The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘By now I should have learned that there are no secrets. More folk know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.’

  ‘Had I not thought you would listen,’ he said quietly, ‘I would not be here.’

  ‘You have made a mistake,’ she answered coldly. ‘I want no part of it.’ She looked in his eyes. They were fine eyes, rich brown, intensely gleaming.

  ‘I am too old,’ she spoke more patiently. ‘Too old for further conspiracies. I am no longer part of this world.’

  ‘We need your Grace’s support,’ he said.

  ‘I have told you. I have conspired in my time – why should I deny it? And it has brought me to desolation.’ She turned her head away; it shuddered slightly.

  ‘My mother has been ill,’ said Dorset.

  Swiftly the stranger turned his attention on the Marquis.

  ‘Then you, my lord. Will you at least hear me?’

  ‘I have forfeited my sons’ lives,’ said Elizabeth from the chimney-corner. Her eyes were lambent and sad, strangely youthful in the firelight.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said the stranger, and cracked a twig from the fire beneath his sollaret.

  After a while she said: ‘Tell me.’

  ‘At least one of them escaped, Madame.’

  Pityingly she looked at him. ‘Sir, I fear you are a fool, whoever you are. My sons are dead. Henry Tudor is thorough.’

  ‘Then why,’ said the stranger softly, ‘did he not order for them a Requiem Mass?’

  Yes. Yes, she thought, he would have done it. He was so correct, especially in matters of ecclesiastical procedure. His ancestors’ holy disposition called for it. And the boys, being murdered, as the rumour ran, would need especial protection for their souls.

  ‘An amazing oversight,’ she said. The fire exploded, sending up a shower of sparks.

  ‘An oversight without precedent. An oversight beyond belief. Nay, Elizabeth–’ she looked up sharply – ‘Henry would not say Masses for the living. That is heresy.’ She sighed. She folded her suddenly quiet hands in her lap.

  ‘In Ireland there is a boy,’ he went on. ‘His looks are Plantagenet, and he is fair and comely. He comports himself like a prince. He has ten thousand followers. Margaret of Burgundy has promised to uphold him; to overthrow the Tudor. Lord Lincoln, who sits on Tudor’s Council, is with us too. But we need you, Madame. Your seal and your word are worth that of twenty thousand lesser souls.’

  ‘Which of my sons is it?’ she said very softly.

  ‘That, Madame, I do not know. It could be either. Again, it could be the young Earl of Warwick.’

  ‘Warwick is in the Tower!’

  He shrugged. ‘So men say. The Tower has kept its secrets for centuries. It may be Warwick, it may not. Whoever it is, he will bring down the Tudor.’

  She gazed into the fire so hard that the flames hurt her sight. Strange, that she might be called upon to uphold the Fiend’s grandson, Clarence’s son. Stranger still, that the Fiend was less abhorrent than Tudor, who had dealt her the most dreadful wound. Was it not fitting that she should support Warwick’s line in atonement? Atonement for what? For Gloucester’s bloody death; he who had loved Warwick and all his kin.

  ‘You say that Lincoln is with you?’

  ‘Yes. He is marshalling a great force, in secret.’

  ‘Lincoln was named King Richard’s heir. Does he not covet the crown for himself?’

  ‘He cannot have it, in face of your living son’s claim,’ said the stranger swiftly. ‘Not with the reversal of Titulus Regius Nor, in these circumstances, would King Richard have wished it.’

  ‘So the boy in Ireland is my son!’

  ‘Madame. I say only: there is a boy, a Plantagenet. Will you place your trust in him? Will you revenge yourself?’

  ‘Tudor duped me,’ she said slowly. ‘More thoroughly than any other. Yes, for that …’ She turned to Dorset. ‘Thomas?’ His cheeks were flushed with excitement.

  ‘Madam my mother,’ said he, ‘I fear and mistrust Tudor most heartily. I am for this enterprise.’

  To the stranger she said: ‘What do you want of me?’ And turned her face against the firelight. For an instant her old beauty returned, magical and weird. She shimmered, she was fluid, never still.

  ‘Your support, your word; any monies you can spare. Bless you, your Grace.’ He knelt to kiss her hands.

  ‘And who are you?’ she said finally.

  From his wallet he took a blazon worked in silver and clipped it to the edge of his collar; a dancing hound. ‘Behold my master!’

  ‘Sir Francis Lovell.’

  He laughed, though his brown eyes were hard and keen. ‘Aye, Dickon’s ‘brave dog’!’

  She remembered Lovell well; a youth laughing at her, or so she had imagined. How much evil had she imagined in the past?

  ‘Support us, Madame,’ he said again. ‘And we will hang Tudor’s bowels on Micklegate Bar!’

  Looking at Dorset, she smiled sadly. ‘So be it,’ she said. ‘And I vowed I was done with conspiracy!’

  Grace stood behind John, an arm about his neck as he sat in his chair. She watched him write, taking pleasure in the fine italic script, the broad underlinings, the swirling capitals. Each black flowing wave was like a cord binding her tightly to the writer. She felt as if the quill scratched on her own heart. With each dipping stroke of it she saw the sea. The margins on the page were gateways of freedom. The odd manner in which he crossed his ‘T’s’ was a little jest.

  ‘’Tis fair!’ She rubbed her face against his shining hair. ‘Who taught you to write?’

  ‘Ssh!’ he said, preoccupied. Then he kissed the fingers against his cheek. ‘There. It’s done. How long for its despatch, Master Ralph?’

  The prentice was still on the bed, a flagon of wine in his hand. He came as often as he dared to the upper room. Sometimes he had a bruised face earned from Gould for shirking a duty. He was always merry these days; the sadness was gone from him as it was from John. It was a merriment verging on mania, none the less. During their brief conversations, the upper room trembled with hope and a deathly excitement. Old catchwords, the raisons of loyalty, sang in the air. Ralph would take no payment for his services, waving away John’s offered gold, although the prentice was threadbare.

  ‘Ralph, Ralph!’ John slewed on the chair to look at him, and laughed. ‘How long, I say? Tell me, and I’ll broach the other cask!’

  The prentice sprang up. He was carelessly gay and had been toasting York and the dead King in an unnervingly loud voice.

  ‘No more wine, my lord.’ He walked springily to the window, and drank in a gulp of air. ‘As for your letter – my brother sails in a fortnight.’

  John went to stand beside the prentice, laying an arm about his neck.

  ‘This is my third letter,’ he mused. ‘I have had only one reply from Desmond’s clerk.’

  The prentice’s merriment faded. ‘Pirates took my brother’s ship the first time, I told you. Thank God it was only pirates! I was afraid … They had to run for it, almost down to Cork, and the couriers’ gear was washed overboard. But, my lord, your second bill received a warm reply.’

  ‘A very guarded reply,’ said John, and frowned.

  ‘Yes. Well …’

  Ralph scratched his nose which was turned-up, and pink with wine.

  ‘Ralph?’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ muttered the prentice. ‘We must be careful.’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles,’ said John sharply. ‘What have I done, or failed to do?’

  The last trace of lightness dropped from Ralph and he looked steadily at John. ‘Lord, they need more assurance from you – proof of your genuine allegiance. In Ireland they are nervous – as elusive as ill-trained hawks. Who can blame them?’

  ‘Proof of my allegiance?’ said John coldly. ‘Have they forgotten whose son I am?’

  Ralph nodded, said softly: ‘Assuredly not. But their plan is too great to risk any hazard, however slight. They
must know that you are with them – to dethrone Tudor. They plan to crown the Boy in Christ Church, Dublin. Burgundy is with them, and they have a commander from Germany, a soldier like Samson – Martin Schwarz. So, my lord–’ steadily Ralph looked at John – ‘you will not be welcome in Ireland until you state your heart’s disposition. Too much hangs in the balance.’

  John’s eyes were bright. ‘By St. Denis, Ralph! I had thought of Ireland as a place to hide my sore heart and be happy with my lady! But now! Now, there’s so much more – a chance to fight, to die, to live … Where’s the letter?’

  He snatched up the drying parchment and tore it across. ‘Give me a quill. I’ll write it anew. I’ll be guarded no longer.’

  He sat down again at the table. Grace and the prentice moved to stand beside him.

  ‘It’s danger,’ said Ralph. ‘But worth it, highness.’

  ‘Not highness, Ralph!’ said John, looking up, smiling. Grace watched him, and the smile on the arrogant, fiery face, thinking: I love him. I could die for love of him.

  ‘We are brothers in this, Ralph,’ he said. ‘Drink!’

  Ralph took up the flagon, tipped a long swallow of wine down his throat. He gulped, said. ‘That was for the Boy! And this for Henry Tudor’s ruin!’ There was a long silence while he drained the flagon to the dregs. Grace stole closer to John, kissed his cheek, rubbed the smoothness of his jaw, whispered in his ear. He bore it for a moment, then pushed her away.

  ‘Sweet, my letter will be awry.’ Sulking, she went to the window and looked out.

  ‘Why, there’s Salazar!’ she cried, and waved madly. The gleaming face, wearing new jewelled ear-rings and a wide white laugh, looked up. He lifted the monkey’s paw and made it wave. A wind blew up, sudden and fierce and the monkey chattered in fear and clasped its master’s ears. The Moor smiled once more at Grace, passed down an alley and was gone from sight.

  ‘We have all manner of allies,’ Ralph was saying. ‘Even La Woodville is with us!’

  Grace’s heart lurched, but she kept silent.

  John was signing the letter. The sweeping quill made ‘J. Gloucester’ black and even and fair, with a wild flamboyant tail doubled and redoubled with a knot in the end.

  ‘Shall I take it now?’ said Ralph hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, yes. Take it. Keep it hidden until your brother sails.’ He stood up and embraced the prentice. ‘Ralph,’ he said softly. ‘You must come with us to Ireland.’

  ‘John,’ said the prentice. ‘I will be with you until your life’s end … Lord!’ He lurched suddenly as he turned to go ‘The wine is raging … I must go.’

  ‘God keep you,’ said John.

  Ralph lurched again as he went out of the door. Grace thought him more than a little drunk. And he was still holding the letter. Alarmed, she ran to the top of the stairs, and was relieved to see him tuck the letter safely in the breast of his doublet. She returned to John, and to the amazement of both of them, burst into tears. He was with her at once, holding her. She clung to him so tightly that he gasped.

  ‘It is the waiting, sweet,’ he whispered, when her hold loosened. ‘Soon we shall be in Ireland. Not much longer, my heart.’

  His words failed to bring comfort. Again she held him; she could only whimper and hold him. Like Salazar’s monkey, caught in a whirlwind. As mindless yet as sentient of doom.

  It was spring again, and the tertian fever had Henry in its grip. He moved steadily through his court; he was flanked by the Yeomen wherever he went. His long face and deep eyes were tranquil and watchful and hid all evidence of his sickness. His body could shake in secret coughing but his spirit stepped high, and nowhere more than in the prince’s chamber. The court had returned to Westminster. Arthur was five months old, and not as sturdy as the King might wish. Nevertheless Henry could not keep from the child’s side, even with his own fever raging. For precaution he took to stuffing his own mouth and nostrils with powdered cinnamon; this gave him an unpleasant appearance. He leaned over the swaddled, grizzling infant and whispered in Welsh; whispered of Llewellyn, of Gladis, of Merfyn and Rhodri, of lowerth and Gruffydd, of lago and Cynan; of Noah. In the babe’s slit eyes Henry looked for the shades of destiny, the long glittering promise of the future. The homage of foreign lands waited there. One day a grand alliance should make Arthur’s England great. The infant sneezed. Henry turned to where Master William Petronus, the astrologer, wound in cabalistic robes, lurked reverently.

  ‘It’s Oxford’s fault!’ he said testily to the sage. ‘He kept my son waiting in the cold church for three hours at the christening. I should have punished him. I fear I grow over-merciful.’

  By my faith, thought Master Petronus, it is more likely that you yourself have infected the child. Your obsession knows no bounds. And as to your mercy … Discreetly he said: ‘Sire, Parliament is gathering and awaits you. Before it meets there is something urgent…’

  Reluctantly Henry straightened from the cradle and moved away. He passed through the chamber where a bevy of doctors and nurses did him homage. Among them was his mother, who scarcely left the child, except for visits to Bess, who was far from well with milk-fever and an ague.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ said Henry walking on. The court was beginning to fill with noise as the councillors arrived to pay their respects. It would be a heavy Parliament with one or two important faces missing, and he knew why. He knew everything; he could taste, smell, presage, gauge past, present and future. It was high time Master Petronus was retired.

  ‘This year,’ said the astrologer, ‘there will be attempts upon your Majesty’s life.’

  Henry nodded. He had faith in the man after all. He had forecast the deaths of Edward and Richard Plantagenet correctly. But the King had more faith in himself. Trust none.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Petronus, hurrying to keep up with Henry’s shambling strides.

  ‘Let none know your mind.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henry.

  ‘Let them think they know your mind,’ said the astrologer helpfully.

  Henry flashed him a long, shrewd smile. ‘There is a proverb, Master: “Who knows not how to dissemble knows not how to reign.” Does that match your mood, Master Petronus?’

  Defeated, the astrologer bowed and withdrew. Henry went on through brass-bound doors flung wide for his coming, to where Morton and Sir Reynold Bray, his new knighthood sleek upon him, waited. Together they went into Henry’s privy chamber. On the walls the Dragon ramped upon his emerald ground.

  ‘You look weary, my lord Cardinal,’ said Henry cheerfully. He sat down and blew his nose. A cloud of cinnamon dust soaked his kerchief. ‘Your news, now. Already my lord astrologer has wearied me with stale warnings.’

  ‘My news is fresh and warm, Sire.’ Morton turned to Bray, who carried the customary sheaf of documents, one of which the Cardinal Archbishop extracted with a bone-like slither of parchment.

  ‘Is this the list of names?’ said the King.

  ‘It is, Sire. Lincoln is the most prominent of the rebels; he grew weary of waiting …’

  ‘I was right,’ said Henry without expression. ‘Time, my lord. Time levels all, reveals all.’

  ‘Truth is the daughter.of time,’ observed Bray, and, catching the King’s eye, wished he had not spoken.

  Morton said: ‘Lovell is near Oxford and has charge of one wing of the rebels. Schwarz is their captain. I was surprised at their great number.’

  ‘The patron of York is St. Jude,’ said Henry. ‘The lost cause saint!’

  Morton, taking another roll, said: ‘And here is the news from Ireland. The boy’s name is Lambert Simnel. He is a blacksmith’s son.’

  Henry said, intrigued: ‘How are you sure?’

  Bray and Morton exchanged glances. ‘The priest we captured – he was the one who schooled Simnel. He sang us a whole psalter …

  Henry looked quickly up at the Dragon banners. That puissance, that red might calmed him, took the sting from Morton’s next sickening words. ‘We racked th
e priest, Sire. The rack is a good invention. Upon it, men have the gift of tongues!’

  ‘Go on,’ Henry waved his hand. ‘So, they will crown the feigned boy. Jesu! the Irish are madmen. They will crown monkeys next!’

  ‘Speaking of crowns,’ said Morton suddenly, ‘for policy’s sake we must arrange the Queen’s coronation. More and more I hear dissent in London. She is much beloved, your Majesty.’

  ‘And am I not?’ The deep eyes raked Morton’s face. ‘She will be crowned,’ said Henry. ‘When we have finished with Lincoln, Lovell, Lambert Simnel. London shall have their Queen. But first, I will have peace in England! I will have it, and maintain it!’ He struck the arm of his chair, startling Morton and Bray with uncharacteristic passion. ‘I will have a realm that my son can rule with the grace of Uther Pendragon, of Llewellyn the Great. I will have money in my coffers and the adoration of the world. To the ends of the earth my kingdom shall endure. I will it! It shall be so!’

  ‘Amen,’ said Morton softly.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Henry, still strangely violent, ‘read me the conspirators. Nay, I’ll read them myself.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘The lesser fish first – which came within our net this day?’

  There was a pounding on the door, the strident clash of a Yeoman’s pike. Henry called: ‘Enter!’ and a youth came in, and fell in homage. Reynold Bray strode over, raised the prone figure and wagged an admonishing finger.

  ‘You should have waited.’

  ‘Let him come,’ said Henry. ‘Is that for us?’ He pointed to a slender package clutched in the youth’s hand. Wordlessly it was tendered, and the prone position resumed. Under a dusty ray of sun and the red and green banners, Henry opened and read, from a slim sheaf of writing. He smiled, looked up and to the youth said: ‘Come here.’

  Conscious of his need for a change of clothes, for he was still greasy from the shop, Master Ralph moved upwards and forward. His face felt bruised; he wished that Gould had acted out his part with less pith. He stared at the, King, felt Bray behind him with a finger in his ribs to make him stand up straight.