INDIFFERENT HEROES

by MARY HOCKING

  ‘Our thoughts could scarcely be more in accord,’ Richard said drily.

  ‘I swear life is almost too easy for a man such as you!’ Buckingham exclaimed. ‘You have no ambition and intrigue must, therefore, be unknown to you; your tastes are austere,’ he re-charged Rivers’ glass, ‘your desire’s so stern you would prefer to mortify the flesh rather than to satisfy its lusts. Your very presence is a rebuke to such as I, who have enjoyed the food which you have tonight eaten with the utmost reluctance. Your purity condemns my weakness, you make my faults the blacker. This is not kind. Rather than go on a pilgrimage, I think you should do penance for so shaming lesser men by your virtue.’

  ‘I have been no stranger to vice,’ Rivers assured him a trifle querulously. He began to recount incidents from his past to show that whatever else he might be, he was no prude.

  It was after midnight when he left them. They watched him ride away, the sparks flying round his horse’s hooves.

  ‘Who is this man?’ Buckingham said. ‘Is he a soldier, a scholar, an artist, a religious? It seems he scarcely knows himself! You seek his counsel and he will give you an account of the binding of a book; you look to him for stern judgement, he will be exquisite; he dines well, yet when you seek him as a companion he will fast! You talk to him of purity and he becomes bawdy. Above all, when you look for him at your side in danger, you will find him lost in meditation.’

  ‘He should not be denied the opportunity for meditation.’ Richard turned away from the window to where a group of their more trusted followers awaited them. ‘I shall give him much to think on.’

  ‘But beware!’ Buckingham joined the group, dominating it by the liveliness of his personality as much as by virtue of his rank. ‘If he meditates for long it is extraordinary how his thoughts turn from things holy to schemes of a baser kind.’

  ‘What think you?’ Richard turned to Kendall, whose judgement of men he respected.

  ‘I doubt that you have much to fear from Lord Rivers. He is the kind of man who would never be resolute for fear of being thought rash.’

  ‘Aye, that may well be so,’ Buckingham intervened. ‘I too doubt whether on his own he is capable of action. The danger lies in his joining forces with those who can put him to good use.’

  ‘Is such a man good for any purpose?’ Richard looked at Buckingham.

  ‘He has young Edward’s confidence. I hear much of this for, whether I wish it or not, I have my wife’s confidence and have to listen to endless talk about the Queen and her brothers. And if one thing is certain, it is that it will take more to wean the young King from Rivers than ever it took to take him from his mother’s breast.’

  Buckingham did not seek to temper his dislike of Rivers with a pretence of reasonableness; but he spoke with a passionate conviction which was irresistible. Richard, watching him as he argued, thought that here was a man who had qualities which he himself did not possess; together, they would be eloquent, zealous, wise and resolute. He could have stormed London, there was something so wild in the air that night! The fate of Rivers seemed unimportant and Richard ended the talk abruptly by announcing that Rivers was to be arrested in the morning. Buckingham applauded. This was his first cause and he was resolved to give himself to it with all his heart. To Richard, it was the only cause. They were close to each other at this time.

  Although Richard agreed to see Rivers the next morning, nothing that the Earl could say was of any avail. Richard knew that he was fighting for his own survival and a strong gesture was needed to show the Queen that the Protector had every intention of assuming power.

  The first who must learn this lesson was the young King, who now awaited them at Stony Stratford. The boy greeted his uncle and the Duke of Buckingham quietly, his pale, thin face looking chilled in the spiteful April wind. He asked repeatedly after Rivers and did not seem much comforted when it was explained to him that from hence he would be guided by his uncle.

  ‘A poor, queasy boy,’ Buckingham said.

  ‘No doubt he will grow stronger,’ Richard replied somewhat brusquely, being reminded of his own delicate son.

  As they set out for London, Richard settled himself more easily in the saddle. He had taken a step of some consequence but had no regrets; whatever else might one day lie on his conscience, it would not be the fate of Rivers. This was no time for temporizing when he who moved first might gain all. He began to discuss plans for the future with Buckingham.

  ‘Hastings grows impatient and fears conspiracy.’

  ‘Hastings has done you good service.’ Buckingham’s voice lacked its customary enthusiasm.

  Richard said, ‘I need friends in London. Things have never gone well for me there.’ He had no illusion that the man who had been so close to Edward would serve his brother as faithfully: whatever Hastings’ feelings for Edward had been, they were not of the kind which can be transferred to another. Nevertheless, he owed much to Hastings and must put his doubts aside for the time being.

  3

  Two pigeons on the ridge of the stable roof were performing an elaborate courtship. It was a surprisingly intricate ritual and Henry, Earl of Richmond, observed it thoughtfully because he had nothing else to do at that moment. The footwork seemed to follow a pattern, three steps forward, a bow of the head, three steps forward, another bow, then a return to the original position; while the female perched with downcast head, her beady eyes fixed on a patch of moss a pecking distance away. Finally, goaded by this lack of interest, the male jumped up and perched on her back, a manoeuvre which she accepted with complete unconcern. This, however, appeared not to be the consummation, for the male then returned to his original position and began to step neatly forward again, while his chosen partner raised her head and gazed towards a distant birch tree. Henry said over his shoulder to Robin Prithie, who had come in bearing a tray, ‘Even the pigeons know that something strange is abroad.’

  ‘Something strange?’

  ‘It is spring.’ Henry turned from the window, amused by the concern in Robin’s voice. ‘That season about which the poets have so much to say. The drumming in the blood . . .’

  ‘Why, yes . . .’ Robin seemed unable to pick up the thread of Henry’s discourse. Yet who, Henry thought, should know more of spring than my spritely Robin, this devil-may-care green shoot, this wicked thrust that prises open the clenched bud, that cuts the knotted weeds and plays havoc with the stagnant water? Even now, in this dull room, the light singled him out and quivered around him as he moved to set the tray down on the table. Henry seated himself and picked up the knife, then paused, the knife poised above the plate. ‘I think that perhaps the coming of spring should be celebrated in some small way.’ He wondered whether he should send for wine; last week the wine had given him stomach ache and he had drunk water since then, but the water often had a bad effect and did not taste as pleasant as the wine.

  ‘You should indeed celebrate!’ Robin was as fussed as a nurse whose charge shows signs of becoming petulant. ‘Will you but eat this now, and I will see that you are provided with more substantial fare tonight. With roast ox and venison, perhaps salmon . . .’

  Roast ox and venison! Henry felt his stomach distend. Robin was talking about pigeon and swan now. He knew that Henry was not apt to gorge himself, yet there was no humour in his manner. Some lack of nerve prompted this agitated chatter. Henry put the knife down slowly; he felt as though a great hole had been opened in his body and that although he was surprised, he had nevertheless always known that one day this would happen. He stared at the fish. He had not eaten any of it; yet his body told him he had already suffered a terrible injury. He pushed at the fish with the point of his knife; out of the corner of his eye he saw that Robin, who had now become silent, was watching him closely. Beyond, the ripple of water in sunlight was reflected on the stone arch of the window, like gentle, mellow flames of light. I have never trusted him Henry thought, so why is the pain so bad? Is there some indulgence more dangerous than trust which I hav
e unwittingly permitted myself? He speared a piece of fish and saw a flash of relief light up Robin’s face.

  ‘And you will bring me roast ox and venison tonight?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Roast ox and venison! Did I say that?’ Robin laughed.

  ‘And pigeon and salmon. Indeed, we are celebrating!’

  ‘My wits must have been wandering.’

  They both laughed. Then Henry extended the knife with the speared fish towards Robin. The liveliness drained from the impudent face, leaving it dun-coloured and unwholesome.

  ‘I have already tasted it.’ Robin’s mouth was so dry he could scarcely speak.

  ‘I am not concerned about poison.’ In truth, Henry cared so little he was tempted to eat rather than make the effort to speak lightly. ‘But that fish we had last week did not agree with me. I should like to know if this is the same; you remember, we commented that it was uncommonly oily. An unmistakable flavour.’

  Robin’s tongue flicked across his dry lips. ‘I had forgotten.’ His voice was shaking. ‘It is the same, I particularly noticed the flavour. I had forgotten . . . I will take it away.’

  There was silence. Henry looked at him and Robin stared at the knife with the piece of fish on it as at a sword pointed at his stomach.

  Henry said, ‘Yes. Take it away.’ He put the knife down on the plate. Robin moved forward, his head bent, and reached for the plate; a hand came down and gripped his wrist. Robin fell clumsily to his knees. Henry was not a strong man, but the grip on the wrist made Robin moan with pain. Henry looked at the dark head with its strong, black curls and it seemed that it was he and not Robin who was moaning. But moaning is a ritual lamentation: this pain needed tongues of fire. Henry’s face was grey, its withered lips parted slightly; as he twisted Robin’s wrist so Robin began to scream and when the wrist was broken he screamed the more unrestrainedly so that he who had given so little at least now gave to Henry the sound of his own pain. It was only when the door was flung open by his uncle that Henry let go of Robin.

  ‘Dear God, what has happened?’Jasper summoned others to his aid.

  ‘I don’t like the fish.’ Henry turned his ravaged face from them. ‘Send him about his business and see that he finds something more to my liking this evening.’

  Robin was dragged half-senseless from the room.

  Henry was not given to violence and this scene would at any other time have aroused some concern; but Jasper had news which could not wait the telling. ‘King Edward is dead.’

  Henry said, ‘Is he indeed.’ He laid his hand on his thigh, clenching and unclenching it to relieve the cramp in his fingers.

  They crowded around him. The room seemed full of people bearing down on him, saying that if he did this and that, he might one day be King of England. He who had ridden with the Welshmen past hooded mountain peaks, who one summer afternoon had come upon Robin Goodfellow riding out of the mist, he might, they said, be King of England. It seemed a very little thing. When he couldn’t bear their talk any longer, he said, ‘That fish . . .’ He pressed a hand to his stomach. ‘. . . it is burning inside me . . .’

  ‘I thought you hadn’t eaten any of it,’ his uncle said sharply.

  ‘A little . . .’ He closed his eyes. ‘I ate a little, but not enough . . .’ He got heavily to his feet and then, registering at last the full extent of their dismay, added, ‘not enough to do me any harm.’

  ‘This worrying about food will do you harm!’ his uncle said angrily.

  ‘Edward died of over-eating, so you have just told me.’ Henry recovered himself because he saw that he must. ‘A fate I an unlikely to suffer.’

  ‘The important fact is that Edward is dead,’ Jasper snapped.

  ‘And his son?’ Henry turned on him, spitting words out angrily to the surprise of the onlookers who had never seen him show anything but respect for his uncle. ‘How old is the young Edward? Eleven? And am I to expect that he, too, will shortly die of a surfeit of good food and wine? If not, what profits it me that Edward is dead?’ He turned and walked away, the sleeve of his gown catching the remaining dishes on the table and sweeping them to the floor. ‘What cause have I for rejoicing?’

  ‘There are many in England who will not be pleased by the prospect of a long minority.’

  ‘Why should they look to me in their displeasure?’

  ‘When they are dissatisfied with the Yorkists, they will look to the House of Lancaster.’

  ‘And when the House of Lancaster no longer pleases them, they will turn again to the House of York. No!’ He held up a hand as his uncle began to speak. ‘No!’ He faced them, standing at a distance which something in his manner warned that none should seek to lessen. ‘This game that they play with kings does not please me. Before I take part in this game, I shall need to be very sure that it is worth the winning.’

  ‘While you remain here what can you hope to gain?’

  ‘Gain? It is for others to lose. I can wait.’

  ‘And while you are waiting . . .’

  ‘I shall be well-informed while I am waiting.’

  ‘There is a limit to what my spies can do,’ Jasper said dourly.

  ‘But I have spies, too; did you know that? One of them has just tried to poison me.’

  At first they were disbelieving, but the authority of his manner finally convinced them. Then they must have it that Robin should first be put to the torture and then disposed of.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Henry answered wearily. ‘It is unwise to ill-use enemies. There are too many.’

  ‘This is madness!’

  Henry shook his head. ‘One must accept one’s enemies. Once they are known, they can be turned to some account. This young man has his uses. I have not eaten the food he has prepared for me; but he shall eat the food I prepare for him.’

  And so, Robin was fed with such tales about Henry’s movements as it was deemed expedient should reach the ears of Henry’s enemies and confuse them.

  Henry had learnt his lesson. He would never again be surprised by the treachery of his fellow men, though he would sometimes grow weary of it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Autumn 1943-May 1944

  Guy had thought of the landings in Italy as being a joyful event. The Italians had recently surrendered and he saw himself as a liberator, which roused everything in him that was chivalrous. He envisaged (even as he advised his men against such expectations) a warm welcome. The Italians would take the Allies to their hearts. It was the high point of his Army life, its meaning made clear. Evil was vanquished and he had played his modest part.

  A warm welcome had indeed awaited those who landed at Salerno. The Germans had mown men down on the beaches, and the attitude of the Italians to the Allies was no different from that of any other people who find that their land has become a battlefield. Reinforcements were urgently needed, and as the Eighth Army advanced up the toe of Italy with desperate speed, it became apparent even to Guy that all was not well.

  He had never been conscious during his long war service – at Dunkirk and in the desert – of any strain involved in keeping his illusions intact. He had also remained remarkably fit. Yet now, engaged in this grim race, he felt he had been struggling for too long.

  He was back in Europe and closer in spirit to England than he had been for several years. Yet he was uneasy. It was as though he carried within him a precious potion which must be delivered safe at home without one drop being spilt; and only now, in the manner of all good fables, did the tension begin to tell, his feet to stumble.

  It was partly the fact of the countryside being so at odds with the war that undermined him. Whenever they rested, it was as if the clockwork machinery of army life had run down. When they set off again, it became more and more difficult to get back into the military rhythm. He did not want to go on. He was seized with the most dreadful lethargy and found it difficult to think clearly. He wondered whether he had sleeping sickness (about which he knew very little) and almost hoped it might be so.r />
  He was so tired, that was the trouble. He was so terribly tired. He had seen dreadful things happen to men in the desert; perhaps this had sapped some vital energy from him without his being aware of it. Yet, at the time, the desert had seemed to have healing properties. Beneath that wide, stupendous sky, he had been freed from some unacknowledged constraint which had always held him prisoner.

  Things were different here. The countryside exercised a fascination for him. It was a landscape of passionate contrasts: strong light and deep shade; richness of colour, harshness of contour; poverty of soil, yet people deeply rooted in the land, the precariousness of their existence seeming to have called forth a tradition of great strength. It was a place which knew nothing of the compromises which had turned Guy into the quiet, moderate man he was. Sometimes, in his bewilderment, he wondered what it was he had moderated. Here, he felt irrelevant – not in the manner of a stranger, but as a human being.

  The people watched the troops going through their countryside without a great deal of interest, then turned back to their work in the fields as though the war was an aberration already forgotten. At times, Guy wished he had spent the war there, where they worked in the fields. He wished he had deserted, all that time ago in France, and worked his way to some such place as this. It was a very poor life, he could see that; but it had a continuity. He was a townsman, had not put down roots anywhere, had no sense of family stretching beyond mother and father. He had no strong feeling of attachment to Holland Park or Shepherd’s Bush, or even London. His childhood had been centred in the small suburban house of his parents; his adult life was centred in Louise and the children. Suddenly, it did not seem enough. There was nothing strong enough to protect him from this terrible weariness. It was not just the war which was called in question: the framework of his life had been too small. Daily, terrifyingly, the feeling of his own irrelevance grew upon him.

  Daphne Drummond married Peter Kelleher at the end of October. It was just over a year since their first meeting, and they had been lovers for most of that time. Louise was surprised they should decide to marry. Daphne had seemed unconcerned about marriage. It was Kelleher, apparently, who had strong feelings on the subject. Ivor said that he liked to have his possessions registered in his own name. Ivor could be sharp, even malicious. Not a reliable friend, perhaps. But whatever Kelleher’s feelings, he had not reckoned with the fact that Daphne would be inconsistent enough to insist that, if she was to be married, then she would not line up in a registry office alongside the pregnant girls in a hurry to make sure of their GIs. Kelleher had loved her courage and been attracted by her boldness, but in his heart he preferred a woman to be submissive. Daphne, who was sure that in him she had found the only man she would ever love, took care to meet his demands on every aspect of the ceremony, other than its venue. There were three witnesses in the church: Mrs Drummond, Ivor as best man, and Louise as matron of honour, in Alice’s stead. Daphne was loyal to her friends. As he looked at Louise, standing beside Daphne, Peter Kelleher wondered about the absent Alice. He hoped she would not intrude in any way into his life with Daphne. Perhaps the debt to friendship might be honoured if they took her out to dinner once when she returned to England?