval slits and the oversize hat almost overwhelming the little face. “Edward’s is more skilfully done….though at least they put the curls into your hair.”

  “Aye,” I whispered back, “Edward is very well done; the stonemason even got his doubling chin right, did they not?”

  “Richard, he would not be pleased to hear you speak of his…weight!” she hissed, but a corner of her mouth quirked up.

  Anne liked Barnard too; it was hard to dislike the place, with its busy market square and travellers from all over the North bringing wares and news via Newgate, Galgate, Bridgegate and Thorngate. I knew, though, that my wife was looking forward to riding further north to the town of Durham. A year earlier, we had gained admittance to the fraternity of the cathedral priory there; Cuthbert was one of our favourite saints and, having come this far north, we were eager to visit his shrine once more.

  In magnificence, the shrine matched anything we had seen in London: a canopy of jewels upon a base of gilded green marble, with four gem-studded recesses where p
ilgrims could kneel to pray and leave offerings—wax, silver, gold, even long and twisted horns that men whispered had been wrest from the brows of unicorns. A cover wrought of finest silks draped the entire structure, to be lifted up on pulleys on sacred occasions; on one side was depicted our Lord Jesus Christ upon a rainbow, and on the other Christ within the gentle arms of Our Lady. Six silver bells were sewn to the edges of this coverlet, ringing sweetly down the nave of the cathedral when it was raised.

  Anne wished to take little Ned to Durham, which caused a minor quarrel between us. I did not consider it appropriate to take a baby; Anne disagreed. She did not want to leave him behind at Barnard, although his old, familiar wet-nurse and other nurses had journeyed from Middleham with the baggage train. Her argument was that Ned needed his mother’s presence and none other, being small and fretful, prone to coughs and gripes and other childhood ills.

  Anne, I thought, was growing a little too protective of our son; as far as I could see, he was fattening up rapidly and even had many teeth. Childhood ailments notwithstanding, Anne had even gone quite green in the face when she caught me lifting Ned above my head so that his little fingers could touch the boar carved upon the ceiling in front of the oriel window I’d recently installed in my chambers so that I could gaze down upon the river Tees.

  “Richard, be careful, don’t drop him!” Her voice trembled. “It’s so high, and the window shutters are open!”