Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III

by Patrick Carleton

  The inn where the Dukes of Gloucester and Buckingham were harbouring that night was easily found. It was the largest in Northampton, and packed with followers. The two Dukes were waiting politely for Lord Anthony in the courtyard.

  As he saw the man he had decided to end, Lord Anthony had a moment of queer surprise. Duke Richard was dressed from top to toe in mourning black, unrelieved by the least hint of colour. Even the jewel in his cap was a great square of Irish jet set in black pearls. Lord Anthony could not remember his face otherwise than white: but it was now ghastly, face of a corpse. The queer lines at the corners of his mouth had sagged and deepened, pulling his lips down. His narrow eyes were not a snake’s eyes; had something dumb and terrible in them. It was misery dressed in black damask that stood in the inn-courtyard bowing, sweeping its black cap from its head. Great Christ, thought Lord Anthony, the little manikin loved his brother. I never guessed it.

  “You are very welcome here indeed, my Lord Rivers.” Duke Richard was coming forward, bowing again. Behind him, like a gaoler behind a prisoner, stalked the Duke of Buckingham, tall in comparison with his smallness, his black clothes touched with crimson and silver. Aye, there you go, thought Lord Anthony, with your fate going behind you. Three hundred Stafford knots in the town and my five hundred lads: we can show your six hundred in their black clothes all the force they need. We’ll make you prisoner on the road to-morrow, between here and Towcester, where there’ll be no scandal. You have won a great victory. I will not stay to spoil your pleasure in it. Do you remember saying that to me in the Wakefield Tower? No doubt you do. Well, my Lord Duke, I have won a victory indeed; killed one of your brothers because he threatened me, and befooled the other: and you will certainly not stay to spoil my pleasure in it.

  Supper that night was, annoyingly, the most abominable meal Lord Anthony had eaten since he campaigned in France. Two Dukes and an Earl in his house had been altogether too much for the innkeeper. He served them river-fish with an unforgivable sauce, lampreys sodden with grease, burnt capons and raw mutton. The Duke of Buckingham complained furiously. He was a rather stupid young man, Lord Anthony decided, and the promotion he gained over this business had better be all he ever did gain. They had had no opportunity to talk alone yet. The Duke of Gloucester said very little, beyond inquiring closely after the young Prince. You think you are to have the rule of him soon and want yourself advised for it, thought Lord Anthony, answering his questions. My good Grace of Gloucester, if you knew how much I have taught him to fear the sound of your name already.

  He slept that night in a big, comfortless room, alone. It was agreed that they make an early start in the morning. Stripping off his clothes and regretting the absence of a mirror, he allowed himself a faint quiver of laughter. It went well. The Duke of Buckingham had whispered five words to him on the stairs: “My three hundred are ready,” and he had given one word back: “To-morrow.” Tomorrow would be the last rung on the ladder he had climbed so long. Two great men in England, to dispute the rule of England, to-night: there would be one to-morrow. I’ve climbed so very long, he thought, sliding his bare body between the covers. I shall rest soon. All my life I have had one intention. Now it comes near. I see its colours now. I feel the warmth of it like warmth of a woman’s flesh near mine in the dark. Anthony Wydvylle, K.G., Earl Rivers, Baron Scales and Nucelles, King’s Uncle, Chief of the Council of Regency, Lord High Constable of England and Lord High Admiral to keep the Seas, Lord Chief Butler of England, Premier Earl of England, Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent: I will be all of that in a month’s time from now. Gloucester gone, I can deal with Hastings; break or bind him. I’ll have the Lieutenancy of Calais, malgré his cheeks. Kingmaker will be small to me. God, how white he looked to-night, my little enemy. A face like a tortured man’s, his lips shut to keep his yells in: he did not welcome Edward’s death, and if they ever see that face in London they’ll know it. So it shall not be seen. Ludlow or Brecknock will do for him until we end him. His widow, Kingmaker’s daughter, the little Lady Anne with the high chin: her father always hated me; had my father’s head. After widowhood for a year or two she will know better how to treat those who have the power in the realm; might welcome a marriage. Brother Ned has no wife yet: and marriage is after all the surest way to fortune. Wydvylle blood has mixed with Plantagenet and Stafford and Bourchier and Mowbray: why not with Neville? Blessed saints, what an abominable supper that was. Let me live to see the last of my kin well married; see all the old nobility tackled to our house with the bonds of matrimony, and I’ll say Nunc dimittis. We shall be sure then. Our line will go on and on. God damn Louis of France for disappointing us over the Dauphin. Still, I’ll find a better match than ever for little Bessy: Spain or the Empire. By marriages and a shrewd blow at the right moment: that is how we work. Young Henry of Buckingham is a fool, but none the less to my purpose for that. Father, you died, and my brother John, to lay the foundation-stones of the tower we build. Rest in peace now. To-morrow the coping-stone will be put on it.

  The knocking was rude and continuous; hammered into Lord Anthony’s dreams so that he was conscious of it before he woke. He sat up, dazed for an instant, taking in the only half-familiar details of the frowsy bed-hangings; then pushed them apart to call angrily:

  “What the devil is this?”

  “My Lord, my Lord!”

  It was his page’s squeaky voice. He recognised it.

  “Come in, boy. Don’t stand hammering out there.”

  The boy came in, big-eyed and clamorous.

  “My Lord, we’re locked in! My Lord, I just wanted to go out in the courtyard, but there’s two of the Duke of Buckingham’s men at the door and they say no one’s to go out unless the Duke lets them.”

  Devil take that fool Henry Stafford, thought Lord Anthony in fury. He’ll spoil everything. I don’t want Gloucester seized till we’re out of the town. He said: “God, boy, what of it? It’s only for fear of thieves. Now get soap and water and my perfumes quickly, and quietly. I must get up. You ought to be whipped till there’s no skin on your buttocks, making such a pestilent garboyle about nothing. Hurry, will you, you brat?”

  He made a quick toilet, not stopping to bleach his hands or polish his nails. It would really be devilishly inconvenient if the Lord Protector were to discover that the Duke of Buckingham was having the inn guarded. Why couldn’t the young fool have let well alone? He strapped his sword round his waist as an afterthought, and came down the stairs two at a time to discover the Duke of Gloucester eating his breakfast in the hall.

  The Duke did not look as though he had found anything in the place amiss … He was still terribly haggard, but was talking, with more animation than he had shown last night, to two of his Yorkshire retainers: the short-spoken Sir Richard Ratcliffe, and Sir James Tyrrel, a cold-eyed, young-old man who had conspicuously distinguished himself in the Scots campaign. Lord Anthony noticed that their voices dropped and died when they saw him; but there was nothing remarkable in that. He sat down to cold pigeon-pie and a tankard of small beer, wishing them good morning. The Duke left his fork on his plate in order to fiddle with a ring as he said:

  “A very good morning to you, too, my Lord Rivers: you’ve joined us at a most fortunate moment.”

  “I am rejoiced to hear it, your Grace. How am I to serve you, then?”

  “Ah, you’ll laugh at us, my Lord, I am afraid. We were discussing poetry.”

  “The saints forbid that I should laugh at anyone for that.”

  “It was a poem which concerns you closely, my Lord.”

  “Not one of my own poor rhymes, I hope.”

  “No: but a poem which celebrates one of your greater services to my late brother’s crown, Jesus, Mary grant peace and perpetual light to him.”

  “Amen.”

  Lord Anthony noticed that Sir Richard Ratcliffe and Sir James Tyrell were looking a little surprised. The Duke had his grey, unhappy eyes on him with the expression of a man’s genuinely searchin
g for information. The upright cleft of a frown on his forehead was more noticeable than ever.

  “It was that ballad that was being sung through all the lanes in London just after Tewkesbury. Crude stuff to a poet like yourself, sir, but there were verses in it extolling your exploits against the Bastard of Fauconberg. How did they run, now?

  With guns they were beat, that some lay in the mire.

  They asked wage of the Bridge: — they paid them their hire.

  Ever among, they had the worst. Then wakened their woe …

  What was the next line, my Lord Rivers?”

  He’s mad, thought Lord Anthony suddenly. His mind’s snapped. God and good angels, how much easier that makes it for all of us. Duke Richard was still looking at him, puzzling with his eyes, trying to find something out. He repeated his question:

  “What was the next line, my Lord?”

  Lord Anthony shrugged his shoulders. Indulge him.

  “Ever among, they had the worst. Then wakened their woe.

  False men must be punished, the will of God is so.

  Poor budge stuff, in my opinion.”

  The Duke looked at his friends.

  “I told you so, gentlemen. That was the line.”

  “Yes, your Grace.”

  Sir James Tyrrel spoke in a very unsure voice. He has noticed it too, thought Lord Anthony. I was right. The man is mad.

  The door of the inn hall opened. Duke Henry of Buckingham came in. He was dressed for riding, his black wool cloak already slung on his shoulders. In his hand was a bunch of keys. He walked straight up to the table, saluting nobody, and threw them down.

  “The keys of the inn, my Lord of Gloucester.”

  Lord Anthony was not conscious of getting up; only heard his chair crash backward on the flagged floor behind him. A hand seemed to have shut inside his body and to be squeezing his guts. Duke Richard was looking at him, not puzzling now, but with the eyes he remembered from the Wakefield Tower twelve years ago.

  “Your Grace of Buckingham, my Lord Protector, great God, what is this folly? Keys of the inn? What is this?”

  “Be easy, my Lord Rivers. My cousin of Buckingham has closed the inn by my orders. His men guard all the doors to it, and mine are posted on every road out of the town.”

  Lord Anthony could see everything in front of him very clearly. There was no cloth on the table. The wood of the top had been scourged into ridges. There was a wedge of bread lying near an empty tankard. A little bit had been broken off from it and lay about an inch away. He could see the place where it would fit in, if one moved it back again. His heart was kicking and kicking in his chest like a caught rabbit. Sir James Tyrell’s hands rested on the opposite side of the table, with a big emerald ring on the left thumb: a lovely stone, he thought, but a mistake to set it in seed-pearls. A dog in the yard outside was yelping. He hoped no one had kicked it; hated to see animals ill-used. His mouth was so dry that he might just as well not have had that drink of the small beer, which was bad and werish, an offence to the palate. He heard himself saying, speaking very well and slowly:

  “My Lord Protector, I cannot understand you. What is this comedy? Are you afraid of an attack by someone? This is not the wild North. They are all good, peaceable, loyal folk here. There is no need for locked doors and guarded roads. On my faith, this is all very foolish, and not consonant with our dignity.”

  “My Lord Rivers, why have you tried to set a distance between my nephew the King and me?”

  “You have won a great victory, my Lord. I will not stay to spoil your pleasure in it. My Lord Rivers, I begin to think I owe you a debt. Why am I the best-read man in England, thought Lord Anthony, when there is no book that tells us that the voice of calamity is neither thunder nor trumpets but a small voice, a sound like a sigh?”

  “Your Grace, I think you are unwell this morning. I do indeed. Your grief for your royal brother’s death, on whose soul God have mercy, has unseated your nerves. You are talking strangely. I have set no distance between the King’s Grace and you.”

  “You have set out to bring me to confusion, Lord Rivers. But it shall not lie in your power, whether or not it be better one man, and he little loved and less known in these South parts, should have rule over you all.”

  Lord Anthony put his hand out. He took the broken morsel of bread and fitted it carefully back into the place that it had come from. Then he looked up.

  There was no anger in the sad, bloodless face that stared at him. There was nothing human. The lines round the mouth, the wrinkles under the attentively-narrowed eyes, were not made by passions he could understand. Something better or worse than a man was sitting and judging him, something outside his experience and horrible as an idiot or a viper was horrible, obeying its own laws. The Duke said very gently:

  “False men must be punished, my Lord Rivers, the will of God is so. You are arrested for high treason.”

  The noise was sudden and frightening. Men were stamping into the room. They were dressed in black with the badge of the silver boar, and they carried halberds. Lord Anthony could not move any part of his body. He felt hands round his waist, unfastening his swordbelt.

  He looked round him. Something was wrong in the business. Something was unreasonable. It was all over certainly, and he was a ruined man; was perhaps dying: but it did not make sense. Then, above the head of Duke Richard, he saw the face of Henry Stafford of Buckingham, the well-shaped lips wet and writhing and the eyes glaring like the eyes of a horse. His voice broke out of his control into a shout so angry that the halberdiers crossed their weapons in front of his chest.

  “Devil, Judas, what did I ever do to you?”

  Something terrible appeared to be happening to Duke Henry. He was in the strangle-hold of an excitement that made him gulp and grimace like a poisoned man before he could control his voice and say:

  “I might have asked you that, my Lord, when you thrust your bitch of a sister into my maiden bed.”

  Hard hands on his arms told Lord Anthony that he must go now, and leave everything behind him. The Duke of Buckingham’s mad face, and the feel of their grip, cleared his mind. The broken fragments of the world that had spun round his head fell into place again and there was order and reason. He could understand; could smile, it was necessary for his dignity as a philosopher that he should smile, at the thought that the house of Wydvylle had risen by marriage and fallen by the same way.

  *

  Supper that night was no better than supper the night before. Shall I eat decent food again one day? the Duke of Buckingham asked himself. It had been a strange, triumphant day for him. They had locked Lord Rivers in his room under guard and ridden to Stony Stratford to find the King. Duke Henry had not had many moments of presence and commandment in his life. This had been one of them. He had ordered everything, Duke Richard, the first nobleman in the realm, walking or riding silently beside him. When they reached the King’s lodgings he had said, as authoritatively as any experienced captain: “Go before, gentlemen and yeomen: keep your places,” and had been obeyed. They had made a very handsome procession when they came into the presence of the twelve-year-old half-Wydvylle boy who was now King of England and France and knelt humbly down in front of him. He had received them pleasantly, though Duke Henry noticed the way in which his eyes crept sideways to the Duke of Gloucester, as though he were frightened. It was then that another of the Duke’s great moments had been granted him. He saw Sir Thomas Vaughan’s white head and fox’s face in the crowd and pointed a stiff finger at him. “Arrest that man.” Again there was such unquestioning obedience as he did not get in his own castles, unless his wife were away. Two men fell in, one on each side of Sir Thomas, and took his sword off. They seized Sir Richard Grey, the Queen’s younger son by her first marriage, and Sir Richard Hawte at the same moment, by the Duke of Gloucester’s orders, Duke Henry supposed. The yellow-haired, girlish child whom they were taking to London to be crowned began to shout:

  “Uncle, no, what are
you doing? You shan’t. What are you doing?”

  Duke Richard took charge of the matter then; explained — Duke Henry, even with the wild excitement of laughter bursting up in him as it always did when he was happy, was impressed by the quietness and tenderness of his voice — that Sir Richard Grey and the Marquis Dorset and Lord Rivers had plotted to rule both him and his realm and to subdue and destroy the old nobility, to which end the Marquis Dorset had seized the Tower and taken all the King’s treasure out of it and sent ships to sea. All that was true: but the yellow-haired Prince, his face crimson with temper, had found enough maturity to answer: