The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  ‘It presumes me to speak of this, Richard,’ she said. ‘But for your own sake I feel you should know that the people whisper about the safety of my sons. Some even say that you have had them put to death.’

  Avidly she watched him, saw the little bitter smile he could not hide and knew that the rumours had reached him already. The secret words nurtured by herself, by Morton, through France and England. And yet he sat, doing nothing. Awed, she stared at him, inwardly fuming the next minute, seeking to attack him from one side or another, seeking weakness in the many-faceted person of the Hog …

  ‘So, my lady,’ he said gently.

  ‘I beg you, Sire, for your honour and the high regard you hold in the realm, and for my own comfort as your kinswoman, produce my sons. Reveal them to the people. Let them ride through London for a week – put an end to these dreadful whisperings!’

  A great weariness overtook him. He felt his soul sucked down into some alien marsh, dragged into blackness, oozing, all-encompassing. He sat staring at his own hands, turning his rings to ward off devils, and knew one lucid thought. God be thanked I had the wit to remove the boys. Now if by some ill chance the Woodvilles broke down the Tower, poisoned the guards – they would not find these small foci of power. Thank God I sent them north.

  He said, quiet and outwardly tranquil: ‘This I’ll not do, Madame. There will be no little wars breaking out on Tower Hill – no abductions.’ He heard her harshly indrawn breath. ‘As for my honour and my high repute, I will gamble these gladly for England’s peace.’

  She sat on for a few minutes. Neither looked at the other or spoke. Then she rose. The audience was over, and she had failed. The only salvage from this trying hour was the information gleaned. The rumours were flying, even to the King’s ear. There was no chance of securing the boys, but their usefulness was far from outworn. And Queen Anne was sick unto death. Bess should have a royal husband yet, of one breed or another.

  ‘If I have spoken uncivilly, forgive me,’ she said softly. ‘I abide by your decree.’

  He did not take her hands or kiss her, but let her swoop down to lip his fingers. He did not pity her, for she was gone beyond pity. He only wondered on her tortured life, and was lost in wonder.

  ‘Good night, highness.’

  Outside, racked by sudden nausea, she leaned on the wall, trembling so that her skirts shook upon her thighs. The pitchlight overhead flamed and whispered in sympathy. Gradually she controlled herself, and made her way to her own apartments. She passed by Bess’s chambers, from which came muffled laughter; the sisters were all in there together, reliving the banquet. The sound of their weightless youth irked her. She longed desperately for comfort, kindness, a breast on which to cry. To vomit up the tears of centuries until their cause faded like a nightmare.

  At her door, a slight figure pulled itself from the shadows. A frightened pulse started up in her head and heart. She cried sharply: ‘Who’s there?’ and the shape moved into the warmly blazing torchlight. The tilted green eyes of Mistress Grace looked up at her. Looked with such imploring anguish that the face could have been a mirror of her own.

  She could no more have turned that face away than she could have taken a blade and split her own greedy, lifeloving heart. The chamber door opened and together they went in.

  Death struck the King two blows within the year. The first crippled his dynasty; the second destroyed his heart. Both fell in spring, that cruel blossom time. In April at Middleham the small prince Edward burned out his life and so, mysteriously consumed, died in a day upon his nurse’s arm. The following March Queen Anne suffered a fatal haemorrhage of the lungs at Westminster. The people muttered of poison, but by whose will administered was not made clear.

  Joined like two praying hands, the great roof of Westminster Abbey arched over the mourners. The stone faces, the flowery bosses, the images of saint and martyr and mason gazed impassively down at the black-clad ants in nave and aisles, while the lamenting and the perfumed incense wreathed and whirled hopefully to the feet of God. Possessed of that same granite impassivity, Elizabeth watched the small coffin’s entombment; but when the King leaned to drop something after it – a jewel, a flower, a tear? she shivered. Never more than a pace behind, Grace took off her own wool cloak and hung it about her mistress’s shoulders. Again, Elizabeth wondered what reward she sought for such devotion. Daily she waited for the whispered request, the shifty boon-begging, but it never came.

  With a hand under each elbow, the Duke of Norfolk and Sir Francis Lovell supported the King. Behind them was John of Gloucester, his dark head bowed; as tall as the King now, but broader. Elizabeth looked at him with fleeting favour; he was the proof of Richard’s susceptibility, and Bess was more comely than ever these days. Newly robed by the King’s bounty, fine-coloured, she was happy to acquiesce in her mother’s new desire. There was no more talk of Tudor. From across the nave Margaret Beaufort watched Elizabeth and nudged Stanley, who was weeping into his kerchief.

  ‘I mislike it,’ she whispered. The choir began a piercing, heart-tearing motet, rising in a vain hope to touch the essence of God. Stanley shook his head under cover of the fine linen, cocked an eye at his wife.

  ‘She is cold to us,’ she muttered. ‘She will scarcely speak to me. Never did I think she would go her own way so.’

  The Dirige and Placebo were sung, and the King, pale as marble, walked with his ministers from the Abbey. From that moment choristers would sing a ceaseless Requiem, trusting by their eloquence to waft Anne’s soul into the steady gilt presence of the saints. Two processions went on either side of the nave, Dukes and Earls and their ladies. Behind them, some yawning, some weeping, walked their households. Proceeding thus, Grace came level with John of Gloucester.

  He had wept for Anne, but he was calm, and the calmness gave him sombre maturity. He was so like Richard in appearance that it was almost comical, until the disparity of grief and years was seen. John’s face was young, the King’s was a sad skull, and there the jest ended. At the great door John looked and saw Grace. He inclined his head, he smiled. She edged nearer to him, out of the wake of Elizabeth’s measured progress. Her shoulder touched his. He whispered: ‘God greet you, mistress,’ and then: ‘My love!’

  The anxious months of separation fell away at the sound of his warm voice, at the look in his eyes. It was not even ominous, she thought carelessly, that they should meet again at a funeral. Joy poured into her heart, obliterating her concern for Elizabeth and the vague sadness she felt for dead Anne and her half-dead husband. The procession moved out under the arch and into the milky spring day.

  ‘We are for Eltham Palace,’ he whispered. ‘Come with us!’

  He strode on steadily. Before him, a pack of bishops and priests surrounded the King, offering bleak comforts as droningly intense as the strong arms of the supporting knights. Grace ran a step to keep up with Elizabeth.

  ‘I must go where she goes,’ she breathed. John nodded, but he frowned.

  ‘And I must follow him.’ He looked towards Richard. ‘Come to Eltham, mistress!’

  For once, their paths did not divide. Some days later, Elizabeth ordered her household to make ready for Eltham. To Bess, she said: ‘Wear your finest gowns, and the jewels Master Nesfield brought for you last week.’

  ‘Everything is ready,’ Grace said quietly, an hour later. She tried to strip her tone of gladness in case Elizabeth’s whim should go wantoning and the decision be reversed. The glittering blue eyes moved to survey her and a little ironic smile twisted the mouth.

  ‘You work swiftly.’ Amazingly: ‘Good wench!’ She was in an eager humour, determinedly lightened. At one of the gloomy mourning feasts she had laughed aloud, earning the fury of the Duchess of Norfolk. Beneath the black veil Elizabeth was almost radiant, her eyes alive again, her skin rapt and luminous. Silver lady! thought Grace. Her heart turned, just as it did at John’s name; the same feeling yet vastly different. Today was well-starred. They were bound for Eltham, Elizabeth w
as restored in spirit, and John was home from the North. Good had come out of grief.

  Grace was not insensitive to the loss of Anne Neville. More than once Anne’s face returned to her, and she heard the echo of her voice: ‘Why, child, you’re wet and cold …’ But Anne was destined for the grave even on that first showery day, and removed by an unknown dimension from things earthly. The hundred kindnesses of Anne diminished beside one smile from Elizabeth.

  They rode into Eltham down the greensward leading to the now silent tilting ground. They entered the great hall built by King Edward, where a score of round windows were blazoned with the Falcon, the Fetterlock and the Rose. Grace was dismissed for an hour. Elizabeth was fussing over Bess, straightening the rich gown of black tissue latched with gold. She kissed the girl; Bess, ever prone to weep, burst into tears, then smiles, and Grace went out into the garden alone. She passed through a small stone tunnel, its moist base was thick with violets. On the lake, white swans drifted like petals. Crocuses pushed up their stiff flames around the lake’s perimeter. Dying snowdrops hung down their milky hands.

  He was there already; unerringly he had known where to find her. The two black figures walked slowly towards one another, she in her high-waisted gown with the jutting stomacher; he in his velvet doublet and jaunty short jacket weighted with a fine gold chain. They walked slowly at first, and then they ran, with arms outheld. They clasped one another breathlessly. His mouth covered hers before she could speak, and she thought: he is more practised – he has been wantoning with others in the North. She was not to know that he had dreamed so often of this kiss that it was merely a practised dream made flesh. He held her, stroking her cheek and her white neck, his fingers, calloused by the handling of horse and weapon, rough on her smooth skin. ‘We have only a few days,’ he said. ‘Then I must return to Sheriff Hutton. My father says that there are troublous times ahead, and he would have me safe. Safe!’ he repeated the word disgustedly. ‘I am almost done with my training. I am Captain of Calais, and the King’s heir.’

  She nodded, strained close, as if to expunge the lost months and the turmoils which might keep them apart.

  ‘I know, my love. But surely – the Earl of Lincoln is his heir … he proclaimed it.’

  ‘I did not mean his royal heir,’ he said, laughing. ‘A bastard cannot claim the throne. I meant only his heir in love and duty.’ His face darkened. ‘When his little son died, he was nearly demented …’

  ‘Hush!’ she kissed the taut mouth. ‘It’s over. Have you spoken to him about our betrothal?’

  ‘What chance?’ he said dourly. ‘He’s full of trouble and policy. What do you know of this Tudor? This whelp who threatens invasion?’

  Policy, always policy, when all she needed was to hold him, her love, her lord, during this brief season. As if he had read her thought, he said: ‘I love you, lady. There shall be none other, Grace, while I live. And we have no tokens to exchange, have plighted no vows. Can we find a priest in this woodland, I wonder? I would be yours, your true knight and maker, in heart and thought, always.’

  ‘No priest,’ she said, laughing gently. ‘Is not our word enough?’

  The glassy lake, starred by lily-leaves and drifting birds, dreamed on in the chill sunlight. ‘Will you take me?’ he said. ‘With only the swans and flowers for witness? This is a good place. How many lovers I wonder, have here plighted their troth?’

  ‘How many Graces?’

  ‘And how many Johns? They lived, loved, and now …’ He had been merry; now the laughter left him. She was afraid, and moved closer into his arms, feeling his slenderness and strength, and the quick hard beat of his living heart.

  ‘Come,’ he said. They walked together to the water’s edge and knelt there. Solemnly he snapped off a tall yellow flower and placed it between her folded hands. Then he clasped his own hands together, saying in a loud voice:

  ‘I, John Plantagenet of Gloucester, Captain of Calais, being neither husband nor leman to any, do pledge heart and lands to my dearly beloved Grace Plantagenet, in this place, as God witness my deed. I do so vow my sole regard and affection to her, Grace, this day. I forsake and renounce all other. And should I swerve from her, may God strike me and damn me to eternity.’

  At these terrible words she turned sharply and looked at him. His head was bowed, his dark brows drawn together in a grim line.

  ‘Answer!’ he said.

  She opened her mouth; nothing emerged. Slowly he raised his head.

  ‘Plight me your troth,’ he said, soft and savage.

  ‘I cannot!’ she whispered.

  His colour ebbed. ‘So,’ he said flatly. ‘You don’t love me. But you could have spared me this!’

  ‘I love you!’ she cried wildly. Desperately she said: ‘It is this place. Such vows are wrong, given in a … a profane place.’ She gazed across the lake, as if imploring the water’s judgment. ‘No good could come of it. Forgive me, love.’ She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, and slowly his body relaxed. He stood, drawing her up from her knees, and he smiled faintly.

  ‘You aren’t to blame. I was inopportune. There have been too many tales. Such secret pledges are used by lecherous clerks and knaves to draw poor witless maids into a bed that’s no marriage-bed … yet you could not have thought that I would use you thus! Let it rest; I am still plighted to you. One day we shall complete this vow in church. With a shoal of gloomy priests muttering about the sin of cousins marrying!’

  He removed a jewel from his thumb. ‘Wear my ring, at any rate,’ he said. ‘Wear it in love of me, and in remembrance, while I am kicking my heels at Sheriff Hutton and you are serving your beloved mistress!’

  The ring, like a gold-rimmed bead of blood, was too large. She would need to bind thread round it for safekeeping.

  ‘Yes,’ she said absently. ‘I must serve my Elizabeth.’

  ‘How you do love her!’ he said in a voice so rough and strange that she looked up from caressing the ring. ‘Was it from Titulus Regius that you remembered your “profane place”?’

  She felt her face grow cold. ‘That is cruel.’ She walked a few paces away, and he followed her, gnawing his lips. ‘I know she did wrong,’ Grace said. ‘But …

  He was by her side, turning her into his arms with a grasp as rough as his voice. ‘Damn the Titulus Regius, and all such documents that hurt you and yours. And forgive me. But do not ask me to love Elizabeth. By that same profane marriage she bastardized the heir of England and set our realm upon its head.’

  ‘And made your father King!’ Her green eyes held his steadily.

  ‘Even now, she schemes,’ he answered, stung. ‘Her latest ploy is to marry Bess to my father. She has already enquired of the papal legate about a dispensation, as they are niece and uncle. It is a heresy, an impossiblity.’ He looked hard at her and said: ‘Can I believe you live so close to Elizabeth and did not know of this?’

  She said dully: ‘Why is it an impossibility?’

  ‘Because,’ John answered like a lawyer, deadly serious, ‘Bess is bastard now, like you, or I. To make her Queen my father would need to reverse the Titulus Regius. This in turn would make Bess’s brother King, in Richard’s place. The young Edward …’

  ‘Stop!’ Her hands flew to her ears. He pulled the hands away and said relentlessly: ‘You know, Grace, in whose grip England would be then – Elizabeth’s. The realm would rise in blood against her. God’s life, don’t you know how the Woodvilles are loathed? Have you not heard Elizabeth mocked and derided?’

  His face was flushed. To him the matter was all impartial, crystal logic. To Grace each word was insupportable. Instantly the imprint of her hand flared white on John’s cheek. They stared at one another, he bewildered, she panting with rage. Swallowing hard, she said, ‘Sir, good day,’ and began to walk across the pleasaunce away from him. After a moment she realized the yellow flower still lay within her hand; with great scorn she tossed the bloom into the lake.

  ‘Madame,’ said John coldl
y, and bowed at her retreating back. He watched her walking, so slim and small and furious in her black gown, and a smile pulled at his mouth. A great wave of tenderness rose in him. He stood, feet planted apart, and laughed. He shouted: ‘Madame!’ Her steps quickened slightly.

  He ran after her. She stopped, half-turned, moved forward again.

  ‘Grace!’ he bellowed. ‘Sweetheart!’ Then: ‘Madame, farewell! For, you, I drown!’

  The tremendous splash jerked her about. John was standing, waist-deep in the lake; he was plastered with mud. A swan, disturbed on the nest, was approaching him, its white wings vibrating with rage. It surged towards him, beak opening savagely. He laughed even as it attacked him; it tore a great wedge out of his padded sleeve, but as he threw up his arms to ward off the furious bird, his laughter pealed across the water. All thoughts of the quarrel left Grace. Alarmed, she ran to the water’s edge, seizing a fallen branch as a weapon, and wetting shoes and hose among the reeds. She snatched up her gown preparing to wade into the water. ‘John! Take care!’ The swan hissed, saw her and beat across the lake’s surface towards the fresh enemy. John laughed no longer. Shouting to Grace to run, he plunged for shore. His feet were tangled in water-weed, sucked down by mud. He thought of her green eyes blinded by the bill, her limbs broken by the angry wings. It was a nightmare in which he floundered while the great white shape ran at Grace like an outraged angel. An angel with a serpent’s head and neck.

  She stood still, her arms at her sides. The wings lashed the air, the awkward feet drove the white bulk almost into her face. The graceful neck coiled and shimmered in anger. And John knew how much he loved Grace, more even than he had dreamed; that her destruction meant his own life’s ruin. Kicking his feet at last from the clinging slime, he ran towards her, then checked in unbelief. The bird and the girl stood motionless, the attack abandoned, the wings folding, the neck dipping like a sail. Then the swan spread its wings once more, white against the black-clad figure of Grace, spread them in homage and farewell. It turned and waddled back towards its nest.