“The Tydders’ll have slipped across to France now,” continued Edward to his brother. “But you shall go and chase the Bastard if it’ll keep you happy. Thank God and St. Anne I’ve not your energy; and now we’d better hear just how much damage that same Bastard’s done in our loyal city of London and just how much our loyal citizens blame me for not being there when he arrived. Tell us all about it, Will. We must do some business this morning, I suppose.”
William Hastings, very elegant in apple-green silk reversed with cloth-of-silver, looked sideways at Lord Anthony. Lord Anthony returned the glance. He had never regarded the affable and decorative Court Chamberlain in any other light than that of a rival. Charm, intelligence and the peculiar mixture of brutality and refinement which King Edward demanded of his playfellows — all the qualities Lord Anthony knew himself to possess — Lord Hastings possessed too. Had William Hastings had a pretty sister who knew how to take and hold King Edward’s fancy, then William Hastings would have been where Anthony Rivers was. The two were invincibly cordial to one another and distrusted one another from the bottom of their souls.
“I think Lord Rivers can answer that best,” said Hastings, “considering his service to your Grace in the matter.”
“Then speak up, Anthony, and let’s hear the worst of it.”
“The Bastard and his men arrived here on the fifth, Sire, shouting for King Harry; and I don’t mind telling you that some of those loyal citizens of yours would’ve let them in, malgré myself, the Lord Mayor and all his brethren. There’s a devlish ugly Lancastrian spirit abroad still. But these Kentish whorsons flung their own chance over the dyke; started plundering the beer-shops on the way and lifting cattle. That gave our dear Cockneys a notion of what they’d have to content themselves with if they opened the gates. Then Fauconberg got cannon from his ships and bombarded the Bridge. The Southwark gate and thirteen houses are destroyed; and he did the same at Bishopsgate. After that I think there was no one in London wouldn’t ’ve eaten his liver without salt if they got the chance. My Lord of Essex here and myself asked for men and got all we needed. I took six thousand of the loyallest and drove him off Aldgate, and I will say my Cockneys followed me most lovingly. We killed over two hundred before the chase was done. My Lord of Essex and the aldermen made a sortie from Bishopsgate and killed about the same number; didn’t you, my Lord?”
“About seven hundred, I made it,” said Henry Bourchier of Essex shortly. He was an old-fashioned nobleman and disliked the Wydvylle family beyond measure. Lord Anthony shrugged; smiled; went on:
“Ah, my Lord, we young men cannot compete with you veterans of the French Wars: more than seven hundred, then. But there were plenty left. It was three days before they retreated as far as Blackheath: and, believe me, if the Bastard had not been so free with his gunpowder in the first place, you might have found us besieged in the Tower when you came home. It was something a great deal more than a mere riot and commotion. Their strength was very little under twenty thousand: not simply the Bastard’s pirates, but the commons of Kent in droves. He’d roused the whole county. Remember it, your Grace. The Lancastrians may be dead and buried at Tewkesbury, but the Lancastrian spirit’s alive and flaring in Kent, and in London too. Holy Harry’s name still stirs people. Why our dear English should want a saint to rule over them, God only knows, but it would seem they do; and saint, Sire, is one of the few names not even your enemies have ventured to apply to you.”
Edward drew down his arched, delicate eyebrows in a perplexed grimace; looked almost wistful.
“But God’s blessed Lady, aren’t I a better King for them than that old lunatic? I never said I was a saint; don’t pretend to be. But I do rule, and as far as God lets me I rule justly: more than he ever did. He never thought of anything but his own precious soul. So long as he could spend his time with the angels, all the devils in hell might have charge of the commonwealth for what he cared. People howled loud enough when he was on the throne and they’d the Beauforts and Ormonde and Suffolk to squeeze them. There was some sense in it when Warwick was alive and helping him: but who in God’s name’s mad enough to want him back now?”
“Enough men to make things very uncomfortable here a week ago. He’s Harry of Monmouth’s son. Never forget that, Sire, for the commons of England never do. He may be a witless idiot, but his father fought Azincourt.”
“Yes, when he found he couldn’t buy himself off. Jesus God, if that’s all they’ve got against me I’ll show them a thing. I’ve a monstrous crow to pick with Louis, and the saints know I promised Charles of Burgundy often enough to invade France. Azincourt’ll be a hen’s turd to a dunghill to what I’ll do. I’ll have Normandy and Guienne, and everything in between ’em for good measure. So God help and save me, I will. But I’ve got to have the country quiet first, haven’t I? Well, go on. Tell me how much damage was done last week.”
“Jack Cade never did worse. It’s pitiable. There’s the Bridge for one thing. You could see the smoke for miles off. Then they burnt some fine houses at Aldgate and did shameful damage along the river-front; and to judge by the complaints I’ve had since, there’s not a farmer between here and Canterbury hasn’t had his cattle lifted. As long as Holy Harry’s alive you may expect this sort of thing whenever your back’s turned.”
Lord Anthony stooped; took a pull from the goblet of claret at his elbow and looked round him. He wished his words to go below the surface of his hearers’ minds; had said them with a purpose. Duke Richard and Lord Hastings were watching him attentively. They were both intelligent men, he thought; would let no mere distrust of his ambitions or dislike of his family blind them to the good sense of what he might advise. Hastings was gentle, a warm-hearted man who might deplore extremes. As for Duke Richard, it did not appear from his activities in these last two months that he had any special horror of them. He moved his eyes to other faces. Henry Bourchier of Essex, bald and bearded, wearing mourning for his son Humphrey Cromwell, who had gone down before Oxford’s furious charge at Barnet, and John Mowbray of Norfolk, had both been forced to ally their blood with the aspiring blood of Wydvylle, and resented it. Fortunately, though they were notable Yorkists, the King did not find these two especially amusing. Essex was Treasurer and Norfolk hereditary Earl Marshal; and Edward generally found it easier to think of them as officials than as people. The powerful Northern Baron, Lord Thomas Stanley, a gross, ugly man with small eyes sunk like a pig’s in the fat of his face, was more of an enigma. He came of a not particularly distinguished family which had a reputation for going where the cat jumped, and was remarkable for two things: the immense strength of his hands and his illiteracy, which, in a polite age, was such that he could hardly write his name. The King liked him. George Duke of Clarence, in his seat at the window, was pouring out another cup of hippocras. Lord Anthony watched him speculatively. At the rate he was going, he would be drunk by supper time; had not his elder brother’s head for liquor. He was only twenty-two, but his quite handsome face was permanently flushed and getting heavy. An opportunist and a philosopher, Lord Anthony could not help being impressed by the adroitness with which this decorative young man had turned traitor for just long enough to marry the co-heiress to the Warwick estates and then remembered his loyalty in time to come in out of the rain. But he did not hide from himself the plain truth that Duke George, for all his cunning, was an ass. A cunning ass, a cunning ambitious ass: there was no telling where you were with such a combination.
The remaining member of the Cabinet Council was Sir John Fogg, and there were moments when even Lord Anthony felt that he had no business to be there. He had jockeyed him into the King’s favour, attached him by every lawful and unlawful bond to his own interests; but he could not like him, and doubted very much whether anyone else could. He was a thin, dark, hungry person with a wet mouth and cheekbones that stood out like the handles of a pot. Everything that he did advertised him as a man who would rather make a dishonest farthing than an honest penny. Even the gest
ure with which, as his patron watched him, he took a sweet wafer from a dish was that of a sneak-thief. We are well told, thought Lord Anthony, to put no trust in Princes. Those of us who do are forced, in the upshot, into trusting such far meaner creatures.
The Duke of Clarence, having filled his cup and drunk from it, said:
“Hang about half Kent, I would; show the whorsons who’s master.”
Edward’s dark blue eyes appeared suddenly to grow lighter. “Yes,” he said deliberately, “I think there will be hangings. King I am and King I’ll be, and if it costs a few fathoms of strong rope, well, I can afford it. The Kentish-men are dirt and always have been. I’m going to Canterbury to-morrow.”
Hastings put up his eyebrows.
“So soon?”
“Sooner the better: by God’s body, I’ll show the Bastard and all the other bastards what it amounts to, shooting guns at my London. But I’ve had another thought, too. We’ve friends in the City as well as enemies. Good, then we’ll reward ’em. Anthony, I want you to round up the Mayor and Urswick — the Recorder, you know, clever fellow who got the guards out of our way in April — and about half a dozen of the Aldermen you like best. I’ll knight the lot this afternoon.”
The Duke of Norfolk coughed and looked sideways at the Earl of Essex.
“Is that really necessary, your Grace?” he asked. “For my part, I feel that these mercers fishmongers are quite puffed-up enough already.”
“Very true,” said Duke George, “very true.”
“Nonsense,” said the King easily, “I like the citizens, and most of ’em like me; and one knighthood of that soil’ll get us more following than twenty hangings. What d’you say, Anthony?”
“I wholly agree with your Grace.”
“And I,” said Hastings.
“When it comes to raising people’s estate, Lord Rivers should know best,” said Duke George. His smile was at once childish and malicious; gave his face an odd look of spoilt youth, as though something were destroyed in him. It is remarkable, thought Lord Anthony, the genius that young man has for being offensive. It must be the knowledge of what England thinks of his own shifts that makes him so ready to talk of cockerels to St. Peter. Clarence the turncoat: he knows they call him that. He bowed slightly.
“Considering the unnatural treacheries which have lately been exemplified in the realm, I think we should lose no effort to confirm a loyalty which, after all, is only of very recent growth.”
Edward grinned faintly; but before Duke George had seen the insult, Duke Richard, who had been fiddling with his dagger again, said:
“Are there other matters to be gone into?”
Lord Stanley leaned forward. He had a fat voice:
“As I said before, your Grace, I wish you’d have the head off that John Morton. He’s as clever as a fou’mart, and there isn’t an honest bone in his skin.”
The King shook his head.
“Can’t do it. Think what the Pope would say.”
“Damn the Pope,” said Lord Stanley. “The Pope’s curse wouldn’t kill a fly. There’s another churchman whose gown wants shortening by the hood, and that’s George Neville.”
“The Archbishop of York: God’s blessed Lady, Stanley, have you had too much to drink? I can’t kill an Archbishop.”
“Harry of Bolingbroke killed Archbishop Scrope.”
“Yes, and Harry II killed St. Thomas of Canterbury. I tell you I’ve had enough trouble with Rome, without heading any bishops.”
“He’s Kingmaker’s brother, your Grace.”
“I’ve not forgotten whose brother he is. I’ve a little bill to settle with the reverend father in God, George Neville. But it can wait; and I shan’t go so far as to shorten his days for him. Now what’s next?”
Lord Anthony opened his mouth, but Hastings had stood up. He stroked his chin with two fingers and had a shadow of trouble on his forehead; said hesitantly:
“There are the women captured at Tewkesbury, your Grace.”
Edward swung his feet from the chair they had been resting on and locked hands round his knees. He looked less like a boy now. Duke Richard turned his face a little toward him. Duke George looked at the carpet and his underlip projected queerly. The King said:
“I don’t know what to do with ’em. So God save me, I don’t. Women have no business meddling in affairs of Princes.”
He pushed jewelled fingers into the sheen of his hair, frowning.
“There’s Marguerite herself,” went on Hastings, “Lady Courtney, Lady Vaux, and Warwick’s daughter Anne — your sister-in-law, my Lord of Clarence.”
“As to Marguerite,” said the King, “there’s only one fate for her: perpetual imprisonment. Let her thank her saints she was born a woman. If she’d been a man I’d have sent here where I sent Edmund Beaufort.”
There was a grunt of agreement from Essex “She’d get no more than her due if she were burned for a witch,” he said.
Norfolk shrugged his shoulders. “They say she is almost out of her mind since her son’s death.”
“Then there’s Warwick’s Anne,” said Hastings thoughtfully.
“Oh God, yes,” said Edward. “Well, what the devil are we to do with the chit? She’s in your charge at present, George, isn’t she? Though quite how you managed to get hold of her, I don’t know.”
Essex rubbed his bald skull. “If I may make a suggestion, your Grace, I think she should be treated mercifully.”
Sir John Fogg raised his reddish vulpine face with pink-rimmed eyes; peered round him; broke silence to say in a rather nasal voice:
“A rebel’s daughter, sirs, attained in blood.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong,” said Hastings. “Warwick hasn’t been attainted, and can’t be till Parliament sits. That cock won’t fight.”
Essex said emphatically:
“I hope it never may fight, poor little lass. Sire, do you intend to attaint the late Earl in Parliament?”
“God knows. Attainders aren’t popular. I think of reversing some of the old ones of the year ’sixty-one. Something must be done about the Warwick lands, though: and there’s his wife to be remembered too. You haven’t by any chance got hold of her as well, George?”
“I have not.”
Hastings smiled.
“A mother-in-law’s never much sought after, is she, your Grace? As a matter of fact, the Countess is in sanctuary with the Cistercians at Beaulieu Abbey, a liberty which I am told is ample and as large as the Franchise of Westminster.”
“She can stop there for me,” said the King, “but I’ll send some people down to see she doesn’t slip over to France with half Warwick’s fortune tied up in her skirts. She’s another pair of shoes from little Anne: clever woman in her way.”
“Speaking of sanctuary,” said Norfolk, “the Lady Anne might enter a good house of religion. That would be a solution.”
“What of?” asked Duke George. “What the devil are we all talking about?”
“Yes, what indeed, George?” agreed Edward. “I’m not going to harry the girl. You’ve got her. Well, let you and your wife make formal intercession to me on her behalf at the next Council, and I’ll admit her to mercy: no fault of hers if her father married her off to Marguerite’s brat.”
Duke George filled his cup again. He put his hand to his mouth to smother a belch.
“Oh God, you can attaint her for all I care, and good luck to you. Let her go to all the devils in hell.”
Essex and Norfolk looked shocked. Hastings’ expressive eyebrows rose as though they wished to escape altogether from his forehead; and Lord Anthony reflected that a converted Jew usually eats pork three times a day: but Duke George was overdoing his loyalty. What he had just said was indecent.
“That’s very unkind of you, George,” the King said smoothly.
Duke George looked at his feet. He mumbled:
“Fuss about nothing: the girl’s either a rebel or she isn’t. What she does or where she goes doesn’t m
atter a rush. It’s where she stands with the law.”
Duke Richard of Gloucester had stopped playing with his Italian dagger and was regarding his brother with narrowed, serious eyes.
“We have just been told,” he said gently, “that the law’s no danger to her.”
Duke George’s underlip was projecting more than ever. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his body forward; said emphatically:
“And I say she’s just as much in danger of the law as the men you headed at Tewkesbury.”
Duke Richard sighed.
“I can’t prevent your making foolish remarks, George; and I do not need to show the others that they are foolish. The men that Norfolk and I condemned were dangerous traitors. Anne Neville, whom we’ve known since childhood, is a perfectly harmless girl you should be sheltering with all your interest. She’s your wife’s sister. What in the name of charity is your spite against her? Has she offended you in some way?”
“I’ve nothing against her,” said Duke George instantly. “It’s a question of law.”
“Then leave it to the lawyers.” Duke Richard turned to the King. “My Lord brother, since you are disposed to be merciful in this case, may I suggest that if our brother of Clarence does not care to be responsible for the Lady Anne, then some other reputable person may be found to take charge of her?”
Duke George slammed his cup down so violently that Lord Anthony thought the hippocras would slop out of it, but it was too far emptied. His face was as red as beef.
“Forty thousand devils,” he shouted, “body and bones of God! So that’s it, is it? Somebody else take charge of her: you, I suppose.”
“Hardly that,” said Duke Richard in his remotest voice. “I am unmarried.”
Duke George uttered one of his high feminine laughs.
“How true, my dear brother, you are unmarried. Christ’s blood and passion, you must think my wits are as paltry as your body if …”
“George!” King Edward had stopped lounging. He sat in his chair as though it were the King’s Bench. “George, if you can’t keep your temper when you’re in my Palace, then I wish to God you’d stay out of it. I’ve a fine mind to make you apologise to Dickon. What the devil you’re both quarrelling about I don’t know, but I’ll have no more of it. Now be quiet, the pair of you.”
Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III Page 14
