The Lord of Greenwich (The Plantagenets Book 5)

by Juliet Dymoke

  The Lord of Greenwich

  JULIET DYMOKE

  THREE CASTLES MEDIA

  First published in Great Britain in 1980 by Nel Books

  This edition published in 2016 by Three Castles Media Ltd.

  Three Castles Media Ltd

  Copyright © 2016 Juliet Dymoke

  The moral right of Juliet Dymoke to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The main character in this book is a work of fiction and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Other names, characters, businesses, organizations and places are based on actual historical events. In such cases, every effort has been made to make such information as accurate as possible.

  Three Castles Media Ltd hereby exclude all liability to the extent permitted by law for any errors or omissions in this book and for any loss, damage or expense (whether direct or indirect) suffered by a third party relying on any information contained in this book.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Jose and Noel Radford

  CHAPTER ONE

  Humfrey was with his tailor when a page came up the stair to say there was a message from the Prince of Wales.

  'Well?' His eyes were on the book in his hand and not on the new doublet being carefully fitted over his shoulders. 'What does my brother want?'

  'Sir, he says "the Cardinal's Hat" at five of the clock.'

  'Is that all?'

  'Yes, my lord.'

  Humfrey's lips twitched as he nodded to the boy. 'Say I will be there.' How like Harry, he thought. No 'could you' or 'would you', just a summons which Harry was aware would be answered regardless of any commitment. As it happened he had only planned to sup with his household before riding to Essex tomorrow. Since his father had given him Hadleigh Castle he had spent a great deal of time there, less than a mile from the sea where the flat coast, the shifting sands and marshes were alive with birds. He appreciated both the bleak beauty of it and, contrarily, the opportunity to indulge himself far from the criticism of his elders. But he knew Harry's supper parties and the odds were he would not see his bed until God knew what hour, and that would delay his departure tomorrow.

  He laid his book on the table where the tailor's gear was laid out. 'Rubbishy stuff. Why do I bother with French verse?' He directed this remark at a thin young man sitting on a stool and warming his hands by the fire. 'What do you say, Tom?'

  'I've no time for idle reading, sir. My studies occupy my day and our Principal does not approve of wasted daylight.'

  'Old William of Wykeham would be glad to know his New College is so strictly ruled – I think when I was a boy it was he who gave me my love of books. But the dark hours are yours, eh?'

  Beckington gave a half smile. 'I am not much inclined to light pursuits, my lord.'

  'Don't be too serious, Tom. Remember St Augustine. There's no hurry for chastity. Even my reverend uncle had his youthful capers.'

  Beckington looked shocked. 'Not Bishop Beaufort?'

  'Oh indeed. I've a pretty cousin, Joan, who is often to be seen at Winchester House when my uncle is in London, which shows he took St Augustine literally!' Humfrey gave Beckington his swift, brilliant smile and the young scholar thought suddenly that when the Lord Humfrey smiled like that he could win any man to him, and how fortunate he himself was to have attracted the attention of the King's son at Oxford when he came to visit the chancellor, Dean Courtney. They had talked of the writings of the fathers and Humfrey had expressed a wish that such men as Plato and Socrates could be more widely read, a conversation that resulted in this invitation, one which somewhat overwhelmed Master Beckington who came from a modest manor in Hampshire. Last night they had talked until well after midnight and he had been promised a place in the Lord Humfrey's household, in due course when he had finished his studies. He was still too dazzled by this prospect to realize it fully and he gazed with something like awe at the elegant young man so little older than himself.

  Humfrey's own attention was now on the tailor. 'Have you not finished yet, Master Heap?'

  'Nearly, my lord. The purpoint fits you well and as your grace has slender legs this new lacing will hold your hose to the holes below the pleating, a great convenience.'

  Humfrey roared with laughter. 'In more ways than one! What about the sleeves?' He picked one up. Padded and tight to the cuff it was stuffed at the top to give added width. 'Is this because I have slender shoulders too?'

  'No, sir.' The tailor appreciated this sally. 'It is the latest fashion, though indeed I would not say you needed it. And you are young yet, your chest will broaden.'

  'Well, I'm not built like a church tower as my brother John is. I think I like sleeves that widen at the wrist and can be turned back. They could be lined with fur or with some of that cream-coloured sarsenet.'

  'I thought, my lord, as the sleeves may be put in at will you might care to have both.'

  'Very well,' Humfrey agreed, 'I like the colour.'

  'See in the mirror, sir, that blue is the very shade for you,' Master Heap added with the flattery of his trade and his royal patron turned to where the shining steel was set against the wall of his bedchamber. For a moment Humfrey looked at his reflection. The purpoint did indeed sit well. It was embroidered with tiny ostrich plumes, not in clusters but singly as he had chosen for his livery badge when he set up his own household, each quill bearing minute fleur-de-lys along its length. The velvet cloth was of a soft blue-grey, almost the exact colour of his large wide-set eyes. Humfrey was a little above average height, not as tall as John his next brother, but taller than both Harry and Thomas, and at twenty-two he considered himself in full manhood. But it was not easy to be the youngest in a royal nursery and from a childhood spent trying to keep up with his elders he was aware that it would be a constant battle not to be set on one side. Yet Harry cared for him, he thought arrogantly, possibly more than for the other two, and he was seldom excluded from Harry's relaxations when in town.

  'Yes,' he said at last, 'it will do. Pray finish it tonight, Master Heap. I will take it to Hadleigh tomorrow. It becomes me, does it not, Tom?'

  Beckington nodded, but the tailor gave a gasp. 'My lord! There is a great deal more work to do and if you are to have two sets of sleeves –'

  'Oh, if you cannot do it –'

  'Yes, yes, it shall be done, of course.' Master Heap saw his royal client refusing the purpoint, all the labour and expense for nothing and thrown back on his hands, and what was a sleepless night compared to that? He helped Lord Humfrey out of it and packing away his needles and the selection of linings bowed himself out.

  Humfrey called for his body servant, and had himself arrayed in rich bronze satin, the pleated skirts barely reaching his thighs. John Patrick, silent and impassive, had been with Humfrey some two years, and had only one wish in life, that he might remain so for the entire span of it. While Patrick combed the short light brown hair neatly about his lord's face, Humfrey said to Beckington, 'I regret I must leave you to your own devices tonight. Entertain yourself with my books, though I beg you to remember the Dean's injunction not to use them with fingers straight from the dish.'


  Beckington bowed, a faint smile on his face. 'That, sir, I have already learned.'

  With a fur-lined mantle about his shoulders Humfrey went down the stair of his small house in Candlwick Lane near to St Swithin's and out into the March dusk. There was an east wind blowing and as he mounted it caught at the mantle blowing it over his head. 'The Devil's wind,' he said. 'We'll be cold at Hadleigh.'

  His young squire, summoned by an imperious gesture, ran to disentangle it. Elys Foxton was new to Humfrey's service and had been regaled with lurid tales of the goings-on at Hadleigh, and was half-eager, half-fearful as to what he would find there.

  Together they rode up St Swithin's Lane between the close-set houses and into Lombard Street which was thronged with clerks and men of business, the boards of the bankers creaking in the tearing wind. One unfortunate clerk had dropped a bundle of parchments and as the wind seized them, dispersing them about the street, scrabbled wildly first in one direction and then in another. A couple of scavenging dogs yelped excitedly at his heels and Elys could not keep back his laughter. 'Poor wight, he will be in trouble with his master.' He glanced across at his own. 'They say the Lombards wring a man dry with their interest. Isn't that usury, my lord?'

  'It should be, and is in the Church's eyes,' Humfrey answered, 'but they make a living out of men's folly all the same. I advise you to keep clear of them. They have half Italy in their pockets.'

  'You have been there, sir?'

  'Aye, last year.' Humfrey guided his horse clear of a mound of unsavoury rubbish. He had enjoyed Italy, had discovered a whole field of literature unknown in England, and if anything sent him to the Lombards it would be for the means to buy books.

  They turned into a lane that led through to Cornhill and came to some high tenements, the top floors leaning crazily. A woman craned out and before she was aware of the richly dressed rider below she had emptied a pot into the street.

  Humfrey let out one short pithy phrase as he jerked his horse's head backwards and she leaned out further, the empty bucket swinging in her hand.

  'My lord Humfrey! By St Catherine, I'd not have flung my muck had I known 'twas a princeling beneath.'

  'Is it you then, Betty? Strumpet that you are, you should know better than to deluge your customers.'

  She grinned down at him, lounging against the window embrasure, her gown cut low and no linen piece set in to hide her breasts. 'Are you coming up, my lord?'

  'No, though if your aim had been better I'd have made you cleanse me. Lucky for your backside you missed me. But I'm supping with my brother.'

  She pouted her full lips, her eyes running over his familiar figure. 'A pity, my dearest lord. Afterwards?'

  His smile widened, teasing her. 'Maybe. Perhaps we'll all go to Lewis John's.'

  'That whoremonger? His house is a scandal to decent women.'

  He shook with laughter. 'Such indignation sits ill on you, my girl.'

  She tossed her head and withdrew, pulling the shutter close. Still laughing, Humfrey dismounted by a long low building a few yards beyond, knowing he might find her door open any time he chose. The sign swung in the wind, a cardinal's scarlet headgear painted crudely on a vivid green ground, and entering under it he found the tavern crammed as usual with Londoners: merchants talking business, apprentices spending a whole evening over the one pot of ale they could afford, sailors from the wharves, Spaniards and Italians, others darker-skinned from the east.

  He caught sight of the harassed landlord and raised an eyebrow. 'Over there, my lord.' The man bowed low and indicated a far corner where a standing beam made an alcove.

  It was Harry's usual place and Humfrey pushed his way through the noisy crowd, smacking one girl's rump to clear a path, setting a hand on a city merchant's shoulder to request his room, twisting a sailor out of the way, but all in so easy a manner that no one objected.

  Elys Foxton, having tied up the horses, had followed his master in and in the absence of any explicit order wondered what he was supposed to do. None of the noble gentlemen in the corner had servants in immediate attendance and though Elys saw two squires wearing the white swan badge favoured by the Prince of Wales he did not know them. He sat down rather disconsolately on the end of a bench wondering if he had enough money to pay for his supper.

  As Humfrey came up to the table he saw that his brother had a frown on his fine even-featured face while John, his large body squeezed into a small space under the lattice window was listening quietly to a passionate outburst. Several of Harry's friends were there: Arundel recently back from France, red-haired and lively; Henry Scrope, Lord of Masham, small and dark and as tense as a coiled spring; both leaning on the table opposite the Prince; while a fair man with a weak mouth had one arm along the back of the tall bench where he sat, listening to Harry with a slightly mocking smile on his face. He was the king's cousin, Richard, Earl of Cambridge, brother to the Duke of York, and Humfrey slid into the seat beside him.

  Harry paused briefly to nod to his youngest brother and indicated a jug. Humfrey poured himself a cup of ozey. It was warm and sweet and welcome after the cold outside, and he drank half his cupful before speaking. 'Well? Is it a wake or are we to have a pleasant evening? Why the summons and the long face, Harry? Has our uncle annoyed you that you chose this place?'

  Richard laughed but Harry said, 'I don't know why you should assume that. I find Uncle Henry a man with infinitely more sense than the whole of father's present Council put together. No, it is Archbishop Arundel.'

  'What has he done now?'

  'When is he not doing something tiresome?' the Earl of Arundel countered with small respect for his elder relative. 'I'll not forgive him for trying to keep his greedy fingers on that Sussex manor of mine,' and even John said soberly, 'He goes too far.'

  'Won't someone tell me?' Humfrey drank some more ozey and refilled his cup. 'Are we to eat here?'

  'Eat? Oh yes, I've ordered supper,' the Prince said in the manner of one to whom eating was a necessary but time-wasting business, and Humfrey saw that he was not in a rollicking mood and would need to be coaxed if the evening was to end satisfactorily. For the moment however he leaned back and waited.

  'I'll tell you what he has done,' Harry went on. 'He has had the impertinence to tell the Council that no more money should be voted to me for a campaign in Wales. As if I was thinking about Wales! No, it is other fish I mean to fry and the Archbishop talks to the King as if I was an unfledged yellowbeak not fit to be trusted. Saving your presence, Tom, he had made himself my enemy.'

  Arundel shrugged. 'I don't blame you, sir. I pity the Council. My uncle's tedious sermons near make me die of boredom. No wonder the scholars at Oxford shut him out of their church.'

  'He should leave Dean Courtney to rule Oxford and keep his nose out of University affairs,' Humfrey said and under cover of supper being served asked John, 'Why is he so obsessed? There's nothing new in all this?'

  'It is only that he has large designs in mind,' John said, 'for which it seems Uncle Henry is willing to make him yet another loan.' He surveyed his younger brother. 'I can see where you spend your money. Who made you that doublet? You have a talent for finding the best tailors in London.'

  'It was Master Heap of West Chepe.' Humfrey smoothed the velvet. 'I think I had better send him to see Harry. A new purpoint would not come amiss for him.'

  'You'd better not mention tailors to him,' John advised. 'God knows that poor little wretch Badby was a heretic but Harry tried to save him. He's fierce enough against the Lollards but he'd rather see a man recant than burn and he can't forget how some fool threw Badby's needles and thread and a roll of cloth on the fire with him.'

  'The Lollards make a stir to no purpose,' Humfrey said. 'Harry should warn John Oldcastle – I see he's not here tonight – not to take their wild ideas into his head. He was talking the other day in a manner that would have raised Archbishop Arundel's hair, if he had any.' He paused to reach for his cup and became aware of intense dark eye
s staring at him. Henry Scrope was, like Harry, a close friend of Oldcastle's, and Humfrey wondered what he was thinking. It was unlikely he would give himself away but Humfrey succumbed to the temptation to try. 'I'm sure,' he said with studied innocence, 'that Master Wycliff would have disowned half the fellows that profess to be following in his steps.'

  'You don't know what you are talking about.' Lord Scrope was cool, non-committal. 'Have you read any of his writings?'

  Humfrey smiled. Did Scrope hope to catch him like that? 'Of course, but I would rather fill my head with Dante's noble verse. In fact I would commend him to any man dabbling in heresy before they stray into the dark forest he describes so well and which leads to the city of woe.'

  'Oh,' Cambridge broke in rather petulantly, 'are we to have another lecture? Since you went into Italy, Humfrey, you think you have the answer to everything. I should have thought three popes in Christendom enough to make heretics.'

  'Of course that is a scandal,' Harry interrupted, 'but all the more reason for loyalty to Holy Church. The house will be put in order soon. Dean Courtney is to attend the Council in Pavia and he has great hopes.'

  Henry Scrope said, 'Perhaps,' and helped himself to a pasty.

  'For God's love,' Arundel broke in, 'are we here to dispute Church matters or to enjoy ourselves?' He was soon deep in discussion with Richard of Cambridge, concerning the joust to take place at Smithfield the next week and laying bets on the participants. Humfrey shifted along his seat until he was nearer to his eldest brother. 'What is on your mind, Harry?'

  The Prince of Wales leaned forward. 'France is on my mind and Gascony and Aquitaine, our Plantagenet lands, the wine trade from Bordeaux, the rich acres of Normandy, that is what is on my mind. It is time and more that we redeemed what has been lost.'

  'Father will never agree to open warfare.'