Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III

by Patrick Carleton

  “Oh no, I shan’t, my dear d’Argenton. Our good King Louis isn’t as big a fool as all that. He knows very well that he won’t live a week after he’s dismissed me.”

  “Then I can only pray,” said de Commynes, turning his back, “that the humiliations our master suffers from you will be accounted for him as an expiation of his sins.”

  Dr. Coictier chuckled.

  It was very quiet in the enclosure of Plessis-les-Tours, in this last covert and retreat of the restless King. The servants went about their business avoiding noise. No traffic of the general world passed under the ramparts. Even the sentries of the Scots Guard walked their beats, cross-bows over their shoulders and long swords in their belts, like somnambulists. Their light eyes and freckled, unexpressive faces made them like creatures of another earth, clammy statues animated by the spells of the old dying necromancer whom they guarded. Plessis-les-Tours was on the edge of the sensual world, nearly over it; was a place where emissaries from the far side of the grave were almost to be looked for.

  A small door near the Chapel opened; let out a figure in green velvet slashed with gold and silver which came toward them. De Commynes recognised a man he disliked as much as, and respected far less than, he did the Court Physician: Olivier le Daim, the tight-mouthed Flemish barber-surgeon whom France cursed under the name of Olivier le Diable. Whenever the Christian King threshed France with a flail for its own good, Olivier le Daim was there to filch a poke-full of grain for his private profit. He greeted them now with a species of familiar condescension; would be glad if they would come with him to the King.

  “Why?” asked Dr. Coictier flatly.

  “I have received some intelligence which I am afraid will disturb his Majesty.”

  “Then don’t give it him.”

  Le Daim peeped sideways out of his cold, close-set eyes at de Commynes as if winking at such unstatesmanlike simplicity. De Commynes deliberately turned his head; would not share a joke with him.

  “Alas, my very dear learned Dr. Coictier, I fear I must: affairs of policy.”

  “What are they?”

  Le Daim pursed his lips. Discretion fumed from him like steam from the horse’s flanks. Dr. Coictier looked him up and down as though he were a corpse on the dissecting-bench and said:

  “Well, if you’re dumb, don’t ask me to cure you. You need a purge, by the way. Your eyeballs are discoloured and your breath stinks. That’s your affair. I’m here to look after the King, not his understrappers. Let’s go to him.”

  The Christian King spent much of his time in a little upper room near to the Chapel; a kind of antechamber to his bedroom. It was here that the country musicians he had assembled used to play at night to keep him from sleep. He had a great terror of sleep now; was afraid that one morning he would awake dumb or paralysed. They climbed the mean little winding stair, guarded by two motionless Scots, and knocked on the oak door and went in.

  The ruins of the King who had dragged France back by main strength from the inferno of the Hundred Years’ War were piled together in an armchair. King Louis’s face was frightful. The skin appeared to rest directly on the bones. The nose was like a vulture’s bill and the eyes, heavy and ensanguined like those of an old hound, were too big for the skull that held them. A double bonnet with ear-flaps was pulled down over the high head which de Commynes knew was totally bald. Like his father before him, the Christian King had taken to dress in his old age. His starved body was wrapped in a superb gown of crimson satin, coming down to the ankles and trimmed with martens. As always there was a dog at his feet. The sight of the animal pricked some vein in de Commynes’ heart. It was a link with better times, a sign that it was still Louis of Valois, excoriated, moribund, but impregnably himself, who sat and fought day and night against death in the Chateau of Plessis-les-Tours. I knew him, he thought, in the flower of his age and in his great days, but I never saw him without cares. In nothing, not even the chase, has he had as much happiness as in his dogs. Women he’s never meddled with in the time I’ve known him. Hunting gave him very nearly as much irritation as pleasure, he took so much trouble over it. When he has had war he wanted peace; and when he has had peace he could scarcely endure it. Who could ever say he has known happiness? I am sure that if all the easy days of his life could be reckoned up there’d be a good twenty of sweat and discontent to each of them. He has built up France, and torn Burgundy asunder like rotten sacking; has had its own will with the Bretons and the English and the Spaniards and the Catalans. Could one see a finer example of the littleness of man and of how short and evil this life is?

  The huge, cunning and miserable eyes of the King were turned on them. Very slowly and painfully he lifted one dead hand in a kind of greeting and dropped it again onto the fur rug that covered his knees. His head trembled slightly on his neck. He did not speak. Olivier le Daim cleared his throat and made a bow.

  “I have news to give you, Sire.”

  Still the King only used his eyes. His expression was childishly timid now. He did not want to hear anything. Dr. Coictier, lounging impudently against the back of a chair, shouted — he spoke habitually as though his patients were deaf:

  “Much better not hear it, Sire, I’ve told you if you want to keep your soul in your body a bit longer you must not be plagued with things. Listen to your doctor and send this fellow in the short gown about his business.”

  The lead-grey, pendulous lips moved. A tiny whisper crawled over them.

  “Let him speak.”

  “Much better not.”

  This is a King, thought de Commynes. This is what being a King amounts to in the end. Le Daim had deliberately placed himself in front of Coictier; said in a voice almost as loud as the physician’s:

  “The news is from England, Sire.”

  That worked. The faint tremor of the head stopped and a kind of brightness came into the eyes. The King’s voice was still lamentably weak but it was fluent, a voice de Commynes recognised.

  “England: we have to thank God for his guidance of the affairs of that country; to thank God and his blessed Mother, le Daim. England ruled by a child is not dangerous. A child can’t come and twist money out of me as that Edward did. Tribute, he had the insolence to call it. Think of that, sirs. But God is very merciful to France. A child can’t lead armies.”

  “Sire,” said le Daim, “the news from England is very bad.”

  The King hunched his shoulders pitiably. He looked like a monkey expecting to be struck.

  “Bad, bad? No, don’t say that, le Daim: not bad news from England. I’ve prayed so much. God couldn’t be cruel now. Don’t say Edward’s still alive, after all. We must have a child to rule England until my son’s a man and can protect his France. We must.”

  “The news from England is that King Edward’s children have been pronounced bastards by the Church. King Edward’s successor is his brother, the Duke of Gloucester.”

  Good God, thought de Commynes, but this will kill him. A shiver and stiffening passed over the crimson-gowned body. King Louis’ jaw fell and his thin hands shut slowly in his lap. He sat like an image of death, colourless, dead-eyed, dead-lipped. The clock on the wall noisily dissected time. With an oath, Coictier pushed past le Daim and grabbed for the King’s wrist. The dog — it was a pied Italian greyhound — got up from its silk cushion and sniffed his knees. Le Daim’s face, ugly, stolid and cunning, did not change. He watched like a man at a play. Coictier talked urgently, his tone less brutal than it had been.

  “Compose yourself, now. Compose yourself. Don’t listen to any more. I’ll send them out. You should lie down for a while.”

  “Be quiet.”

  Again it was the King’s natural voice, or at least its wraith. The King’s chin was up and he was trying feebly to put Coictier’s hand from his wrist.

  “Now calmly. Sire: let them go. Lean back in your chair.”

  “Be quiet, man, and stand away from me.”

  “Belly of God, will you listen to me? I for
bid you to talk. I, Jacques Coictier, forbid you.”

  “Le Daim, d’Argenton, listen.”

  “At least speak briefly.”

  “I will. I’ll do as you tell me, Coictier. But I must say this. Listen. There is a boy in Brittany, a fugitive. My poor head’s going. I can’t remember names now. But they say he is the heir of the house of Lancaster. If this Duke of Gloucester prepares war on us, he might save everything. It’s a trick I’ve played before. Tell my son. We must have peace in France. The wounds bleed still. I can hear them in my sleep, the dripping of blood; and widows crying: all because of the English. We must have peace. If this Duke opens the old quarrel, my work’s undone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Sire, and touching that I must tell you that this Duke or King has said openly that the treaty of Pécquigny was a bad bargain for England and that given time and means he will …”

  Dr. Coictier flung himself on him. He caught him by the shoulders and drove him backward toward the door, shouting:

  “Be quiet, you fool. Be quiet! Do you want him to have another stroke?”

  *

  Of course, he had a great deal to remember, because such a lot of important things had happened just now, so that it was really rather hard to keep them all in his head.

  When he had been a very little boy it had been important that he was called the Earl of Salisbury and not just Ned. That was a long time ago, but he could remember it. Then it was important beginning Latin. Then it was very important being seven years old: and now the really important thing, much bigger than all the others, was being Prince of Wales. He had not been quite sure what it meant, to begin with, but now he had got it all laid out in his head. Dean Beverley helped him with some of it; but he really did most of it quite by himself, just by thinking.

  When a person became Prince of Wales he was wakened up late at night and a lot of people came into his room and knelt down and mumbled and called him Your Grace and My Lord Prince. Ned saw now that he had been stupid to look round the room for the Prince that they were talking about, when all the time it was him: but he explained to Dean Beverley afterward that he would not have done it only he was rather sleepy. That was the beginning of being Prince of Wales, and the rest was mostly hearing what Father was doing and getting used to people’s calling him the King’s Grace. Everybody in London — nice Lord Lovel and the Earl of Lincoln and all sorts of other people — had asked him would he be King of England because Uncle Edward’s two boys had been bastards all the time only they hadn’t told anybody; and he had sat in the King’s Bench, which wasn’t a bench at all but a chair made of marble, and said yes, he would be King if they wanted him.

  All that part was quite easy, but when Father came home there were a lot more important things. They had to go to York and show themselves to people. “Our York,” said Father, putting his arm round him. One of the nicest things about Father was that he was a sensible size and not so big that a boy of seven, or even nearly eight, couldn’t see his face properly. “Our York,” he said, “it’s our own City where they love us.” “Don’t they love us everywhere?” Ned asked him. “I hope so, lad, and if they don’t we have to make them.” “How do you make people love you?” Father smiled his own particular smile. “Why, by being kind to them.”

  So they went to York, and the Mayor and his Aldermen met them, all wearing scarlet, and lots of other people in red and violet and blue; and when they got to Micklegate Bar there was a beautiful wooden tower painted in all the colours of the rainbow and hung with banners, and minstrels playing outside it, and the Three Holy Kings, Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, looking out of a window with their crowns on. Caspar (they told him afterward that it was really the Rector of All Saints) made Father and Mother a long speech in Latin. He did not understand quite all of it, but when Caspar said “Cwalliae Princeps pernobilis” he knew it meant him and remembered to touch his bonnet and smile. At Ousbridge there were David and Goliath and a lot of angels. Goliath was very fierce and said: “Ha, sang Dieu!” to show he was French, and David killed him and then made a rhyming speech in English to say he was only small but had killed an enemy and now he welcomed King Richard who would do:

  “Such knightly deeds and fair as never this world saw,

  Wherefore we all may say: God bless King Richard, evermore.”

  After that there were St. Peter with his keys and St. Cuthbert and St. Adrian and St. Akelda — he was very glad she was there, because it would have pleased everybody at Middleham — and a choir dressed in white singing a hymn. The Mayor gave Father and Mother each a lovely gilt dish full of money. Father smiled and told them that he had refused money in all the towns he’d come through, but that he would refuse nothing in York and they might think the money well spent one day; but Mother only said: “God bless you,” and looked as if she was going to cry: and then the queerest thing happened. Mr. Wrangwysh, who was a big man with a deep voice, really did cry and had to turn his face away and muddle about inside his scarlet robes for a kerchief. Ned could not understand that.

  Of course, it all seemed very grand at the time; but that was a week ago, and now it really was not anything to compare with to-day and yesterday. Yesterday they went through the streets to see the Greed Play which was played specially for them. It was just like watching the whole Bible from beginning to end. There was God with a long beard on his throne and beautiful angels round him and a terrible Devil who was thrown down into hell and jumped and stamped about in the smoke there wagging his tail and shouting: “Out, haro, I roar!” Then there were Adam and Eve, quite bare until they put belts of leaves on, and Noah with his ship and Christ being crucified. That part was very terrible and Ned would have held Mother’s hand if he had not remembered that he was Prince of Wales now. Christ was young and had a pale face, and Pilate and the soldiers made fun of him: but afterwards the stone was rolled away and there was nothing to be unhappy about.

  So now the really important moment had come, after so many long prayers and so much singing and tickly smell of incense here in the Minster: and he did hope he would do everything properly.

  He was kneeling down with his hands joined together in front of Father. Father stood there, with a great burst of coloured sunlight through the Minster windows spilling over him. He had an ermine tippet on his shoulders over a long scarlet gown, and his head seemed to be on fire with the reflections from all the gold and jewels of the great arched crown with crosses and fleur-de-lys that he wore: the crown of England. His face under it looked so pale and serious. He had a sword in his hand. Now it came up, the long, clean shine of the blade, and Father’s mouth went tighter than Ned had ever seen it. Now it was coming down, very gently and quickly. He felt a pat on one shoulder, then on the other.

  “Rise up, Sir Edward.”

  He was a knight now.

  People came round him, Bishops mostly, and began to take off some of his clothes and put others on. He stood very still, because if he didn’t do anything at all he couldn’t do anything that was the wrong thing. They tickled rather, and were not as clever at undressing people as his own grooms. He wondered for an instant if they were going to strip him quite naked like Adam, but they only put a cloth-of-gold tabard and a belt on him instead of his gown, and then a coronet on his head. It was rather heavy. Now they were all kneeling down, one after the other, in front of him and muttering. He heard some of the words: “Acknowledge and repute you, Edward … very and undoubted heir … mumble, bumble, mumble … outlive our said Sovereign … bumble, mumble … in all things truly and faithfully behave me toward you … mumble, mumble … God …” He knew a lot of the people who knelt: his old friend Lord Lovel, in grand cloth-of-gold figured with silver, not laughing or making jokes for once, but kissing his hand very solemnly; William Dudley, Bishop of Durham; handsome, serious-faced young John de la Pole of Lincoln, his cousin; Lord Scrope and the fat Lord Thomas Stanley. Ned did not like Lord Stanley very much.

  Now someone — it was the Bishop of St. Asaph
, he thought — touched his arm very gently, making him move aside a little. The Spanish Ambassador, thin-faced Senor Don de Sasiola, was kneeling to be made a knight now. Father did not look so serious this time. There was the same glint of the sword in the coloured light and “Rise up, Sir Geoffrey,” and that was over. Ned felt very wise because he knew that Father had knighted Don de Sasiola to please the King and Queen of Castille so that they would help him against the wicked King of France. He had told Ned all about it: how Don de Sasiola had stood up in front of him and all the Lords in Warwick Castle and said that Queen Isabella wanted to make a good firm league with him against King Louis and would open all the ports in Spain to the English and send forty thousand men to help him. “And the Spaniards are fine fighters,” he said. “So one day, son, you may sit on your throne in Paris.” That would be after Father was dead, and Ned didn’t much want to think about it. So he thought about Father, on White Surrey, and the forty thousand Spaniards defeating the Frenchmen over and over again the way Harry of Monmouth did in the chronicles: and presently they went out of the Minster.

  This was another of the important things, and he had been told all about it. He had to walk all by himself. His cousin of Warwick, Uncle George’s boy, and his cousin of Lincoln would be a little behind him, and Mother and Father with their crowns on would be just in front. But he had to go all alone and keep the same pace as the rest of them and be very careful about his coronet: and now he thought the coronet was heavier than ever and he would have liked to go behind a wall somewhere just for a minute, but there was no time for that.

  Father’s head was very stiff over the wide collar of ermine. The great golden crown he wore glimmered and gleamed. Mother’s head under her crown was bent forward a little. They moved slowly. He got accustomed to their pace after a yard or two; felt a little better. Now the west doors of the Minster opened and they were out in the sunshine. For a second, his heart jumped right up so that he thought it would choke him, and he was dreadfully afraid.