Cries of alarm filtered in from the distant streets. But my master, glancing upwards, only laughed.
‘Come, boys,’ he said, beckoning to us.
Bemused, I laid down my quill and, with Simon, followed him out of the doorway.
As we walked down the narrow alley, no clouds darkened the ribbon of sky above us, and few enough floated in the expanse that opened up when we emerged on to the tiny riverside wharf. But all colour was bleeding from the heavens, the world around us turning grey as though night were falling.
On all sides wharvesmen were muttering prayers, dropping to their knees, crossing themselves. Out on the water boats drifted with the current as sailors and steersmen likewise abandoned their tasks.
But Master Ashley remained standing, pointing towards the far bank.
‘There, boys, look at that. Do you see?’
A single ray of sunlight glinted off the blue stone of the ring on his index finger, but I looked beyond it, past the tower of Southwark Priory across the river, darkest black now against the grey sky. And I saw.
It was as though the sun were a lantern partly shuttered, its light now coming only from a thin crescent like a fiery new moon, its horns pointing earthwards. A dark, dense disk blotted out its radiance, moving slowly, oh so slowly, across it. Then my eyes hurt and I had to look away.
‘Mother of God!’ Simon’s voice, beside me, was muffled.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said Master Ashley. ‘It has been foretold by learned men and is not a portent of evil things. It is just the dance of the spheres in the heavens, as the ancients explained. The moon travels across the sun and hides his light from our sight. Soon she will move on and day will return.’
And so it did. But not before long minutes had passed, as that dark shadow crawled further across the failing orb, and dread had gripped my heart also.
In the eerie twilight, the birds ceased their song, but the men’s quiet pleas to God and the Virgin Mary murmured on, vying with the slap of water against the wharf timbers. On the river, lamps were raised on masts, casting strange glimmers across the black oily waters. And from far to the west, a vast distance behind us, a single bell tolled. Its sad note crept through the darkness, giving a rhythm to the mumbled prayers, as slowly, so slowly, the light seeped back into the world.
Only later did we discover why the great bell of Westminster Abbey had rung. Master Ashley, it seemed, had been wrong about the bad omen. As the light of the sun had drained away, so too had the light of the King’s life. Queen Anne was dead.
A letter arrived from Alys a few days later. It could hardly contain her sadness. Sorrow flowed from every word she wrote.
She told of her visit to the Queen the day before her death, of how that lady lay pale and thin and exhausted after her long struggle with illness, her hand cold to the touch beneath the furs and rich coverlets of her sickbed. Of how her voice rose scarce above a whisper as she told Alys to be good and obedient and to live her life well. As she joined her in a simple prayer and then bid her farewell.
I recognized the stain of tears on the letter and could barely hold back my own, though it had been long since last I had seen Her Grace.
Murrey pressed her wet nose against the hand that held the letter and whined, her brown eyes wide gazing up at me. I caressed her head, but read on. She leaned her flank against my leg as though to warm it. As so often she was a much-needed comfort.
What makes it even sadder – if that’s possible – is that one of Elizabeth’s ladies says the Queen may have been with child. That may have made things worse, or even have been why she was ill. If that were true, and not just another rumour, it might explain the King and Queen’s happiness at Christmas-tide, especially after losing poor Ed. But if it were that that led to Her Grace’s death...
I asked Elizabeth if she was not afraid of what might happen in her own marriage when it came. She just laughed and said her mother and grandmothers had had lots of babies, without problems, and it’s well known that that is what’s important for girls. I think she can’t wait to marry – though no plans have been spoken of recently – not since the Queen became ill...
As I read the final expressions of friendship in Alys’s letter, my thoughts were only of her words about the Queen, and then the Lady Elizabeth. Was Alys afraid for herself? She had never struck me as someone who thought that having lots of babies was important for girls. But perhaps the knowledge that she herself was destined to marry Ralph Soulsby – and presumably bear his children – was becoming all too real.
A week later, I slipped away from my duties in the city to stand with my cap in my hand and head bowed as Her Grace, the late Queen, was carried in her richly carved oak coffin the short distance from the Palace to Westminster Abbey. Many in the dense crowd around me, both men and women, wept openly, mourning this beloved daughter of the Kingmaker, as the great bell of the Abbey tolled for her final journey.
I learnt afterwards that, in keeping with age-old tradition, her husband was not seen to attend the solemn requiem Mass or witness her body being lowered into her grave near the high altar as the choir sang the Te Deum. But I recalled our evenings together in the private chamber of the castle at Middleham, the lady’s careful training of a boy to sing her husband’s favourite songs, a toast with a silver cup before a hunt, the kiss of a hand, a man staring into a fire as he thought of his family far away, his grief on the day he learned of his brother’s death, the swinging of a small son into the air in the joy of a return. And my heart ached for the loneliness of a king.
15 ‘Still the Chivalrous Knight’
I stood waiting at the panelled oak doors. My heart thumped fast inside my chest and below it bubbled up an unsettling sensation like a pit of serpents coiling and uncoiling within me.
I had not thought ever to stand here again, and now that I did... would my nervousness overmaster me?
The guards to either side, resplendent in their murrey and blue livery, were motionless, but their eyes watched my every movement. I had already straightened my doublet, dragged my hand through my unruly hair, ordered Murrey to sit close against my boot. Now, as a murmur of voices trickled from beyond the doors, I forced myself to study the beautiful grain of the wood, casting my thoughts back over why I was here, in hopes that it would steady me.
The message had arrived a few days before. At first I had not known what to do. Surely I could not be so bold as to do what it asked? Then, my mind at last made up, I had come as soon as I could, before my fears got the better of me. For what it would be worth. I had little expectation of success.
As I waited, my restless fingers brushed the corner of the letter folded up in my pouch.
Dear Matthew
Forgive me for writing, but I know that Alys won’t – her pride won’t let her. She thinks because she is now a lady of wealth and position, she must suffer in silence. But I don’t see why she should – not while there is still one person left who might help her.
We’ve tried everyone else, all her friends at court or elsewhere, but they all say the same thing – that her marriage has been arranged and she must go through with it.
But I remember you saying that the King – when he was still the Duke – and his brother King Edward before him, after you saved little Edward on the boar hunt – they said that if they could ever help you, you need only ask. Alys was with you on that day in the snowstorm. If you can get to see King Richard, surely he’ll not refuse your request?
Dame Grey always said Alys should marry once she turns fifteen, but Lady Elizabeth persuaded her mother to wait until after the summer. She wants Alys to attend her as long as possible, perhaps until her own wedding – though we still don’t know when that will be. But now we hear Lord Soulsby is becoming impatient.
They say the King is planning to leave Westminster for Windsor and then the north in the middle of this month, so there isn’t much time.
Please, Matthew, try to see the King and do what you can. Alys will ever thank
you.
Your good friend,
Elen
So, begging from Master de Vries an early end to my day’s work, I had ridden on Bess out towards Westminster, and made my way from the streets into the royal stables. Once there, enough stable boys and household servants recognized me – or, if the truth is told, Murrey and her dancing – for me soon to be ushered into the chamber of the King’s secretary.
Master Kendall had welcomed me with a smile, almost soothing my worries at my impudence, and he agreed to take my boar badge to the King on my behalf. But it was a full hour or more after he left, when the hollow deep in my stomach was roiling again, that a servant had finally come to guide me through the maze of passageways to these doors.
At last one of them opened, and the servant waved me through.
‘Master Matthew Wansford, Your Grace,’ he announced, before bowing and backing out of the room, leaving me standing there alone. On the hard stone floor of the private chamber of the King of England.
The room had changed little from the late winter’s day more than two years ago when I had been ushered into it before. As then, a fire was even blazing in the cavernous fireplace, this May-time being unseasonably cold. All that was missing was the colourful swarm of noble lords and ladies – and, to my relief, the many cages and their imprisoned songbirds. The only sounds as I straightened up from my deepest bow were the hiss of the flaming logs and a voice I did not know, fussing.
‘If Your Grace would please be still, just a little longer, I can perhaps finish this evening, and then I need bother you no more.’
In one of the wide bays of the chamber were two figures, flooded by the late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows.
Closest to me was the man who had spoken. His back towards me, he was standing at an easel, dabbing with a fine-tipped brush at a painting upon it.
Forgetting my fears for a moment, I stepped forward to gain a better view. It was plainly intended as a portrait of King Richard, but in truth it was very different to the man seated in a carved and gilded chair beyond.
There was an unnatural stillness to the painted, unfurrowed brow and the distant, haunted gaze of the blue eyes below it. A gem-encrusted chain was draped across shoulders arrayed in a sumptuous embroidered gown of crimson and gold. In the one suggestion of movement, the long thin fingers of one hand played with a unadorned ring on the third finger of the other.
But the man who sat deep within the window recess was clad all in unornamented black. And far from unlined, his face was pale and drawn, dark shadows beneath his eyes, his lips pinched. In looks he had aged more than just the year or two that had passed since my last glimpse of him – from afar on his triumphant return after the rebellion.
Yet, as I recalled the events of those brief years, particularly the sorrows of recent months, it was a marvel to me that he – king of all this great land – should catch sight of me and smile in recognition of a mere page. He beckoned to me, and a light and life shone in his eyes that were not captured on the canvas.
‘Matthew. It has been a long time since last we saw you. Come forward.’
My insides lurched again, but I did his bidding, kneeling before him and kissing the great jewelled ring on his hand, as I had seen him do to his nephew Edward – as seemed so very long ago. His hand rested an instant on the top of my head before the painter tutted.
‘Your Grace, please. How am I to capture your likeness if you will keep moving?’
‘Will you wait awhile, lad?’ the King murmured, and I withdrew a little to one side. Finding a footstool nearby, I sat with Murrey curling round my ankles, grateful to watch the scene and allow my nerves time to settle.
Also in the room, at the end distant from the artist’s tableau, several gentlemen were talking in hushed tones, gathered about a table upon which was strewn a mess of papers. Master Kendall winked at me and Lord Lovell nodded in recognition, but the unknown faces of the others expressed surprise, as though unused to seeing a boy such as me in the King’s private chamber. But they continued their discussion, one from time to time carrying a document to the King to sign. He would take each paper and read it through, before flourishing the quill handed to him, perhaps turning to comment or ask a question. In between times his black-shod foot tapped as though in impatience, or he twisted his red-stoned signet ring as I had seen many times before.
A frown like gathering thunderclouds grew on the painter’s face and he moistened his lips with his tongue as though about to speak again. Perhaps King Richard also noticed, for, before a word was uttered, he sprang to his feet and clapped his hands.
‘Enough! No more today,’ he cried. ‘We shall finish another time – if more time is really needed.’
‘But, Your Grace,’ the man protested.
‘No more, I say. Get out, get out!’ And the King flapped his hands towards him as if he were actually going to shoo him out of the room.
Flustered, the painter collected his things together and bowed his way from the chamber. Soon only the easel, the painting upon it and the faint echo of his retreating footsteps remained.
Lord Lovell laughed.
‘Dickon, you terrify that man. You have done it so often now. If you are not careful, he will depict you as a tyrant.’
‘Me? It is he who is the tyrant. With his “Pray be still, Your Grace,” “Just one more sitting, Your Grace,” “Perhaps another hour in the morning when the light will be better, Your Grace.” How many hours does it take to paint one man’s face? Does he not understand I have work to do in the mornings?’
‘And in the afternoons and evenings, Your Grace,’ said Master Kendall, advancing with another document for the King’s signature.
Sighing, the King took up his quill again.
‘Yes, indeed, John. But let this be the last today. There may be other more pressing matters needing my attention.’
As he bent his head to read the paper, his glance flicked towards me, and curving his lips was that half-smile I well remembered. Heat rose in my face and my stomach churned again at the thought of why I was here – in contrast with the important royal business he had no doubt been conducting.
Within a few minutes all the gentlemen filed from the chamber. I stood out of respect. Lord Lovell inclined his head once more as he passed and Master Kendall patted me on the shoulder, murmuring words of encouragement. Then the King and I were alone.
Going to the table, he poured ruby-red wine into two long-stemmed glasses. He handed one to me and took the other over to the easel. His expression was unreadable as he inspected the painting. Then he glanced across to me, where I stood waiting for him to speak.
‘Well, Matthew. It has indeed been a long time. It seems that you have grown.’
I bowed low. ‘But not so very much, Your Grace. No more than you might expect.’
King Richard laughed that short laugh of his.
‘No, perhaps not. But you are yet young, and have time ahead of you. Does Master Ashley feed you well?’
‘Aye, Your Grace – meat or fish every day, save on fast days. He is a good master – I thank you for that.’
‘You are most welcome.’
He eyed me a moment, then, stepping back towards the crackling fire, waved me to a seat. It was an ornate, high-backed, cushioned chair this time, not a footstool, and he settled himself into its twin across the hearth. In one hand he cradled his wine-glass and, now, in the other was my silver boar badge. His fingers turned it over and over, his eyes following the lights it caught and scattered from the flames.
My training as a page had taught me that I must not speak before he did. Yet several minutes passed in silence. Perhaps unwisely, I took refuge in swallows of the rich, smooth wine, seeking to quell the nerves rising again within me. I had drained almost half the glass before the King spoke.
‘They told me you wished to see me, but couldn’t tell me why.’
‘That’s because I didn’t – I – couldn’t tell them.’
‘Couldn’t?’ Looking up, he raised one eyebrow. ‘Why? Is it a matter of honour again? About a lady?’
My memory was sharp of that morning at Middleham more than two years before – the day of my beating. When I had told him of my letter to Alys, but refused to say how it had fallen into Hugh’s hands – that he had snatched it from Elen. Did the King remember that too? Had he ever known who the ‘lady’ had been?
‘In a way, yes, Your Grace.’
‘You have not changed your tune then? Still the chivalrous knight?’
That stung a little. But he could not know of all the hours I had trained since leaving his service, mostly alone, learning to wield my chestnut sword. And I knew it was not meant unkindly.
I bowed my head.
‘It’s about Alys, Your Grace.’
‘Alys Langdown? Then you are still friends?’
‘Aye... At least, I think so. I haven’t seen her for almost two years. Since your coronation. And then only from a distance.’
The King sat back a little in his chair.
‘Ah, that was a day to remember. And yet... it was a difficult time, that summer —’ He frowned, then his eyes cleared, snapping back to me. ‘But what is this about Alys? She is well, is she not? I understand she attends my niece.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I believe she is well. It’s just that she...’
‘Yes?’
‘She is to be married. This summer. To Ralph Soulsby.’ I hesitated. The King continued to watch me.
‘And?’
‘She doesn’t wish it, my lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because... because she has not chosen her husband herself.’
‘That is usual for a young lady of noble birth.’
‘But she doesn’t even know him. Not really. She’s met him only once – years ago.’ I searched my memory for Alys’s tale about Ralph long ago at Middleham. ‘She was just a little girl, no more than eight or nine, and he was spiteful to her. She says he had just been made squire when he came across her reading in the Duchess’s garden. He took away her books and threw them down the well because he said girls should not be taught to read and write.’
The King's Man (The Order of the White Boar Book 2) Page 14
