“Long life to King Richard and death to all traitors.”
They drank to it with curt grunts of approval; were not warmed by the words. It was all too foolish and too miserable, this sudden unnatural disturbance in the unnatural weather that seemed like a destiny over England.
“Where d’you think the Welchman will land, Thomas?” asked Mr. Marston.
“Nay, I’ve no inkling: or whether he will land. It might be only a tale.”
“I’m afraid it’s truth. Please God he’ll not have a large power with him.”
“Who is he?” asked Miles. “I never even heard him spoken of.”
“Son to the Lady Margaret who’s married my Lord Stanley now,” his father told him, “and grandson to the Welchman that Queen Katherine took into her bed after Harry of Monmouth died.”
“Then what right’s he got to be King in England?” said the boy angrily.
“None,” said Mr. Marston: “he has none.”
A faint, unhappy moan of wind sounded outside the house, like a cur crying.
“He has no right,” agreed Mr. Wrangwysh: “a Welchman to bear rule over us.”
Mr. Marston took a deep mouthful of ale and was silent again. Mrs. Wrangwysh began to fill up the mazers.
“Well, if he does land I hope and suppose our King’ll teach him a lesson. I never did like the Welch, God knows. There was a dirty toad of a Welch peddler came to our door two years back. I sent him out of that: and as God sees me and comprehends me, I found him at after behind the wall of the yard with my maid Dorothy. The impudence: I’d a skillet in my hand at the time, as the Saints would have it, and I cracked his crown for him to my satisfaction; and as for Dorothy, I birched her till the blood came: filthying my house with foreigners.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Marston, “it’s old England they’re for filthying with foreigners now.”
“But never shall,” said Miles.
“That’s my lad,” his mother encouraged him. “If you meet any dirty Welch tykes on the journey you’re going — and that bethinks me, I must see to your clean shirts — remember your mother and lay their heads open. I’m only a weak woman and of small account in the world, even in my own house, but you think of my words: and if you love your poor mother, see your father shaves when he gets to Salisbury in case the King’s noble Grace condescends to speak to him.”
“Leave that, woman,” said Mr. Wrangwysh emphatically.
“Leave that, woman: you see how I’m handled in my own home, Mr. Marston, thwarted and trodden on till I daren’t open my gob. It’s we women have the hard time of it in this world. The great Captains in their harness with twenty pounds in their pouches tramp over us roughshod and we can only … God have mercy, hear that!”
The noise of the wind had been rising steadily from a moan to a growl. Now, with a sudden frightening accession of power, it became a scream. A cold draught fluttered the rushes on the hall floor, and in the gallery a door crashed shut. The scream enlarged, repeated itself. Rain suddenly smacked the leaded window-panes like vicious whips. The hearth belched smoke.
“Lord, it’s sudden,” said Mr. Wrangwysh.
The blare of the wind was orgiastic now. It howled and triumphed over the roof whilst the rain beat kettledrums of exultation. Shrill squeals pierced the dominant roar where the storm found chinks to whistle in. All the witches in Scotland might have been riding South calling the names of their devils to one another. Mrs. Wrangwysh blessed herself and turned instantly upon Walter.
“Out with you,” she shouted, “out and put the shutters up.”
The apprentice fumbled a minute with the latch. Then the door was torn out of his hand and crashed against the wall. Rain and cold hurried in like conquerors. Miles jumped up and closed it after him with a long thrust of the arm and they could hear him struggling with the shutters.
“It was bound to come,” said Mr. Wrangwysh. “The weather was bound to break.”
He felt frightened. The noise was so thick and immense, as though wind were a solid thing like stone that bashed the walls of his fine house and might bash them down. Mr. Marston coughed in the smoke that was still flooding into the hall. The rushes on the floor were dancing up almost to the height of a man’s knees.
“Dear Saints, what a todoment,” said Mrs. Wrangwysh, “I never heard it so bad as this.”
“A night of this and we’ll have the floods out.”
“And you riding for Salisbury, oh Jesus!”
The door crashed again and Walter was in the room. The boy’s clothes were black with wet, soaked-through and clinging to him like a skin. Rain streamed from him. He shook himself like a spaniel, crying:
“Holy Mary, master, it’s over shoes in the street already!”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the still-deepening note of the storm was split by a crash that seemed to shake the floor under their feet. The wind had prized a chimney loose. Mr. Wrangwysh bounded out of his chair.
“Lord have mercy!”
“The Lord has great mercy.” Even in the powlering of the wind, Mr. Marston’s deep voice sounded loud and thrilling. “The Lord has great mercy upon England. He has judged between King Richard and his rebels and traitors. Think, man. How will the wicked Duke cross Severn in this? How will the Welchman put his nose out of Brittany with the sea as it will be to-night? God has shown us who is his anointed.”
*
“I will not see him.”
Sir Richard Ratcliffe made no immediate answer. The King’s face was bent over a huddle of papers on the oak table. He had not looked up to speak.
But Sir Richard, who knew him, knew that his lips must be pressed together and his eyes narrowed like a cat’s pupils when it is watching a bird. He was not like this even when it was Rivers who was for the axe, he thought. The King raised his head suddenly. The cleft between his eyebrows was very noticeable.
“Why are you waiting?” he asked.
Sir Richard fretted with his feet like a schoolboy.
“The Dean of the Cathedral,” he said.
“What of him?”
“He only asked, your Grace, that is to say, he only asked me to ask whether, seeing that today is Sunday and the Feast of All Souls, your Grace would be pleased, out of regard to Holy Church, to respite the Duke until …”
“I know no Duke.”
“Your Grace?”
“I know no Duke. I know only Henry Stafford, a traitor condemned by the Vice-Constable’s Court. He dies this morning.”
God, thought Richard Ratcliffe, may I never be where Henry Stafford is now: and this man was the kind Duke of Gloucester. Buckingham was never so much his enemy as Rivers or his friend as Hastings: but he condemned those two like a man doing work he hated. Why has he become Nero now? The King’s cold voice pricked his questioning as though his thoughts had been read. He spoke deliberately, his hands joined before him on the table.
“You think I am a hard master to-day, Ratcliffe?”
“No, your Grace.”
“Don’t lie. You have a face like a boy’s hornbook. It does not want a clerk to read it. You were thinking that presently I shall be called Bloody King Richard.”
“Never, your royal Grace: others can think what they like. I know you’re for mercy.”
The King unclasped his hands and dropped back in his chair. A deep breath moved the jewelled front of his doublet. Automatically, his right hand felt for his dagger.
“Yes, I am for mercy. I’ve done all in my power to see that not a single innocent or even doubtful soul shall suffer in this business: but I’ve no mercy for Henry Stafford.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
The King looked full at him.
“His sin is against England and not Richard,” he said in a flat voice. “There is no pardon. He tried to bring the old garboyles of the two roses into England again. Only one mercy will I show him, and you may say as much to the Dean. This is All Souls’ Day, as he says, the day when universal Christendom prays f
or its dead. I will grant Henry Stafford the benefit of those prayers, and that is all. Now go, and when you have seen his head off come back and tell me so.”
Sir Richard Ratcliffe bowed and went out.
And he is right, he thought, walking in the black November weather across the Close from the Bishop’s Palace where the King lodged. He is right, as he always is. This is the wrong time for mercy. Last month’s great gale, which had mown trees and houses down over the length of England, smashed shipping to driftwood in the Bristol Channel and turned the Severn into a howling sea, had broken an unbelievable conspiracy. It was as though all the separate and hostile devils which had possessed England since the death of Richard of Bordeaux had made common alliance against their common opposer, Richard of Gloucester. The plot to which the Duke of Buckingham had openly and boastfully confessed before Sir Ralph Ashton, the Vice-Constable, equalled in unnatural audacity the old alliance of Kingmaker and Queen Marguerite. Bishop Morton of Ely was its leader. He had been given into Duke Henry’s charge after his arrest that spring in London; had wormed himself by god knew what devilishness into his gaoler’s heart and then propounded a device. Henry Tydder was to be fetched out of Brittany to be King by right of Lancaster. The Gilfords and Courtneys and the rabble of West Wales would take up arms for him. But since they would not be enough against the might of England under such a captain as King Richard, a further, a more audacious subtlety was devised. Henry Tydder, waiving the matter of her bastardy (as why should he not, thought Richard Ratclilfe, seeing his own family are bastards on both sides?), was to many the Lady Bessy, eldest daughter of King Edward and Queen Elizabeth. What was to be done about her two brothers no one knew, but at least the Wydvylles would share the government of England, after all. The Marquis Dorset, Sir Edward Wydvylle, Sir John Fogg with the ink hardly dry on his royal pardon, Sir Thomas St. Leger, had all joined the plot.
Some of them were in arms still. The little Welchman himself, Henry Tydder, who was said to have lank yellow-white hair and a wart on his chin, was actually on the sea now unless, as was to be hoped, the storm had put him under it, drowned him as it had drowned his hopes. Buckingham’s Water they would call the great flood for years after, for it had been the end of Buckingham. Like a rat in a pit, the man who had set out to be another Kingmaker had ranged up and down the Welch bank of the Severn, trying to find a way to cross to his part-takers. But on the English side King Richard’s folk had been beforehand with him and had broken or occupied the bridges, and behind him, the loyal Welch, under Sir Thomas ap Roger of Tretower, had seized and plundered his Castle of Brecknock. Nipped as in pincers, deserted by his men whom he could not pay, with the devil behind him and Severn wide as the sea in front, storm-soaked, agued, the new Kingmaker fled in disguise to the home of his retainer Ralph Banaster of Lacon Hall; was taken and hidden by him, betrayed by him; was brought yesterday into Salisbury with his spurs chopped off and his arms bound; was tried instantly before the Vice-Constable; was going to die.
Sir Richard Ratclilfe’s horse waited for him outside the Close. He mounted and rode through the Sundayish, empty streets to the Council House, where a strong guard was. Some of the men wore Lord Lovel’s badge of the dog and the rest the gryfon’s claw of the Stanleys. In the Council-chamber itself he found the Vice-Constable, the Sheriff of Wiltshire, and Sir William Catesby, now Chancellor of the Exchequer. The hook-nosed, hard-eyed lawyer with his perpetual loose smile was in high favour. It was he who had warned the King of Lord Hastings’ compact with the Wydvylles; and it was commonplace that King Richard never forgot a friend. Standing a little aside from the others was a fourth man, gross and powerful, wearing a gown of orange-and-black velvet over black doublet and orange hose: Lord Thomas Stanley. Sir Richard Ratcliffe knew why he was there. His second wife, the Lady Margaret, was Henry Tydder’s mother; was inextricably involved in the new plot; deserved (but it was known King Richard would not kill a woman) to lose her head. Lord Stanley’s own loyalty was not breathed on. He and his son had raised Cheshire, Lancashire and Derbyshire flockmeal for the King. But doubtless the fat Baron thought it wise to make another gesture still; to be there in person when the Duke of Buckingham was ended. He is not the fool he looks, Sir Richard thought.
The Sheriff, a nervous little man, obviously much daunted by the responsibility of a Duke’s execution, edged up to him and asked in a hushed voice:
“Will the King’s Grace grant him an audience? He has been asking again.”
“No, we are to proceed at once. Have you everything ready in the market-place?”
“Yes, yes, I hope so.”
Sir Richard looked at the Vice-Constable.
“I suppose men are guarding the way, Sir Ralph?”
“Yes, some of mine and some of Norfolk’s: enough. We’ll have no trouble, anyway.”
“Surely not. Has he had the Sacrament?”
“He’s having it now.”
“Oh.”
There did not seem much more to say. Sir William Catesby was talking apart to Lord Stanley. The Sheriff exsinuated himself from the room on some errand. The Vice-Constable sighed and looked at Richard Ratcliffe; said almost casually:
“You know he’s mad?”
“Who’s mad?”
“Buckingham: clean crazy.”
“Do you tell me so?”
“Oh yes: he was talking of what he would have done if the flood hadn’t held him, boasting. He would have made the Welchman King and then unmade him. He said he and Morton of Ely could rule all Christendom between them. He was to have destroyed the Wydvylles too when they’d served his turn.”
“Lord: it was that devil’s fox Morton that seduced him in the outset. I’m sure of that. I wish to Christ we could have laid hands on him.”
“We shall yet, but where’s the use? Our Lord and master would no more head a priest than a woman.”
“Where is the King?”
They jerked round as though the voice behind them had been a wolf’s. Henry Stafford of Buckingham was in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, a Friar twittering at his elbow and the Sheriff and two men-at-arms behind him. He still wore the coarse frieze clothes of his disguise, torn at the wrists and very dirty. His brown, wavy hair was tangled and hung partly over his face. All round the iris of his eyes the white showed staringly. His chin wobbled.
Sir Richard said:
“You must be patient. I have been to his Grace. He will not see you.”
Henry Stafford’s head went back and he stiffened his shoulders. There was something terrifyingly wild and commanding about him, standing mad and dirty on the edge of his death.
“Go to the King I made and tell him the Kingmaker demands to speak to him.”
“I will do nothing of the sort.”
“You servant, do you hear me? I am giving you an order, I who made your little King to suit myself. I can make any King in England. I am Stafford, Bohun, Plantagenet. I showed the world as many Stafford knots as ever Warwick had ragged staves. I broke the Wydvylles. I called back Lancaster into England again to please a friend of mine. Do you understand an order?”
“Yes, and my orders are that we must carry out the sentence passed on you. Will you be patient now, sir? You ought to think of your soul.”
Henry Stafford was no longer listening to him; had seen Lord Stanley. His face began to work as though the muscles were being plaited together; went out of shape. He was shouting:
“Why is he here? He disobeyed me. I sent him orders. I commanded him for his wife’s sake to help me make his stepson King of England. He failed me. Why is he here now?”
Lord Stanley kept his fat countenance well; only said:
“I did not fail you. You mistook me. I am a Yorkist, and my honour is not on sale.”
The loud gasping laughter that filled the Council-chamber abashed them all. Henry Stafford’s whole body was shaken by it as though by an agony that made his legs and back bend and then straighten and then bend again. They stared at him. After a
long time he pushed his hair back out of his eyes and said breathlessly:
“Everything is for sale in England.”
“Sir,” said the Vice-Constable, “if you have nothing else to say, I must tell you to make ready. It is time now.”
Henry Stafford did not look at him. His voice was a shout again. He threw his arms apart, ranting at them.
“For sale, for sale: you madmen, who talks about honour in England after civil war for thirty years? You’re mad. Why can’t you understand? Honour’s dead. It was killed with my father at St. Albans. There’s no honour now.”
“That is enough,” said the Vice-Constable. “You must—”
“If there were honour in the world, who’d be more honourable than Henry of Buckingham? I’ve betrayed everything that was put in reach of me: and you all would. This is England where there are only perjurers. Look at that fat man, your loyal Yorkist. Hug him. Kiss him because it’s profited him now to stand by King Dickon. Henry Stafford of Buckingham with his feet in the grave tells you that he’d sell King Dickon to King Harry for a Scots groat if he were sure of the payment. Remember that in season.”
“Is there any need for us to listen to this?” asked Stanley moderately.
“There is not.” The Vice-Constable beckoned. “Here is your prisoner, Mr. Sheriff. Do your office.”
Henry Stafford did nothing whilst the men-at-arms closed round him; let them bring him into the street. There were more people about now. Faces gaped over the pikemen’s shoulders to see the Duke of Buckingham, who had tried to play Kingmaker to King Richard, receive his wages. The scaffold had been set up before the Poultry Cross: a small platform. Two men were waiting on it. They had vizors of black frieze with eyeholes pulled over their faces, and their arms were bare. It was awful weather. Over the Salisbury house-tops the lower sky was as black as midnight. A pale, wretched light dropped like snow from the zenith, silvering the jacks of the men-at-arms and showing the vapour of their breath. The still crowd, waiting for its treat, looked unreal, a picture. A miracle might happen in weather like this, thought Richard Ratcliffe; the end of the world come. He heard the two headsmen, on their knees, ask for forgiveness. Their man looked at them as though what they said puzzled him.
Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III Page 47
