“Go to the Duke.”
He went. Charles the Hardy had thrown off his gown on to the floor and was standing in doublet and hose. His upper lip was sawing from side to side in a way that made his moustache writhe like a snake and showed the ugly gap in his teeth.
“Where the devil have you come from, hey?”
“From Calais, my Lord.”
“Then go back there.”
“My Lord?”
Charles looked round the room for something to smash. His large, long-nailed hand closed on a chair-back. His shoulders heaved and his arm stiffened. The chair clattered against the wall and fell over with one leg snapped.
“I said go back there. Jesus Christ, Holy Virgin, have you gone deaf? Go back and set fire to the place. Go back and kiss Lord Wenlock again. Go and sell your body to an Albanian for a steeple-crowned hat, for all I care. Everything in the world’s gone to twenty million black devils. My calf’s-headed fool of a brother-in-law landed in Holland yesterday.”
He had to listen to the Duke numbering all the instruments of the passion and sorrows of Mary, and the bodies of God the Father and God the Son member by member, before he could learn the details. They were serious. Edward of York had marched on Kingmaker with a large army, but it was not trustworthy. Its chief commander was Kingmaker’s own brother, the Marquis Montacute. There had been no battle. Whilst Edward was at dinner in some little farm with a moat round it, the Marquis mounted a horse and told his levies to shout for King Henry; and there were six thousand of them. That was confusion, and awakening for Edward out of a dream of being safe. He ran for it with his brother-in-law, Lord Rivers, his young brother, the Duke of Gloucester, Lord Hastings and some more. De Commynes imagined them with white faces leaving the plates and bowls of food still hot, and piling anyhow, all in a bunch together, out of the shadowy farm-hall, and their men quarrelling in whispers about letting the drawbridge down. Some of them would run up the road with weapons in their hands to watch for the Marquis, and the man who held the King’s horse would look away whilst he was mounting. They got somehow to the port of King’s Lynn and took ship in their armour, the gap widening between the side of the boat and the shore, and between the white rose of York and the Kingdom of England.
“I had word from Gruthuys to-day,” the Duke said, and tapped his foot on the floor. “When they landed at Alkmaar they hadn’t a penny to bless themselves with. He’s sent them on to the Haag. Edward had to give the ship’s captain his cloak to pay for their passage. That’s the fellow whose sister I married, the Rose of Rouen: and I thought he was going to be some use against Louis. I wish to God he’d been killed in battle. It’s his running over here to us that’s going to be the ruin of everything. If he were dead we could have patched something up with the Lancastrians. Now they’ll invade us, as if we hadn’t enough on our plate as it is. God’s teeth, but I wish I’d never dirtied my hands with the house of York.” He went with two steps to the sideboard; began slopping the tisane he always drank into a bowl. He was at war with Louis of France and having no pleasure from it; was in a fair way to lose St. Quentin and Amiens. “There’s no hope of making an understanding with England whilst he’s here. We’ll have Warwick’s men down on top of us before we can cry haro. Oh, Holy Virgin, why didn’t I kill Louis when I had the chance at Péronne? This is all his doing. Now we shall be destroyed.” It shocked de Commynes to realise what his own thoughts were. It was not the pikes and guns, the moving of men toward them in ships and down roads to smash everything small that they had built up from the War of Public Good till now, Louis’ hands crooking themselves round the rich cities, what they had wrung out at Conflans and strengthened at Péronne melting like ice away, that he saw, but as though he were looking at something beautiful a long way off, the adroitness of the Most Christian King. He is inspired by something, he thought, the Holy Ghost or the devil. What he has done is as beautiful as music: in five months to reconcile two old venomous enemies, chased exiles, and put them into alliance and make them powerful, making a famous fighting King run like a coward, and all without even mounting his horse, and all to destroy us. It is what God would do, or a great saint. He is wonderful.
They had seen how wonderful next day, when they heard that the Earl of Warwick, barely Master of England, had remembered who were his friends and sent men already to invade the Boulonnais on behalf of France. Letters of defiance in Henry VI’s name would come next, and Charles the Hardy would be at war with two kingdoms at once, chained bull with a dog at each ear. He gave de Commynes his ring then and told him to risk his blood and go back to Calais; persuade somehow Lord Wenlock and the English that the alliance between Burgundy and the house of York must stand between Burgundy and the house of Lancaster.
De Commynes walked over to his bed and sat down on it. It was a tall, painted bed with hangings of green-and-white arras a good deal frayed. The paintings were of flowers and castles and men riding horses and blowing horns. He began to lay out hopes and questions in his mind as coins are laid out on a table to count them: what he must fear and what he need not, how much truth to tell and how many lies. It would be silly to pretend now that he was not in danger. He remembered King Louis at Péronne, under Charles’ hand, smiling with terror, looking from one side to the other and talking very fast, whispering bribes and promises to everyone that would listen to him, and Charles shaking all over with hate, so nearly, so very nearly making up his mind to murder him. Well, it was Louis’ turn. The danger had been to him then and was to them now: Louis down and Charles up, Warwick in exile and Edward at ease, Charles down and Louis up, Edward in exile and Warwick at ease. It was a boat that rocked up and down on a swell. Anchored, it sailed nowhere.
There was a noise under his window: feet and English voices, then a sound that made him stand up quickly with the odd, unpleasant feeling between his shoulders again: clank and thump, weapons. He looked out. There were half a dozen men-at-arms in the street, standing in a bunch by the door, well-dressed and smart-looking. They wore scarlet tunics badged on back and breast with the Neville saltire; had steel sallets on their heads and swords in their belts, and carried pikes. One of them held a saddled horse. De Commynes put his right hand to the left side of his girdle where his dagger was. For a moment he stood stiff, with his muscles drawn, looking down on them. Then his hand moved; went from the dagger-hilt to his scrip and opened it. He took out the English passport with the obscurely scribbled signature at the bottom. Joh. Wenloke de Wenloke, and the Duke’s ring. It was a gold ring with an intaglio of a lamb, emblem of the Golden Fleece. Little things, he thought bitterly, turning them over: a few scribbles on a bit of paper and a trifle of jewellery. It was to be hoped they would be more help to him than his dagger.
Steps quickly and obscurely thudded up the stairs and his door was knocked. The landlord bowed a pink-faced young Englishman in fine clothes — a squire, de Commynes guessed — into the room. The lad bent himself courteously until his long sleeves touched the ground; announced in bad French that Lord Wenlock had sent to ask the pleasure of his company at dinner. De Commynes bowed too. His heart was going a little faster than was pleasant. He pointed to the window and said coolly and sternly:
“My Lord Wenlock has always showed me the most distinguished courtesy; but this is the first time he has accorded me the honour of an armed guard.”
The squire smiled as pleasantly as a schoolboy; but, de Commynes reflected, an Englishman will smile when he is in act to cut your throat.
“It is for the safety of your person, sir. The people of the town are a little excited. The recent happy events in England have aroused their enthusiasm. My Lord Wenlock would never forgive himself if a misfortune were to overtake you in his jurisdiction.”
“I am very gratified to hear it. You’ll drink something with me before we start?”
“You are very kind.”
De Commynes shouted through the door for wine, and it was brought them. He observed in the squire’s neat velvet bonnet a
gold ragged staff, another badge of the Kingmaker. I wonder, he thought, that the good Earl doesn’t take the throne for himself and have done with it. He has turned the entire nation of English into his household-retainers already.
“God bless King Henry,” said the squire, drinking.
“Amen,” said de Commynes, “and your very good health.” This may, he added to himself, be the last wine I shall drink in this world. They may mean to murder me.
“Where do we dine?” he asked. “In the Hall of the Staple?”
“In the Castle.”
“The Castle? Just so: a strong place: would you mind giving me some idea of when I shall be returning here? For the convenience of my servants, you understand.”
The squire looked puzzled, and de Commynes, not waiting for an answer, went to the door and called his secretary.
“Dirk,” he said in Flemish, “I am going out now. Take this ring. If I’ve not returned by sunset, ride to the Duke. Give it him and tell him the English have seized me.”
A quick look of understanding went like light on water over the secretary’s flat face. He dropped the ring into his scrip.
“Now get my horse,” de Commynes told him, and turned to the squire again. “Dismal weather we’re having. My people are just saddling my horse. Then I’m at your disposal. In the meanwhile, do tell me all the latest news from England.”
The young man, standing with his back to the window, finished the wine; began to speak enthusiastically:
“Why, sir, you can guess how overjoyed we all are at the restoration of the true blood at last. Our troubles are over now. The woman Elizabeth, late calling herself Queen of England, has fled into sanctuary at Westminster. You’ve heard of Westminster, sir, our great Abbey? That’s where she’s gone: and the usurper Edward’s fled, as you know. The great Earl’s come to London with Lord Stanley, and our good King is free again, lodging in the Bishop’s Palace, I believe. The latest news is that the Butcher — the Earl of Worcester, sir; Butcher’s what we all call him — has been taken and is going to be tried for high treason. He was the one who helped Edward in all his tyrannies: a monster of cruelty. I wish I might be there when they rip his collar off for the axe.”
“You speak very feelingly. Has your family suffered much in the quarrel of the house of Lancaster?”
The squire’s face became a little red and he fidgeted with the collar of his own doublet. “My house is retained by his good Grace, the Earl of Warwick,” he said gruffly. “We have followed him in all quarrels.”
“Just so,” de Commynes said: “my horse will be ready. Shall we start now?”
Outside, the rain had thickened and the wind was blowing uncomfortably from the sea. They jogged along together over the slimy cobbles, three men with shouldered weapons slouching in front of them, three men with shouldered weapons slouching behind. From indoors singing came and a close reek of cooking. A man in rough clothes passed them, whistling a slow, dignified air that de Commynes thought he recognised as the old war-song of the house of Lancaster. He paused to see their procession pass; stared after them and spat. The whole town of Calais seemed almost decomposing, like broken fungus under the rain. Even the news from England and the tavern singing gave it no festal air. Yet it was a place bought with blood by England and held with swords: a valued thing. The Mayor had once told him that he would gladly pay the King fifteen thousand écus a year for the farm of the customs there. It was the narrow gate by which the bales of English wool went all through Christendom. That is what Kings are greedy for, de Commynes thought: the towns of trade, rich markets. Louis will have Ghent and Bruges from us unless God forbids, and perhaps this place from the English, too. Narrow-streeted towns slimy with rain in winter, filthy with dust in summer, each with a castle and a guildhall and a stone wall all round: those are the things he loves. One day he will be master of every town in France, he or a successor of his. Berri, Provence, Brittany, Burgundy: he’ll tipple the Dukes out of their thrones and be cock of the dunghill. One France, one prince: and our Duke wants six Frances and six princes; and between him and Louis and Warwick and Edward I’m caught and go ambling along in the rain to dinner or death, whichever Lord Wenlock is pleased to give me. The rulers bang about, each with his own game to play, and we poor devils of ambassadors must field the balls for them and risk knocks. But Louis is a cleverer player than Duke Charles, it seems.
At the gates of the Castle more men in the Earl’s scarlet saluted, thumping the butts of their pikes down onto the cobbles. The young squire bowed to him again:
“Will you follow me, sir?”
The great hall was full of people: indistinct mutter and sibilation of English everywhere. A fire burned gaily and much silver winked on the long tables. Men with napkins round their waists darted about, carrying hot dishes and jacks of wine. A group of people in fine clothes, furred long-sleeved gowns and velvet bonnets with bright scarves round them, broke up and showed Lord Wenlock. He came forward hastily, both hands held out: a tall, well-shaped man, very striking in his rich green dress laced with gold, his pointed yellow beard and frizzed hair barely touched with grey yet. His face was shrewd, friendly, marked permanently with wrinkles of smiling: only his greenish eyes, set close together, had something of suspicion and indecision about them, as though, were one to make a sudden movement before him, he might start back instinctively and grab at his dagger.
“Ah, my dear de Commynes, this is really a pleasure. But what cursed weather you’ve brought with you to Calais. Wet, are you? Here, one of you good-for-nothings, take Monsieur de Commynes’ cloak. How are you, my dear sir, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you, my Lord: and you?”
You dirty old strawpresser, he added to himself, what would I give to pull that goat’s beard of yours.
“Come and take your seat, my friend. You’ll be hungry, eh? I’m in the best of health: no medicine like good news, eh? Come along. Come along.”
They went up the hall to the high table. People on either side of them bowed courteously and gravely. Display of the good manners for which the English were well known, it meant nothing. De Commynes found himself on Lord Wenlock’s left. The pages, in leaf-yellow suits so neat that they showed every muscle of their calves and thighs, brought water and fringed napkins. He washed his hands. With a scurrying and whispering of panders behind their chairs, broth and the best white bread were served. Lord Wenlock smiled and nodded to the pages, dismissing them to their own table. Over his broth, de Commynes observed the people who sat near him: a respectable company. Wenlock and several more had golden ragged staves in their bonnets; and those who could not wear the emblem in gold had it in cloth. A little way down the board to his left he recognised two of Warwick’s household-men whom he had wished Wenlock to turn out of Calais six months ago. It is a good thing that they do not know that, he thought. Those sitting near them were treating them with great attention.
Lord Wenlock’s hearty voice boomed in his ear:
“You’re noticing changes here, I expect, Monsieur de Commynes.”
“I am.”
“Well, well, you mustn’t let it disconcert you, you know. The true blood’s come into its own again. It was bound to happen sooner or later. It was a bad day for Edward of York when he broke with the Earl. There’s not a man here, I can tell you, won’t follow the ragged staff through fire and sea. Why, within a quarter of an hour of the news coming that he was landed in England again everyone in the town was wearing this.”
He touched the gold badge in his bonnet. Sewers began serving, one after another, different kinds of meat. De Commynes heaped his plate in silence and cut himself a slice of bread. It was the first time that he had realised how unstable were the affairs of this world.
Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III Page 4
