The Lord of Greenwich (The Plantagenets Book 5)

by Juliet Dymoke

Harry threw down his knife. 'Not while Archbishop Arundel rules the Council, but he is old now and the King is sick.' Since their estrangement Harry never referred to his father other than as 'the King'. 'I suppose I can wait my day, but it turns my stomach to have a Council of aged men ruling England. They have forgotten our days of greatness.'

  'Our brother is on the Council and he isn't old.'

  'Thomas always takes the King's part against Uncle Henry and myself.' The tavern had become even more crowded now and Harry lowered his voice. 'God knows why he should do so, but it is damned annoying.'

  'He wishes himself in your shoes,' Humfrey plunged his knife into a bowl and speared a piece of meat. The sauce was of ginger and cinnamon and spices and had a hot pungent taste. 'Thomas,' he pronounced, 'needs to win favour again. He upset everyone by marrying Uncle John Beaufort's widow and everyone knows their wedding night was not the first they'd spent together. It would be scandalous if it wasn't so funny. He is quite besotted with love for her and now she is his wife and his aunt: at one and the same time. I wonder do we call her Aunt Margaret or Sister-in-law Margaret?'

  Harry's frown had gone. 'By Our Lady, I'd not thought of that! Well, Thomas is out of the marriage market and out of the country as well for the moment. He at least is eager for war with France. He quitted himself well with me in Wales and I can forgive him much for that.'

  'My cousin the King,' Cambridge threw his denuded capon bone onto the far from clean floor, 'is more concerned to make peace by careful marriage than by war. I'm surprised he allowed Thomas to marry the Duchess of Somerset.'

  'It would have been worse had he not,' Harry said and John added, 'Thomas has always been the favourite, though Father gives more to Humfrey.'

  'That's because I'm the youngest,' Humfrey retorted. 'It is always the way. But we don't find much to say to each other. Father doesn't care for my pleasures.'

  'No,' John agreed. 'I never heard he ever took a mistress.'

  'You are right, my sober brother,' and Humfrey added in sudden aversion, 'In any case it is no longer pleasant to visit his chamber. Whatever the surgeons say I swear he has what our Scottish captive calls "the mickly ail".'

  'Leprosy?' Cambridge shuddered. 'Surely not? I heard that the Queen made the doctors swear on a holy relic that it was not, that she was in no danger if she went to him.'

  'Some say it is the Archbishop's bane,' the Earl of Arundel remarked and an odd silence fell. Every man there knew that since King Henry had allowed the Archbishop of York to be beheaded for his part in the rising of 1405 his conscience had been uneasy and his health had deteriorated.

  Henry Scrope, nephew to the executed prelate, stared down at his hunk of bread soaked in gravy and began meticulously to cut it in small squares.

  Cambridge gave an uneasy laugh. 'Whatever his grace's malady I'll not go near.'

  'No.' Harry roused himself. 'You'd hate your beauty to be spoiled, Richard. What is more important is that my lord Archbishop writes to me of the King's designs for us – myself, John, Humfrey – to make advantageous marriages for peace. I tell you I'll have war before I have wedlock.'

  'Oh,' Humfrey said negligently, 'he's dangled us for long enough like lures before flapping herons.'

  'The crowned heads of Europe are not all to be compared with the most cowardly of birds,' John reproved him. 'Your arrogance does not sit well at times, brother. '

  'Nor your lack of humour,' Humfrey retorted.

  'Wit is folly unless a wise man hath the keeping of it, or so the writer of Proverbs tells us.'

  'Therefore because I am wise I must have wit as well,' John grinned at him. 'But Harry's concerned with France and the French King has neither.'

  'France is ruled by a madman and a whore,' the Earl of Cambridge interrupted scathingly but Harry pursued his own thoughts as if he had not heard.

  'With Orléans and Burgundy at each other's throats we stand to gain much by taking our chivalry to Normandy.' He leaned forward, his brown eyes eager, a magnetism about him that was catching. 'Are we to forget what our great-uncle Edward won at Crecy and Poitiers? I am sure the French have not forgotten the Prince Noir. Burgundy is for me; he hates King Charles, and Queen lsabeau does not win the love of her subjects.'

  Humfrey laughed. 'Oh, of a few of them from what I hear. It is not the King who is most often in her bedchamber.'

  'Royal scandal may work for us,' John said. 'And what warfare I have seen as warden of the borders has given me a taste for campaigning. Knighthood isn't for sitting idle at home and sporting with hollow lances. When the time comes you will win back our heritage, Harry.'

  Cambridge gave his high-pitched laugh. 'Our heritage? A convenient word. It applies to all of us who have the blood royal and to some more than others.'

  Humfrey gave him a sharp glance. He had never cared for Richard whom he considered two-faced and he wondered now exactly what his cousin was thinking. Nor was it like Harry to be so solemn, his long face wearing a brooding expression. Many a wild evening they had shared and it was Harry's boast that there was not an inn in Southwark that they had not graced with their mad japes, drinking into the small hours, chasing female company, singing and laughing on their way home and causing honest citizens to wake and peer from their shutters. When Harry clattered through the city followed by his train there was always vociferous cheering, flowers thrown at his feet in summer, his popularity contrasting with the uneasy silence broken only by a few respectful 'God save you, sir's, that greeted King Henry their father when he rode by. And when the King had first been ill and Harry had ruled the Council, dismissing the Archbishop, things had gone well in England, only to change drastically when the King recovered and reinstated Archbishop Arundel. Since then Harry had not been summoned to a Council meeting and Humfrey understood his frustration now.

  'God's Body, but we're serious tonight,' he said at last. 'Where's that cursed pot-boy? Here, you, bring me more wine, and tell that fellow to lend me his lute. Why, 'tis Master Hoccleve! I might have known that you'd bob up whatever tavern we're in.'

  A young man detached himself from a group of others, all rather drunk, and came over, his instrument slung across his shoulders.

  'My lord,' he bowed very low, 'I saw you in Lombard Street and followed you here as a fly follows the honey. I thought I might have the chance to beguile you with my verses.' He spoke in an obsequious tone, his plump face flushed, his white fingers itching to be at his lute.

  'Rogue,' Humfrey said, 'you spend more time in taverns than at your desk. Come, sir clerk, give me the lute. I'll sing you all a song that will change your mood.' He plucked at the strings and began:

  'Love's a lottery, mars your luck or gives you pleasures gay,

  Love is lecherous, love is loose and likely to betray,

  Love's a tyrant here on earth, not easy to gainsay,

  Love throughout this land of ours sends faithful ones astray.'

  'I know that,' Harry broke in and catching at the instrument continued the tune with more expert fingers until the whole tavern was roaring out the chorus,

  'Love is weal and love is woe, in gladness can maintain us,

  Love is life and love is death, and love can well sustain us.'

  Even the grave Henry Scrope joined in and as the wine was poured the evening proceeded more as Humfrey had expected. The ozey went to his head, Harry pushed his mood and his anxieties aside, Richard of Cambridge forgot his lady and their new-born son and pulled one of the serving girls on to his knee, his hand fumbling in her dress, while John, singing in a deep rich voice complemented Harry's lighter tones. Arundel got up and wandering unsteadily about the crowded room, seized a girl from another man's lap and brought her back, kicking and yelling, but half in pleasure, across his shoulder. There was a roar of laughter and Humfrey was about to search for similar diversion when the man robbed of his girl sprang up with a shout of 'Swineshead!' It was unfortunate that he was wearing Archbishop Arundel's livery for he had not perceived who it was he was ch
asing. He made a grab at the girl and as he did so, Harry shouted, 'No surrender! Let the Archbishop look to his own.'

  The Earl gave a bellow of laughter and at that the man's friends scrambled to join him. Humfrey thrust out a long leg to trip one up and in a few minutes the place was in an uproar. The princes were all three well able to defend themselves. Arundel tipped his burden on to the floor and flung himself into the brawl and even the effeminate Cambridge seized one slobbering drunkard who was lurching about not sure whom he was fighting and banged his head against the wall. Arundel's men were yelling with fury and Elys Foxton sprang up to tackle one, only to be thrown out bodily into the street where he lay groaning and nursing his head. Humfrey plunged after his attacker and the whole fighting mob gradually found itself out in the dark March night, the wind rocking the compulsory lanterns by each door. The landlord was already running down the road yelling for the law.

  Humfrey was using his fists indiscriminately and saw his brother John holding two fellows one under each strong arm for a second or two before banging their heads together so that both fell unconscious at his feet. Humfrey bellowed with laughter while Harry was engaged in wrestling with the man who had started the affair, both of them rolling in the kennel and covered with mud. Windows had opened and then a shout went up, 'The Sheriff’s men!'

  Still laughing Humfrey gave one leap and swung himself up onto the ale stake that stuck out over the street, dislodging the usual bunch of leaves, and lying along it hooked his legs over the end. From this vantage point, laughing so much that he nearly fell off, he saw the landlord pelting back with a sheriff and several men. 'Sa! Sa! c'y avant!' he yelled the hunting cry and the confusion grew with some of the lesser men scrambling up and diving into the oblivion of a dark alley while others grovelled on the ground looking for lost hats or nursing bruises. The combatants were separated and when the sheriff saw the Prince of Wales and the Lord John a resigned look came over his face. He had listened before to the Prince's glib explanations and sternly he sent the other breathless and muddied participants away with an injunction to go to their beds and cause no more disturbance. Then he surveyed those still lying in the street but no one seemed seriously hurt and he turned to the Princes.

  'My lords, indeed this is not seemly. I have on other occasions had to ask you, in the strongest terms –' but he got no further in this reproving strain for Humfrey fell off his perch and tumbled the sheriff into the mud.

  Almost speechless with mirth Harry helped him up, trying to soothe his upset dignity and assuring him that the Lord Humfrey had meant no harm, promising that they would all go home.

  'It is the Clink that should serve you, my young lords,' the sheriff retorted tartly. He had been about to get into his bed when roused and if it had not been the King's sons concerned would have sent his deputy for he was tired of young bloods disturbing the city at night.

  'But you would not so use us,' Harry said and turned his brilliant smile on the weary man. 'A little roistering never hurt anyone.'

  Against that sudden and overwhelming charm the sheriff was not proof. 'Well, well, I daresay – but this time – I ask you to curb your spirits, my lords, if you please. The good citizens who have to rise with the dawn have been woken in their beds.'

  Humfrey had picked himself up and at the last word began to sing again, 'Oh love is soft and love is sweet –'

  'I'll take him away,' Harry said hastily and tucked his arm into his brother's, and with Arundel sporting a bleeding lip, Cambridge grumbling about his torn doublet and Henry Scrope rubbing his fingers which had come into contact with a hard unshaven chin, called for their horses. The sheriff cleared the street of the last of the combatants and disappeared into the darkness, wondering whether it was worth approaching one of the city justices. He thought of Harry's smile, remembered his own youth, and went back to his house and his warm bed.

  Left alone with his brothers, their attendants who had conducted their own part of the fight inside waiting at a distance, Harry said, 'Jesu, I've not laughed so much for a long time. You'd best come with John and me to Coldharbour, Humfrey.'

  'Not I,' Humfrey retorted. 'I've a mind for softer company. What ho, Betty! Do you sleep! No, I swear not through all this racket.'

  'Hush, for God's sake,' John expostulated. 'Do you want the Sheriff back?'

  'I want Betty,' Humfrey retorted. ' "Love's a stern and valiant knight, strong astride a steed . . ."' he relapsed into gibbles and glancing up at the window saw it open, a candle flame flickering. 'Ah, there she is! I'm coming, wench.

  He rattled the door of the tenement and then setting his shoulder against it found it was not locked after all and plunged headfirst into the dark court, tumbling over a cat asleep on the step. It sprang away, screeching and he picked himself up between cursing and more laughter and stumbled up the stairs, Harry's injunction not to fall off his midden following him into the blackness.

  The Prince and his companions mounted and rode away. Elys Foxton, bewildered and aware that he was rapidly developing a black eye, led his master's horse and his own into the stable and curled himself up for a cold night in the hay, for that he would see his master before dawn he did not think likely.

  Up the dark stair Humfrey tripped several times but at last found himself at Betty's door which was open for him. She lay in bed, the sheet only as far as her waist, bare breasts exposed, her long hair spread, her eyes eager, a little smile on her mouth.

  'I told you,' he said thickly, 'I told you I'd come.'

  'And now the whole street knows it,' she agreed. 'What a garboil you caused below.'

  'Not I! Some damned fellow in the Archbishop's household. He grudged his wench to my lord of Arundel.'

  'What a jack-eater,' she said mockingly. 'I'll warrant he's not got her now.'

  'We sent him about his business,' Humfrey agreed. He felt warm, exhilarated, inebriated by the wine and the fight and when he had thrown off his clothes he stood stretching and flexing his muscles.

  'Oh be done,' Betty was laughing at him. 'You are a fine young man, my lord, as I've allowed before, but I'd as lief you were in my bed as capering at the end of it.'

  He gave a leap and landed beside her, kicking off the covers and she said, 'Cocks bones, would you freeze me?'

  His mouth was on hers, his hands at her. 'Am I not hot enough to cover you, sweeting?'

  'Oh, lully, lully,' she muttered. 'I never had so lusty a lover as you, my princeling.'

  Slowly consciousness returned and he became aware of a stale taste in his mouth, of bright sunlight that hurt his eyes, of a head that might feel better for a dowsing under the pump. He put out his arm for the warm body that had lain beside him last night but encountered nothing and he opened his eyes again. The light was hard on dirty white­washed walls, the plaster cracked and fallen in places, the room frowsty, his clothes lying untidy on a chest. It would have not occurred to Betty to pick them up he thought, and groaning rolled away from the light. Lord, but it had been a riotous evening. And where was Betty? Didn't she know by now he always woke with a mouth like the bark of a tree?

  At that moment she came in with a jug of fresh milk brought from the vendor below, but there was a worried look on her face.

  'What is it?' he asked and reaching for the jug sat up to drink greedily. From outside he could hear the busy sounds of the city, bells ringing, street traders calling their wares, apprentices yelling, and he put his hand to his head. 'God save us, what a din. Is the sheriff back for me then?'

  She shook her head. 'No, but there's a man below. He says he is your brother.'

  'Harry? Here? He leaned back lazily, the jug still in his hand.

  'No, my lord, for I've seen him many a time.' It was John who came in, stooping his head to enter the low door, then towering over the end of the bed.

  Humfrey stared up at him, 'What ails you this morning that you must needs pull me from my bed? Are we to be hauled before Justice Gascoigne after all?' And then he stopped for he saw the
gravity on John's hawk-nosed face.

  'It is the King our father,' John said. 'Get up and dress at once and come with me. He is dying.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  The room was dark, the air heavy, when Humfrey entered, his face glowing with the crisp cold air of the spring day. The oppression, the stench of death, were already there. For a moment he could see little, only hear the low drone of prayers from a score of monks on their knees. He had not before been in this particular chamber of the abbey and the coldness of it, the grey arched ceiling, the hastily arranged bed, with the crown laid on a cushion beside it sent a chill through him. Other men were there, his father's cousin Edward Duke of York with tears running down his plump ageing face, the elderly Earl of Westmorland leaning against a wall to ease his lame leg, and Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, his long face grave, his forehead creased as always.

  By the bed Harry stood with his arms folded, his eyes on the father whom he had respected but for whom he had felt little affection of late. They had not understood each other at all, Humfrey thought, and glanced at his eldest brother, a query in the look. Almost imperceptibly Harry shook his head.

  The King was muttering, plucking at the rich coverlet they had laid over him. He looked far older than his forty-six years, for the skin disease from which he suffered had ravaged his face, turning it a ghastly colour, some of the sores dried and flaking, others as if the flesh there was already putrefying. Humfrey suppressed a shudder. He did not like sickness, nor deathbeds. His earliest memory was of being taken kicking and crying from the bedside of his dying mother, pretty Mary de Bohun worn out with child-bearing before she was twenty-five. He had been barely four years then but he remembered.

  Two of his uncles were in the room, both hastily summoned from their preparation for the morning's Council meeting; Thomas Beaufort, Duke of Exeter, grizzled and upright, the dying king's half-brother, and his youngest brother Henry Beaufort, the Bishop of Winchester. The Bishop had the height of the Beauforts but already he was showing signs of rich living. The hands clasped on his stomach were fat, his jowl growing heavy, the beaked nose which came from his father John of Gaunt and which his nephew John had also inherited, fleshy and veined. But his eyes were what men noticed for they were keenly alert and intelligent. He glanced now at Humfrey and then returned his gaze to the bed without a flicker of greeting. There had never been any liking between them.