by Anya Seton
Brother William sat down on a stool and explained. “All this that we’ve been saying is common knowledge. I’ll not spread any rumour that is not. ‘Tis about that placard. I believe I know who wrote it.”
“God’s nails - -” breathed the baron, sinking back open-mouthed in his chair. “Do you indeed? His Grace has sent spies throughout the city to listen in the taverns and question offhandedly, but to no purpose.”
The friar hesitated. This knowledge had not come to him through any secrets of the confessional, for if it had his lips would have been as sternly sealed as they were on another matter relating to the Duke. Shortly after his return to London from the north, he had been called to examine a sick monk at St. Bartholomew’s Benedictine priory, so great was his reputation as leech that even the monks called on him at times.
As he had left the priory infirmary, he had been shocked to hear drunken voices coming from the scriptorium and a bleating laugh like a goat’s. He had been about to hurry past the door, thinking that the prior kept lax rule here, when the same bleating voice called out, “And this one’ll hang on Paul’s door too, ‘tis better than the changeling - -“
Someone said “Hist!” and there was a sharp silence.
The friar walked into the scriptorium. Two monks, their foolish young faces red with the ale they had shared from a mazer, gaped at him blankly. The third man was perched on a high stool at a desk, a quill in his hand, a square of parchment under it. His robes and semi-tonsure showed him to be a clerk. His pock-marked face instantly became bland as cheese, but his little eyes fastened on the friar with ratlike caution.
“You make merry in here while you inscribe your scrolls?” said the friar pleasantly, trying to edge near enough the desk to see what the clerk had written. “You treat of merry topics, Sir Clerk?”
One of the monks in evident confusion said, “This clerk is none of us, he but lodges here at the priory. He has lately come from Flanders.”
“Nay, I’m an Englishman - of - of Norvich,” said the clerk quickly in his bleating voice. “Johan of Norvich, I but spent a time in Flanders.”
“Johan?” said the monk in surprise. “We’ve called you Peter - -“
“Johan - Peter - both.” The clerk slid off his stool, and the friar with keen disappointment saw that the scroll was blank but for two words “Know ye - -“
“Is’t the custom at St. Bart’s that Grey Friars haf right to nose around and question us?” said the clerk to the monks, and limping to the mazer he took a long draught.
The Grey Friar had made some civil remark and gone, but he had been mulling this matter over in his mind ever since. He had consulted his superior, he had prayed on it, and now, knowing the baron’s loyalty and shrewdness, he had come to him.
He told the baron what he had overheard, but added, “There’s no proof, they’d say I heard wrong, the parchment with the two words will have vanished. And there is much that’s puzzling. Whate’er this clerk may call himself, he spoke with Flemish accent. And never had I seen malice so pure in a man’s eyes. What can he have so harsh as this against the Duke? The young monks are fools and swayed by this man, though willing enough to spite Wyclifs patron, no doubt.”
“The clerk is being bribed?” suggested de la Pole. “By March? Or Courtenay?”
“Ay - mayhap - he had gold rings on his fingers - but the nub of the matter is - shall I go with this tale to the Duke?”
The baron pondered. “Not now. There’s no proof, and the Duke may be led to more blind violence. His rage is nearly slaked, ‘twill all die down - if nothing further happens. The clerk and Benedictines maybe will bate their tricks, since they must guess you heard them.”
Nodding thoughtfully and with relief, the friar stood up. It went against his grain to carry tales that he had got by eavesdropping and he decided to wait for developments. It might well be too that the Duke would not receive him, since they had parted last on a discordant enough note.
This reminded him of something and he said, “How is’t with Lady Swynford? What part has she played in all this coil of His Grace’s?”
“None at all,” answered the baron. “I doubt that he’s seen her since it started.” His face softened. “Poor fair lass, she moped here at the Savoy for days and then returned to Kenilworth, with the ladies Philippa and Elizabeth. And yet it seems he loves her dearly when he has a mind for love.”
“A vile adulterous love,” said the friar grimly, pulling up his cowl and adjusting the knotted cord at his waist. “God will scourge them for it.”
CHAPTER XIX
Katherine kept Christmastide alone with the children at Kenilworth. The Duke divided his festivities between his father at Havering and his nephew, little Richard, who remained with the Princess Joan across the Thames at Kennington.
His establishment at Kenilworth was not, however, entirely forgotten. In February, the Duke sent belated New Year’s presents to everyone, and a silver-gilt girdle for Katherine herself, but the accompanying note was stilted, though it indicated that she should return to the Savoy for a visit with the Lady Philippa, that there was an envoy coming from the Duchy of Luxembourg who wished to see Philippa with a view to possible marriage negotiations.
It was an official missive, dictated, and there was no private message to Katherine. He sent the note and the gifts by a new young squire Katherine did not know, a Robert Beyvill, who was to escort the ladies back to the Savoy.
Katherine received the letter while she sat amongst her household in Kenilworth’s beautiful new Hall. She kept rigid control of her face as she read and thought, Dear Mother of God, he has then really ceased to love me or he could not write thus. I shall not go - I’ll refuse. Even as she thought this, her heart began to deny it. His love had been buried but surely it was still there despite the evil demon, or whatever the incubus was, that drove him. She must not let her pride strike back at him, since he had again summoned her, no matter how coldly. She would go to London.
And underneath ran bitter realisation. What choice had she but to obey? This castle was his, the bread she ate, the clothes she wore came from his bounty. Like the hundreds in his retinue, like his children, like this young squire who stood waiting respectfully before her, she had no course but submission.
Suddenly she thought of Kettlethorpe. That place was wholly hers, her widow’s rights had been confirmed. How small and mean it was compared to these lovely castles where she lived now here, now there, at the Duke’s whim; and yet that crumb of far-off Lincolnshire was the only thing in the world entirely her own.
The thought was fleeting. She looked at her little Swynfords - Blanchette’s golden curls bent over a grubby bit of embroidery while Philippa gravely helped her. Tom whittling an arrow on the hearth - both well grown, finely clad, and educated better than most nobles’ children. And she thought how much they had profited by their mother’s situation. She turned her eyes to the young squire and said quietly, “Then we must make ready to leave for London, must we not? What are you named, sir?”
“Robert Beyvill, my lady, but mostly I’m called Robin.”
“Robin,” she said with her sudden enchanting smile, thinking him well named. He had sharp eyes, a curly brown head, and his tunic was a bright rusty red. He was tall and merry-looking. Altogether far more pleasing a squire than Raulin d’Ypres had been - or Ellis.
Katherine rose abruptly and poured wine for Robin. She never allowed herself to think long of Hugh’s erstwhile squire. She had seen Ellis once in Lincoln when little John was born. She had met him by chance as she walked up Pottergate to the house the Duke had leased for her. Ellis had stopped squarely in front of her, his heavy Saxon features twisted to a mask of loathing. “Whore!” he had cried, and spat directly into her face. She had not told the Duke the whole of it but she had seen to it that Ellis de Thoresby was sent off to his estates in Nottingham.
“I dare say Lady Philippa and I shan’t be gone long,” said Katherine, sitting down again and addressing her ho
usehold. She spoke soothingly, for she knew there would be bad moments with Elizabeth, who adored the gaieties of London and resented being left out of anything. Worse than any tantrums Elizabeth might have was the stricken look in Blanchette’s eyes as the little girl raised them to her mother. Plain as speech they said, And so you leave me again - for him.
“Come here, darling,” said Katherine to her. “Shall we sing ‘Havelock the Dane’? Will you play it on your lute?” That was the child’s favourite ballad, and it used to be that to the point of weariness she begged Katherine for it.
But Blanchette shook her head and lowered it over the embroidery. “No, thank you, Mama,” she said in a dull, flat little voice.
Katherine, Philippa and Robin Beyvill, the squire, left for London on the fifteenth of February, accompanied by the usual escort of men-at-arms, varlets and baggage carts, while Hawise and Philippa’s waiting-women were stuffed into a wagon with the mistresses’ travelling coffers.
Robin enlivened the way by telling the two ladies all that had been happening in London, but Philippa did not listen as she rode sedately along on her white mare. She was praying to the Blessed Virgin, supplicating that understanding Lady with conflicting petitions. First, that the marriage negotiations with Luxemburg would come to naught and second, that she would always have the will to obey her father. But Katherine listened eagerly to the squire and learned more about the Duke’s activities than she had ever known. Robin had an uncritical admiration for his lord, whom he had served four years, though only recently promoted to be one of the Duke’s own personal squires.
There was plenty of time for talk as they wended along the frozen muddy roads, and Catherine’s interest was enlivened by feminine amusement when she discovered that Robin was casting her in the classic role of the unattainable lady fair.
He had too much humour to sigh and groan, as the love-stricken squire should do, but he demonstrated the other signs. His hand trembled when he helped her to dismount, he blushed when she looked at him, and once, when she dropped a sprig of holly which she had been wearing on her bodice, she saw him stealthily pick it up and, kissing the red berries, slip the whole twig into his pouch.
Katherine’s sore heart was warmed by this adoration, in which she saw no danger; after all, the lad was barely twenty, and she full twenty-six. She relaxed with him and enjoyed his company, perhaps all the more so because Robin was not of high blood. His father was a franklin in Suffolk, a prosperous one, who farmed ample lands and owned a new half-timbered house.
Robin went on to say proudly that his father, Richard, was even now sitting in Parliament at Westminster, a new member of the Commons. “For,” said Robin laughing, “the Duke has seen to it that this Parliament shall be properly packed with his own supporters, so there’ll be no trouble like there was last spring.”
They jogged out of Buckinghamshire towards Woburn Abbey, where they would sleep that night, while she considered what Robin had said, and she spoke thoughtfully. “So all goes well with His Grace now? He has no more enmities to fight against?”
“God’s body, lady, I wouldn’t say that!” Robin laughed again, then sobered and turned sharply in his saddle. “There’s still the bishops! May the devil’s pitchforks prick their fat rumps until they’ve bled out all the gold!”
“Robin!” cried Katherine.
Philippa looked up from her vague gazing at the road. “Are you a Lollard, Sir Squire?” she said stiffly; her long mild face showed a flash of Lancastrian hauteur. It was only in matters of piety that Philippa dared differ from her father’s views.
“I ask your pardon, my lady,” said Robin to Philippa, “I spoke too crude.” But his eyes never lingered on the girl, and they returned at once to Katherine as he explained eagerly, “I feel as Wyclif does, and our lord the Duke. We’ve had the ‘poor preachers’ come to our home in Suffolk - they’re good honest men, lady.”
“Well-a-day,” said Katherine, uninterested in Wyclif’s preachers or indeed in Wyclif. “What is it between the Duke and the bishops now?”
“They most damnably defy His Grace!” cried Robin, his brown eyes flashing. “The Bishops’ Convocation has dared to summon Wyclif for trial at Saint Paul’s on Thursday. ‘Tis Courtenay’s doing.”
Katherine could see no reason for Robin’s vehemence. The bishops were powerful, of course, everyone knew that, but the Duke was omnipotent - all that Robin had told her proved it, and some struggle over Wyclif seemed to her of scanty importance. She now thought that she had been overly frightened for the Duke when he had faced the mob that jeered about the placard; and as they drew nearer to London she began to wonder with increasing anxiety what was really in her beloved’s heart, and to suffer a miserable, vague jealousy, not of Costanza; but there were plenty of designing ladies at court. And he had apparently been seeing much of Alice Perrers - and the Princess Joan.
John was not aware that he had neglected Katherine. There were times when he longed for her and desired her, but these emotions took place at the back of his attention and were overwhelmed by the obsession which had come to him. The demonstration of power was a drink heady as the strongest metheglin ever the wild Saxons brewed, and yet continual imposition of his will did little to appease the pain which drove him on to further fight.
This pain smouldered like a hidden coal in his breast, and sometimes at night it became an actual fiery lump that rose into his throat and stuck there, so that he choked and gasped and sweated as he tried to swallow it down. Alone in his great State Bed, he would roll in shameful distress, clenching his fists and struggling for each breath, until at last he fell back exhausted and the thing dissolved. Then he would think of witchcraft and pull himself from bed to pray at Blanche’s prie-dieu in the corner of the chamber.
In the mornings he could barely remember what had happened, and would awaken with increased passion to outwit his enemies.
On Wednesday, February 18, he rose after a badly troubled night and angrily shouted for his squires to come and dress him. His head ached and he was annoyed at the lateness of the hour. Parliament would open today at eight, and he must hurry to Westminster. This docile Commons was voting as it should, but they needed constant guidance.
Just as he was leaving the Savoy he remembered to summon the chamberlain, and told him to prepare rooms in the Monmouth Wing for Lady Philippa and Lady Swynford, who might arrive today from Kenilworth. The chamberlain looked startled. The Monmouth Wing was not where Lady Swynford had lodged before, and it was half the length of the Savoy from the Duke. The Duke caught the flicker in the man’s eye, and some realisation of Katherine’s feelings pierced his preoccupation. But nothing on earth would induce him to let anyone see him in those humiliating nightly attacks, and besides he had no time for love.
He flung himself on to his horse and pursued by two of his squires galloped along the Strand to Westminster.
After the day’s session, he dined in the Hall with many of the lords. Percy of Northumberland sat on his right. They had much to discuss about Wyclif’s trial tomorrow at St. Paul’s, and the showdown with Bishop Courtenay.
“But,” said the Duke, sipping without relish some very fine malmsey, “we must be temperate, Percy. Wyclif should be his own best advocate.”
Northumberland irritably hunched his massive shoulders, while he speared himself a gobbet of smoking sturgeon from the platter offered him by his kneeling son, who was acting as his squire. The baron crammed his mouth full, sputtered with pain and spewed the fish out on to the rushes.
“Sweet Christ! M’tongue’s burned off!” He clouted young Percy violently on the ear.
His thirteen-year-old son had a temper to match. ” ‘Tis not my fault, my lord, an you gobble like a swine!” he cried, throwing down the platter.
Father and son glared at each other. The blue Percy lions on their sutcotes jigged in and out with their fierce breathings. Then the baron thwacked his heir across the shoulder, upsetting him into the filthy rushes. “Hotspur, Hotspur
!” he roared, slapping his thigh. He turned to the Duke, “Saw you ever such a game cockerel - dares flout its own sire!”
“Certainly your young Hotspur shows a spirit which will be useful to keep the Scots in order,” said the Duke dryly, thinking of his own Henry’s excellent manners.
“Ay - the Scots-” said Northumberland, rinsing his blistered mouth with wine. “First we must keep London in order.”
“You cannot tamper with the City’s liberties,” said the Duke firmly. They had been through this before. Percy, as new Marshal of England, was continuously annoyed that the City did not admit his jurisdiction.
“Hen piddle!” cried Percy. “That pack of baseborn tradesmen - what right have they to liberties? Let the mayor stick to his needles and threads, ‘tis all he’s fit for.”
“If you abolish the mayoralty and take to yourself the ruling of the City, do you think the Londoners’ll submit?”
“By the rood, they’d have to! Jam the bill through Parliament, through their own Commons. They’ve awe enough of that!”
The Duke turned away. His ally’s loud voice rasped on him. The headache which had plagued him all morning began to throb. He longed for sleep, and roused himself with an effort.
Later that afternoon as London church bells were ringing for vespers the Duke and Lord Percy rode into the City bound for the tatter’s town residence at Aldersgate. This mansion was but a few hundred yards beyond St. Paul’s, and it had been decided to use it for headquarters.
En route from Westminster to the City, the Duke had stopped at the Savoy to pick up certain of his men and Brother William Appleton. The Franciscan, now fully reinstated in the Duke’s favour, was to be one of Wyclif s advocates. The other three - a Carmelite, a Dominican and an Austin - were to meet them at Percy’s “inn”.
They crossed the wide market-place at West Chepe. All the booths and stalls were battened down now, and only the lowing of penned cattle from the shambles disturbed the quiet. They entered St. Martin’s Lane, and at the bend where it narrowed by the Goldsmiths’ Hall the Grey Friar suddenly saw three figures in the gloom ahead. Startled, he stood up in his stirrups and peered over the Duke’s shoulder. There was still light enough to recognise two black-habited monks and a third shorter man in a dark cleric’s robe. The three figures paused and wavered in a moment of obvious confusion, when they saw the horsemen approaching. Brother William caught the flash of something white and stiff being thrust into the clerk’s sleeve.
