The Lord of Greenwich (The Plantagenets Book 5)

by Juliet Dymoke

  Elys stood where he was by the door. 'I would not so presume. I say only what all must say.'

  'And that is?'

  'That you will not go – for reasons other than your given word, or the duel.' The ice cracked beneath Elys's feet and he knew himself to be falling deep into water that might drown him.

  'Damn you to hell!' Humfrey's face was a dull red. 'How dare you? How dare you have the impertinence to criticize me?'

  He had gone too far, Elys thought wretchedly, too far at any rate to stop now and he went on, 'My lord, forgive me. I speak only out of love for you, out of the friendship I believe we have.'

  'Friendship!' The word exploded in the small room. 'I took you from nothing, my friend, and I can very soon return you to that state.'

  'I think not, sir,' Elys answered with dignity. 'I serve you but I am my own man. If you dismiss me then I must carry my sword elsewhere. I don't wish to, but I can do so and that you know.'

  For a long moment they glared at each other. Despite his anger Humfrey could not bring himself to say the irrevocable word, and it was he who broke the silence. 'Much of what you say is true and I'll not dismiss you for it. Unless I have so disappointed you that you would rather I did so?' Elys did not answer at once and he went on, 'Do you remember, long ago, I bade you stay by me?'

  'I remember. It was at Hadleigh.'

  'Then I say it again now. But I'll not change for you, or anyone. The Lady Eleanor will stay with me – always.'

  It was Elys who felt angry now, but not with the torn unhappy man facing him. What Eleanor Cobham had done was wicked in his eyes and all his sympathy was with the Duchess, equally unhappy and far away fighting a lonely battle. 'Nor can I change my feelings on the matter, sir. I added loyalty to Lady Jacqueline when you wed her.'

  Loyalle et belle! The words jumped at Humfrey once more and he thought of how he had looked up at them when he lay with Avice, how he had wondered if it were possible – one man, one woman? With Elys it had become so, he knew that – for himself, perhaps at last – but there was nothing he could say in the face of Elys's last remark. They were both wrapped in silence and it was only broken by a tap at the door and a page entering with a letter.

  He broke the seal and read it. And then with an odd sound he sank into a seat by the table, the paper fluttering to the ground. Elys picked it up and read it. It was brief and from the Estates in Mons. It told the Duke in the baldest of terms that the Lady Jacqueline had been taken prisoner and was being held by the Duke of Burgundy at Ghent. Without a word Elys turned and left the room.

  Humfrey sat on for a long time alone. At last he rose. What good to castigate himself now? Had he not done all he could? Wearily he went to his bedchamber and there found Eleanor sitting by the window in the evening sun, her head bent over a book, her beauty breath-taking. He went over to her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her fiercely before looking at the manuscript before her. The sheets were written in a small neat hand which he recognized as that of the priest, Roger Bolingbroke, Eleanor's confessor.

  'What is it?' he asked, idly turning one over. He wanted to forget the last half-hour.

  'A translation from an Arabic book and copied for me by Master Roger. There are many receipts for cures for fevers and I thought there might be one that would ease the discomfort you have sometimes in your stomach. See this chart?' She pointed to a circle of signs, carefully drawn. 'This shows how the stars affect us all and if the potions are used at certain times they will be more effective.'

  'My heart, I read of that long ago. It is a strange science.'

  'I first discovered such writings in a book of yours in Hainault, do you remember?'

  'Aye, I found you deep in it on a window ledge, sitting as you are now. If anything more were needed to fan my love, perhaps that was it.'

  'Oh!' She glanced at him, her eyes bright. 'Was it only because I have more in my head than French romances that you looked at me?'

  He smiled down at her, holding her gaze. 'You know full well I desired you from the day Reginald brought you to us, and even before that. The rest was added joy.'

  'Yet you looked troubled just now when you came to me. What has happened, my love?'

  He sat down beside her, weariness in every moment. 'Burgundy has Jacqueline captive at Ghent.'

  'Oh!' Her eyes were lowered, hooded. 'What will you do?'

  'I don't know. I don't want to talk of it now.'

  'You will not fight this duel?'

  'I don't know,' he repeated fretfully. 'I'll not have men say I was afraid to meet Philip.'

  'Of course not,' she lifted one hand to touch his cheek, 'but everything is changed now. It seems to me there is little left for you in Hainault.'

  Her smooth voice betrayed nothing. He gave a heavy sigh. 'Maybe not, but we must pay for our mistakes. If I risk all again in Holland I shall sacrifice what I have here, and by God I swear I'll not abandon England to my uncle Henry. As long as John is in France my place is here.'

  'And your lady?'

  He shifted a little and leaned his head against the stone embrasure. Outside swallows were diving over the slow-flowing river, the occasional cries of boatmen plying their craft echoing across the water. How light-heartedly he had set out with Jacqueline on what had now become a burden! 'I will send her what help I can,' he said at last.

  'You'll not go?'

  'I can’t – not now. My uncle has to be held in check here or he and his faction will ruin me. Do you know he has induced the Council to appoint a creature of his, one Master Wydville, as Constable of the Tower with orders to admit no one unless by his consent. Something has got to be done about that.'

  'He is too wordly for his place,' Eleanor said sharply. 'As for the Duchess, I grieve for her but Burgundy cannot hold her for ever and no doubt she will treat with him. She will be much occupied then in Hainault.'

  He forgot his annoyance over the Tower and turned to the woman beside him, taking her in his arms. When he held her Jacqueline and Hainault seemed very far away, the present moment all that mattered. 'Do you think I cannot read you, my love? If I had known you before –'

  'I care for the future,' she whispered and put her mouth to his. 'I am yours, Humfrey my lord, until death takes one or the other.'

  But it was still in a depressed mood that he went to his library where Tom Beckington was sitting by the fire, a volume on his knee. He looked up and smiled as Humfrey came in.

  'Here I am, my lord, reading the poet Horace and he has that to say which applies to you –' he set his finger in the book and carefully turned the page back, '"He obtains universal approval who has mingled what is useful with what is pleasant" – What could be more so than this library? And he adds, "by delighting and at the same time admonishing the reader".'

  Humfrey laughed, diverted from his preoccupation. 'Have you been admonished, Tom?'

  'Aye, my lord, by Origen who speaks of our struggle against the devil and his angels and by St Basil who says even sin committed in ignorance is not without risk. I sometimes think the Fathers of the Church lay too great a burden of anxiety on us.'

  'It is their way, but I seem to recall that St Augustine counters Basil by saying no one sins by an act he cannot avoid.'

  'Ah,' Beckington sighed, 'as far as that goes, it is easy to persuade ourselves we could not help what we did.'

  'Well, do not avoid my heathen books. A little healthy study of the humane writers will do you no harm – you will find plenty on my shelves and they cannot be called unchristian if they wrote before Christ – but I cannot see you have fallen into lechery or drunkenness, Tom.'

  Beckington smiled, appreciating the joke. 'Perhaps not, but a little sin is grave to him who knows better.' He laid down the book. 'Tell me, do you think –'

  But the discussion had got no further for the herald came in, his face showing considerable anxiety. 'Well?' his lord queried. 'Am I to have no peace? What is amiss?'

  'Master Smith, the vintner by London bridge has
sent a message, sir. Apparently he was delivering some barrels of wine to Bishop Beaufort's palace by Southwark and he found the palace and all the houses about filled with soldiers – from Lancashire and Cheshire, he says – and all wearing the Beaufort badge. Sir Edmund Beaufort is there, boasting that he commands enough men to hold all London.'

  Humfrey was on his feet, all the pleasure in the discussion gone. 'God damn him and my uncle too. Good God, are all the Beauforts thus eaten up with jealousy against me?' He slammed one fist into the other. 'My uncle thinks because he has the Tower gates shut against me he may enter at will and fill London with his creatures. By God, I'll show him it is not so, even if I have only my household with me. But I've more friends, eh?' He shouted for Elys who came running, alarmed by the urgency of the call.

  'Well,' Humfrey asked sharply, 'I need someone to go at once to the Mayor's lodging – do you serve me still or must I look elsewhere?'

  Elys had been waiting in great mental turmoil for just such a moment. 'I had hoped, my lord, you need not ask me that. But if because I would not lie to you –'

  'Sometimes it is easier to lie to oneself. Will your conscience permit you to stay in my employ?'

  The old smile was there, the melancholy humour, and relief flooded over Elys. 'You have only to command me, sir. What am I to say to the Mayor?'

  'That I need his help, that my uncle threatens both me and the city.'

  Elys hurried out with no more said between them.

  Beckington had risen and said in a troubled voice, 'Please God it will not come to blows between you and the Bishop. My dear lord, consider –'

  'I do not need to consider,' Humfrey broke in, 'and if it is necessary you, Tom, can witness that it was not I who began this.'

  Five minutes later with half-a-dozen knights in attendance and the rest of his men-at-arms following, he was riding down Thames Street. A blustery October wind brought the smell of fish to his nostrils and at the bottom of Fish Street as he turned toward the bridge a crowd came surging to meet him. They surrounded his horse, everyone shouting a welcome, and escorted him on to the bridge where he encountered the new Mayor, already there on horseback. Everywhere merchants were putting up shutters, bringing what men and weapons they could, the urgency of the situation spreading rapidly.

  Sir John Coventry, still in his robes of office, spurred his horse to meet the Duke. 'My lord! We have closed the gates. We will not suffer your enemies to set one foot against you.'

  'Thank you, my friend. You know this was none of my choosing, but when I find the Tower, the King's fortress, closed to me and my uncle preparing to march his men into the city, it is time to act.'

  'So I knew you would think. There is not a man in this town who will not come to your aid, my lord.'

  'And I am grateful.' Humfrey gave him a swift smile. 'Have the other gates been closed?'

  'Messengers are on their way to see it done. Those in command will report any further action to you, and in the meanwhile if you have not dined, will you return with me to our interrupted feasting?'

  So Humfrey sat down with the Mayor and the Aldermen, with Sir Richard Whittington and others who seemed to him so much preferable as companions to most of the men who shared the Council chamber with him.

  He slept that night at Baynards and in the morning was summoned by Coventry with the news that the Bishop's men were attacking the closed gates of London bridge on the Southwark side. All shops were closed, every man capable of bearing arms streaming out to fight for the 'Good Duke', until every street leading to the bridge was thronged with citizens who cheered wildly when he appeared among them.

  'We'll not let them in, Lord Duke,' they shouted and a baker, flour still on his hands, waved a rolling pin and yelled, 'God for Duke Humfrey and to hell with the Bishop!'

  'Aye,' the cry was taken up. 'Gloucester for the King and the City.'

  'Send the bastards back to Lancashire. We'll not have 'em here.'

  Even the most respected merchants, the aldermen and craftsmen were with the seething mob who wanted the gate opened that they might drive off the Bishop's men but Coventry bellowed, 'Hold! Hold, my friends. This is not the way. It is not right that a Bishop should bring soldiers against us, and if we have to fight for our city we will, but let us for the moment hold the gate only while our Duke makes his will known to the Bishop.'

  Voices shouted their agreement with this and the noise subsided a little, though weapons were firmly gripped and the men stood ready should their Duke command them. Someone came to say that the Archbishop of Canterbury, hurrying from Lambeth, had sent a message to say he would treat in the Bishop's name with the Duke.

  'Admit him,' Humfrey said, and in a cordwainer's house in the centre of the bridge met the Archbishop. Henry Chichele had aged but was still the man who had stood always at Harry's right hand, and for him Humfrey had a deep respect. He knelt to kiss the Archbishop's ring.

  'This situation was none of my choosing,' were his first words, however. 'You must know it, my Lord. It is the Bishop who has filled Southwark with armed men. I have a mere eighty attendants in my train and intended no threat to anyone. Nor was it I who closed the Tower.'

  'I do know it, my son,' the Archbishop said sorrowfully. 'I cannot blame you, nor can I deprecate the love you clearly command here, but I do beg you to restrain your followers. We do not want blood on our hands.'

  'Indeed not,' Humfrey agreed. He sat down on the edge of a table, picking up a leather thong and threading it in his fingers. 'But should you not be saying that to my uncle?'

  The Archbishop explained that he had already done so and the poor man spent the rest of the day trotting backwards and forwards between the cordwainer's and the episcopal palace. The owner of the shop entertained the Duke, his wife producing the best meal she had ever cooked and boasting ever afterwards of the day when the Good Duke dined under their roof, while Humfrey accepted their hospitality with the same ease with which he dined with his equals. At last the Bishop agreed to call off his soldiers and not to set foot in the City until the whole matter could be brought before Parliament.

  Yelling themselves hoarse with triumph the citizens escorted their Duke back to Baynards, the press of men and women who wanted to kiss his hand, even touch his feet, his horse, his saddlecloth, so great that at times they brought his horse to a standstill.

  Flushed, his conquest sweet to him, Humfrey rode under the gateway of Baynards. Up in his bedchamber while John Patrick brought fresh clothes, Eleanor came to him, her dark eyes alight and a proud smile on her face.

  'My dearest lord, what a day! Oh, no one will deny you your rights now. I knew all would be well, I knew the Bishop would not prevail against you.'

  He smiled down at her, and as his squires and John Patrick withdrew, put his arms about her. 'How did you know, my heart? I had few enough men-at-arms with me.'

  'And a whole city behind you! Apart from that –' an odd secretive look came into her eyes, 'I think there are ways we know little of to bring down one's enemies, old words, old deeds, that a woman in love need not fear to use.'

  He loosened his hold a little. 'Eleanor! Sorcery? I can't believe you mean that.'

  She gave a soft laugh. 'Dear Humfrey, I am no witch.'

  'Don't,' he said, 'I'll not hear the word – certainly not of you. Witchcraft is evil, against God and His Saints.'

  'Of course. I only say it would be foolish to ignore the help of . . . harmless incantations, simple rhymes that have come to us from the past.'

  'A pagan past.'

  'And isn't that what you read about in your books of ancient writings.'

  'There is no witchery in Plato or Sophocles,' he said with sudden violence. 'Eleanor, forget such things, don't play with more than you understand.' She twisted her arms about his neck. 'Make me forget. My love, make me forget everything but you.'

  After Christmas he paid a brief visit to Dover and passing through Canterbury on his way back was saddened to find that Margery was dead of
the sweating sickness. He brought his little daughter home, perched on the saddle in front of one of his men-at-arms. She was a pretty child, surprisingly like his aunt Joan, and when they reached Baynards he took her by the hand to meet Eleanor. 'I hope you will learn to care for her,' he said as the child clung to him, evidently in more awe of this majestic lady.

  'Of course,' Eleanor said, but she had not gone down on her knees and hugged the child as Jacqueline would have done. Instead she asked, 'What is she called?'

  'Antigone.'

  'An odd name. Does it mean anything?'

  'To me,' he said. 'It is a symbol of the love between father and daughter.'

  Eleanor looked slightly amused and immediately sent for one of her women to take the child upstairs. Humfrey watched her go. He was proud of the children and was aware of a great longing for an heir who had the right of birth. He would have none by Jacqueline now.

  In February, in answer to an urgent request from Parliament, John Duke of Bedford returned and Humfrey was rowed down the river to greet him at Westminster. There in an ante chamber the two brothers met for the first time since Harry's death.

  They embraced and Humfrey saw that there were new lines in John's face, a crease between his brows, and his eyes above the jutting nose were sombre.

  'I can see that acting as Regent of France is no sinecure,' ne said. 'Are you still plagued by the Dauphin? And what is this we hear of a girl who has visions and says she can lead an army?'

  'God knows,' John answered, 'but I doubt she will be any great trouble to us.'

  'A nine-day wonder,' the Archbishop of York said in his supercilious manner, 'and no threat to the King's heritage surely?'

  'I hope not.' John glanced round. There were several gentlemen in the room, including the Earl of Suffolk, Humphrey Stafford, and Edmund Beaufort who was leaning elegantly against a wall and talking to Richard, Duke of York. Richard was only half listening, his attention on the two other dukes, for of all his numerous relations he was most fond of Humfrey whose ward he was, and even at fifteen he could not fail to sense a certain tension among those present. Nor was he unaware of why cousin John had come home.