A Secret Alchemy (7 page)

I could not suppress the few tears that welled in my eyes, as they seemed ready to do for so many small, foolish causes, so near was I to my time. It was not her words themselves, I think, or their being in English, when she more often wrote to all us children in French for our better education; it was the sight of her signature, big and black in her own hand, underwriting her clerk’s neat script.

We had not yet heard from John when Margaret arrived two days later.

“You are to sleep with Mal,” I said, hauling myself up the stairs. “I have ordered her girl to sleep in the attic.” When we reached her bedchamber, Mal began to unpack Margaret’s bags. She had brought with her almond comfits, honey from the Grafton hives, a basket of early roses, a note from Antony, a wooden sheep the size of a large kitten that my brother John had whittled for the baby, and a bundle of shirts, caps, and bibs that my sisters had stitched.

“It’s to be hoped your baby isn’t as crooked as this cap Jacquetta’s made,” said Margaret, holding it up. “And Anne is sure it will be a girl, so she has made two smocks instead of shirts.”

“Oh, no, I pray it is not,” I said, looking up from Antony’s note. The weather had not been dry enough for much sport, he said, but he had been snaring rabbits and fishing, and reading
Épîtres du débat sur le Roman de la Rose
. He commended to me
La Cité des Dames
, by the same Christina of Pisa.

Mal shook her head and tutted. “That’s very foolish of Mistress
Anne. There’s no difference in the shape of it. A baby’s a baby. Shirt or smock, what’s in a word so long as it keeps him warm? Or her. Now, that’s enough messing with good linen,” she went on, for Margaret was trying to fit Jacquetta’s cap onto the wooden sheep and giggling. “Give over, and come downstairs, for Mistress Ysa needs her rest, and I want to hear how the others go on. And have you news of the little girls at Calais?”

I was indeed very weary, and more than willing to make for my own bedchamber. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Margaret, even as I put my hand to the latch. “Our mother wrote that she has sent to Lich-field Cathedral, begging that they may lend you the girdle of Saint Margaret of Antioch that’s there. Lambing went so well at home that she was able to offer more gold in return than she had hoped. They agreed to send it as soon as they might. There’s a dragon on it, of course. I hope it may not bite the baby. Sleep well!” she cried, and ran downstairs after Mal. I could just hear Mal scolding her for speaking so lightly of such a holy thing, and of her own namesake, too.

It was weeks since I had been able to lie comfortably, but the happiness of knowing Margaret was downstairs warmed me. I was just dropping off to sleep when cramp seized my guts. I came wide awake, but the cramp had faded. I reached for my rosary and began to say
Ave Maria
and
Pater Noster
, hoping I might sleep again, despite the fear for John that never wholly left me. But I had not said one decade when the cramp seized me again.

Had my time come already? I wondered, as it faded. We had not yet made preparation for my lying-in. Perhaps it would pass if I lay quietly and went on with my prayers. When they were done I turned my head, and looked toward the tapestry of Melusina that my mother, as good as her word, had caused to be made and hung above my bed. Melusina in her dragon form, her ancestress and
mine as the histories of France attested, strong in childbed and guardian of her young. Another cramp seized me, much worse, and I knew it was beginning.

I was quick in my time, so Mal said afterwards, but quicker is not always easier. I called Mal and Margaret, and a man was sent running to the village for Mother Goodier, the midwife. How can I speak of those next few hours? I cannot truly recall them, and yet I cannot forget them either, though what I do recall is confused by memories from later years and other childbeds. Indeed, I know of no woman that has lived through childbirth who can forget wholly, or recall truly. And of those who die shriven, should I meet them, God willing, in Heaven, I know that they will not have forgotten either. Sometimes I wonder what the saints would think, may they forgive me, to hear us discussing the curse that God in His wisdom laid upon Eve and her daughters.

By the time Mother Goodier arrived, each pain seemed to seize me and crush me as if against a rock. In between I found some breath, and Margaret wiped my brow with lavender water, and Mother Goodier brewed a drink of herbs over the fire for me to sip. Then just as I began to forget, to soften and doze, the pain gripped again, crushing harder and longer until I thought I must be dead and dragged down by devils to the burning rocks of hell. And then I was cool and quiet, and in my aching drowsiness I heard an arrival in the hall below, and a clatter as Margaret ran from my bedchamber, before another pain seized me.

So fierce was this one that it seemed an age before I saw that she had returned and held something before my eyes: a strip of silk and leather, dark and stained with age, stitched with curious signs I could not read and a fat and smiling dragon. “It’s the girdle, Ysa! Saint Margaret’s girdle. Now all will be well.”

Mal crossed herself.

“Now, mistress, we must tie it around your belly,” said Mother Goodier, bending down with a grunt to where I squatted on the stool, with my head resting on my arms where I gripped the bedpost. “Up you get so that we may do it with reverence.”

I hauled myself up a little, and another pain took me. After that, to move again seemed impossible, but I had to do it. In the next breathing space I got my weight onto my feet and half stood. Mal raised my smock. Mother Goodier tied the girdle round, lifting my swollen breasts from where they lay on my belly. Her hands were cold, I recall. Mal let my smock fall. Another pain was due, but nothing came and suddenly I felt so tired that I had to grip the bed end harder still, or fall.

“See what Blessed Margaret can do? It won’t be long now, mistress,” said Mother Goodier. “Back on the bed with you.” I stumbled up onto it and tried to squat, but rocked forward onto my hands and knees. A pain seized me and pressed me so hard that my guts seemed near to exploding. Somewhere they were calling, praying, shouting to push, to bear down, and I did, once, then more, the pain never-ending, just the same, then more, a breath, and more still until my cries seemed to be wrenched from me by the pain itself that was tearing and splitting my guts apart and there was nothing left of me but pain and howling and then a hot, slithery slipping and I collapsed onto my belly in a pool of blood and shit and heard cries that were new and small and not my own.

I was lying with Thomas at my breast when I heard a shout at the gate, and the tramp and shuffle of a handful of tired men and horses in the yard. Mother Goodier had forbidden me to stand out of bed until the tenth day, but I tried to sit up without disturbing
Tom. He began to mewl and inside his bands I could feel his little fists jerking as I rocked him quiet.

“Ysa! Ysa!” Margaret was scrambling up the stairs from the hall. “It’s John, he’s home!”

By his tread I could tell how weary he was. He stood in the doorway, his brigandine loose-laced and beneath it the leather of his jack dark with sweat. “York has won. Somerset is dead. His Grace the King is wounded, but not mortally. He is taken to London.”

“What? Oh, dear Lord Jesus! May God preserve King Henry. May God rest their souls.” I sat up and snatched my hand from under Tom’s head to cross myself with such a jerk that his hard, greedy gums wrenched at my nipple and I all but cried out.

Margaret came forward. “I’ll take him, Ysa.”

“No, he’s not finished.” I lifted my breast into his mouth again and as ever had to curl my toes and clench my hands as he bit down.

John’s dark face was stiff with weariness and defeat but his smile cracked it. “They tell me it’s a son.”

“Yes,” I said. “Margaret, please you go down and look to it that the men are given food and drink and such care as they need.” She went out as if she would rather have stayed.

Thomas sucked hard, and then as suddenly fell asleep, with his mouth still open and his head lolling on my arm. I pulled my smock to cover myself.

John came forward at last, and sat on the edge of the bed, then leaned forward to kiss me. “He’s well? My son?”

“Please God, yes. And a good, lusty fellow, Mal says. We—I—thought to name him for Saint Thomas à Becket. But he is not yet christened. It is planned for tomorrow. We did…we did not think we should wait for your return. But if you dislike it…”

“No, Thomas is a good name. Thomas Grey. Sir Thomas Grey in time, God willing, and Lord Ferrars of Astley and Groby in the end. It’s good. And you’re well?”

“Yes, I pray so. I feel well enough.”

He nodded but was silent for so long that I began to feel fearful. “Husband, what of the King? Is he still in his wits?”

He shook his head, like a bull bothered by a fly. “I know not. Though to have such a thing happen…Who knows what will come of it? York escorts him back to London, and that’s all we know.” He reached forward to touch Thomas’s cheek. “My son. It is well.” Still in sleep, Thomas’s head turned so that his lips touched John’s broad finger like a kiss and he made a little snuffling sound. “York and the Earl of Warwick have His Grace the King,” John went on, as if explaining it to me, saying it again, would make him believe it to be true. “His Grace of Somerset is dead, among many others.”

“God rest their souls,” I said. “And may Heaven preserve the living. But how did it happen?”

“We rode south from Grafton and found the King at Saint Albans, holding the road to London. No more than his councilors with him, and York but half a mile or so to the east. York sent to offer submission to the King in return for Somerset surrendering himself to them, for they maintain Somerset was to blame. But when Somerset refused, they attacked. His Grace the King gave the order to spare the commons, but not the gentry.”

His words were heavy, like the tramp of troops, and quickening as if he heard again the trumpets and drums of an advance. “Such men as we had were seasoned in France and the Scottish borders, and York’s battles could not break through ours, not from the flank. Ours stood like rocks but we had too few of them. Then Warwick’s archers came up past the Chequers Inn. They
broke us from the front when they advanced, and we were fighting in the main street. In the end we held only the Castle Inn—do you remember it?” I nodded. We had often dined there on our way from Grafton; outside the door the street bustled with carts, mule trains and travelers, and all the world that took the London road.

John was speaking, his eyes narrowed as if he still watched for the next attack and numbered such men as might still be gathered together to fight. “It was not an ill position, but by then we had not even a man to bear the King’s standard. I found it lying in the gutter and propped it against the inn wall. An arrow caught the King in the neck—only a flesh wound, but still—and he ran for shelter. At the last His Grace of Somerset went forth, for there was none left unwounded, and he was killed, though he killed four himself before he was brought down. He was a great man. And many others taken and held prisoner. It is given out that the King is no prisoner, but that his faithful and loyal cousin of York merely has rescued him from Somerset and other evil counselors.”

“And that’s named loyalty! But you were not hurt? Nor your father? Or the men?”

“None of ours. Joseph Carter from Grafton Mill had an arrow in the thigh, but no more than a graze.”

“That’s good, him being so lately married and she with child. I would not like to think of her a widow.”

“It was not so likely. Warwick’s archers shot at the lords about the King, not the commons, and they know their business. We were safe enough.”

“We must send to my father.”

“Aye, though there will be plenty carrying such news to Calais.

And with Somerset gone and York ruling the King in London, your father is like to lose his command there soon enough. York
will want Calais and the garrison in the hands of his affinity. He will give it to Warwick, no doubt.” He stood up and stretched his arms above him, then winced. “I must eat, and wash, and sleep. Who knows what may happen next? His Grace the King is not the man to hold his own against such a one as York is.”

“The Queen will strengthen his resolve, having now a son to fight for.”

“Aye. But she hates York so, and the more now, in grief for Somerset. As your father says, she has all the valor that His Grace the King lacks, but not the wisdom to temper it.”

“I know it. Husband, should we look to our own defenses, here at Astley?”

“It would be wise, I think.” He stopped with his hand on the latch. “It was said York had his son with him, Edward, Earl of March. Not much more than ten summers, he must be, but well-blooded now.” He went out and closed the door behind him.

Thomas heaved a sigh. One arm twitched inside his bands, and his eyelids flickered as if he were flying a hawk in his dreams. Like a knife in my breast came the wish that he were not what I had prayed for at every Mass since at last I knew I was with child; not what I had thought to give thanks for on the morrow, when I heard the church bell ring for his christening; not what I would kneel for in gratitude before Our Lady when I myself was churched. I had prayed for a son, and my prayers had been granted. Small, hot tears welled into my eyes, ran down my cheeks, and fell onto his brow. What would become of my son? How could he be safe in this world where even boys were brought to battle, fought, killed, and saw a king defeated and imprisoned by his own kin?

Antony—Prime

At least I am not chained. I have had my wrists bound only
once, and how angry I was! Angry with all the ferocity and fear of seventeen. My father frowned at me and, even as I was silenced, I thought as the young do that he could not know the humiliation I suffered, in the luxury of having his knightly word accepted as parole when mine was not.

To hear the tale you would think it the stuff of boys’ games, but the fear was real, and so were the wounds. When I told it to Louis, he laughed as I did at the valorous folly of my boyhood, but then he stretched his hand across the tavern board and gripped my forearm hard, as if to take onto himself the hurt to my body and my pride.

Even now, with all I later learned of Richard, Earl of Warwick, I wonder that he did what he did that night. York’s idea of protect
ing the realm in King Henry’s second madness was to give Calais into Warwick’s command, but then Henry regained his wits and York was no longer Protector. He stormed back to his stronghold in Dublin, and sent his own son, Edward of March, to his cousin Warwick at Calais. There they stayed like dragons in their lair, lashing out to raid the ships that passed through the Channel laden with salt and furs and wine.

My father was ordered to Sandwich, to seize the rest of Warwick’s ships in the King’s name. We did it easily enough, with no blood shed worth the mention: seasoned sailors know when it’s folly to put up a fight.

“In the name of the King,” I cried, in the face of one who looked to have some hot blood left in him for all he was disarmed.

“A king that’s half mad, propped on his throne by a witch-woman, and his so-called son none of his own getting?”

Even a prisoner may be treated ungently when he says such things. I struck the man in the face. “To defy an anointed king is to defy God, you blasphemous scum!” I cried. I believed it too. I still do.

“Warwick is a great man,” said my father, as we sat over a last cup of hippocras, a week later, hard by the quay in the best inn in Sandwich. Those who had been hurt in taking the ships were on the mend. The Kentish men had not risen behind us in support of Warwick, as we had feared they might, and all was quiet. My father had been shocked to find that of Warwick’s five ships all were in ill repair and the
Grace Dieu
not even seaworthy, and he set the carpenters to work. We were lodged comfortably enough and dined well, which was a pleasure for my father and a comfort to my mother. We even had the time and the safety to make a small pilgrimage to Canterbury.

“But Warwick would rather squat in Calais than return and try to mend the kingdom,” he was saying. “He will have matters on his own terms, or not at all.”

My mother rose. “My lord—son—I am for my bed.”

I rose and bowed to her, and she kissed my brow, then curtsied to my father before he embraced her.

All was as quiet as Sandwich ever is when I rode back through the deep cold of January to my own lodging. The news of wind and tide was proclaimed by trumpets even in the small hours, and the taverns did good business with ale and wine and whores, as taverns in a great port do. But my men and I agreed that we could hear nothing untoward, only the calls of the watches we had set on each ship.

I was weary with the pleasant ache of work well done. I took a moment to scrawl a note to Elysabeth, and tied it into a bundle with presents for her boys, a copy I had made of Lull’s
Booke of Knighthood and Chivalry
for Tom and a scarlet whip-top from the marketplace for little Dickon, to go with the next man riding to Grafton that they might send it on to Astley. The men, rolled in their cloaks about the fire of our lodging, grumbled that the light kept them awake, so I snuffed my taper and knelt for my prayers in the dark.

I was deep in my first sleep when a shout burst into my dreams, and another, and blows fell upon the door. “We’re attacked! They’re seizing the ships! Sir Antony! God save us, you must make haste!” I was up and pulling on my boots almost before my eyes were open, my fellows and I bumping elbows, swearing at the pain of skinning-over grazes got in the fight the week before, and fumbling with points and brigandines. There was no time to take horse—it was more urgent to arm ourselves—and we ran out, past Whitefriars and the Rope Walk to the Dover Gate, where we
gathered two more men, which was all that could be spared and the gate still be held. Then we ran on down the Chain toward the quay with our swords drawn.

In the light of the inn’s cressets, I saw my father standing, unarmed and in his nightgown, surrounded by men bearing Warwick’s badge. My mother stood beside him, dressed all by guess, a bundle on the cobbles beside her, and behind them loomed the bulk of one of the ships.

We were outnumbered but we did our best, for my father could do nothing. The enemy came to meet us with roars of
à Warwick
, but our shouts for the King were soon lost in the clangor of steel. We left several wounded beyond fighting. I saw a man of theirs go down with the tendon in his knee cut, crying in French to the Virgin. Another got a slash to his face so that he could see nothing for the blood. One of ours was killed—Joseph Carter, from Grafton Mill, rest his soul—and I got a cut on my shoulder deep enough to loosen my hold on my sword. I knew it was over even before I found a dagger at my throat.

“Save yourselves!” I cried to my men, hoarse and fearful for them, and the dagger pricked the skin of my neck. My men fled into the dark streets.

Warwick’s men took no trouble to go after ours, nor, as far as I could tell in the darkness, did they try to seize the town. It seemed that we Wydvils, and the ships their lord claimed as his own, were all that they desired. A hand fell on my shoulder wound. I thought the pain would brand the flesh forever, and then I was pressed down so that my knees struck the cobbles hard.

The men about my father and mother began to urge them toward the edge of the quay. My hands were seized and bound with rope behind me.

“You scum! Scoundrels!” I tried to twist round on my knees to face my captor, but the dagger pricked my throat again. “How dare you? How dare you? I am a sworn knight!”

“We’ve our orders,” said my captor, pulling me to my feet. “Come along.”

“You must accept my parole!”

“That’s as may be,” he said.

“I’ll see you hanged for this, you scum!” I stumbled on the gangplank, for I could not get my balance with my hands tied. “You’ve no right to treat a sworn knight thus!”

I tried to step proudly onto the deck, lost my footing, and went sprawling, striking my wounded shoulder on a barrel as I fell. Someone laughed, then another. I struggled to my knees and found I was looking up at my father. My mother was nowhere to be seen. What had they done to her?

“Son, be still. Save your breath for when it can be of use.” He turned to the man who was even then hauling me roughly to my feet. “Good sir, not all men learn the rules of chivalry, but you, I am sure, know them well. My son is indeed a sworn knight, and you may accept his parole in good faith. Indeed, sir, you must do so. My lord of Warwick would not expect otherwise, for he is himself as great a knight as any in the kingdom, as I well know.”

“Aye, that he is, though they say my lord of March bids fair to rival him,” said the man. “Well, my lord, I’ll take your word that your boy need not be bound.”

I could bear it no longer. “You must take my own word,
sir
, not my—”

“My son is young,” said my father, making his voice gentle. “We were all such hotheads once, were we not? If you would be so good as to unbind him?”

My pride would not allow me to rub my wrists where the ropes had bruised them. “Sire,” I said to my father, ignoring the man who still stood at my shoulder, “what of my mother?”

“She is well enough. They have not used her ill.” He contrived to smile. “I think we are to take a little journey to Calais. She was always fond of the place, and loves a chance to use her native tongue.”

As it fell out, she had that chance for some time.

The mists have burned away now. The men about me ride with closed faces, their northern voices dry and brief, speaking only of the business in hand, and little enough of that. It seems they know as well as I do what their business is. They are alert, for no manat-arms or archer on duty is otherwise. But they are at ease, for we are in a country and among a people who have long been Richard of Gloucester’s own to command. No nervous glances over their shoulders by these men, no hands on hilts, no hasty changes of plan. Just a solid troop, jog-trotting toward York at the start of a long, hot day’s ride. This silent, workaday journey is a journey like any other: its route, its stopping places, its end are all ordained.

And yet the end for me is like no other: my end, the end of my life on this earth.

Sometimes I wonder if it will be as I once seemed to see it. The day of our pilgrimage to Canterbury there was stone around me, and golden light ahead and far above. From somewhere there came singing, the notes lifting and falling among the arches. I inched my way along on my knees. Each stone rasped them more raw than the last, each pace was a trial of my strength, a test of my humility, of my patience, of my willingness to offer everything to God. Pain and humiliation, body and soul humbled together, offered at the shrine
of a martyr who once offered more than I ever could, who willingly gave his whole self to a brutal death in God’s ser vice.

How little and weak was my offering by comparison: my small, young pilgrimage! The great stones smelled of ice and earth. There was incense thick and harsh, the long-dried iron of holy water on my brow and lips and naked breast, the reek of sweat. Pain and heat began to thread with the music through my mind. I reached the top of the steps, and the golden light swelled like a cloud ahead of me. I could move more quickly, make haste in my pain to the Presence, to that precious shrine that seemed almost to hang in the air before me, beckoning, flickering, ruby, ivory, sapphire, and gold casing those few mortal scraps that were left to us, filling my eyes and nose with a scent that rang in my ears like bells, that drew me on and held me rapt, desiring nothing but to reach its heart, the resting place of holy Thomas, where pain and grief would be no more than a shadow, a memory of a gift that I once gave to God.

Una—Wednesday

Lionel’s on the platform when my train pulls into Saint
Albans. Izzy may not look like an artist anymore, but Lionel still looks exactly what he is: the City businessman, semiretired only because he’s made as much money as he could possibly want. Everything about him is well groomed: tweed jacket, ironed shirt and perfectly knotted tie, fine leather gloves, brogues whose polish wouldn’t disgrace an off-duty cavalry officer, black hair silvering handsomely at the temples. I remember noticing how that gloss crept over him when he began working in the City, and still more after he met Sally. I’m so pleased to see him, but he makes me feel scruffy and travel-stained, though I’ve had time to do some wash
ing and even iron my shirt, and a half-hour trip on a half-empty train can’t do much harm.

“Journey all right?” he asks, kissing my cheek.

But I can’t stop myself. “Uncle Gareth says the workshop’s got to go as well.”

“Here, let me take your bag. I know, it’s such a shame. I hope you don’t mind if we walk. It’s not far.”

I hold on to my bag. “I can manage, thank you. Besides, it’s only a toothbrush and clean knickers. Not heavy…Is it really necessary to sell the workshop?” I continue, as we shoulder our way through the crowds on London Road. “You should have seen him. I don’t want to be melodramatic, but I honestly think it would be the death of him.”

“Oh, I think he’s tougher than that. Though he’s sorry, of course. But it does look as if it’s the only way. And how about you? Have you been very busy since you got here?”

“Yes, fairly. You know what it’s like.”

“You must tell me if there’s anything I can do. I mean, obviously I’m not qualified for the Australian end of things. But advice…”

He doesn’t, as Izzy did, give me a hug, but I can sense that his mind’s readying itself to grapple with my business if I ask him to, and affection rushes through me. “It’s okay so far, thanks. About the Chantry: Does Izzy know? I haven’t spoken to her today.”

“Yes, she does.”

“She must be absolutely shattered. She lived at the Chantry longer than either of us. I always thought it was a mistake that she and Paul moved away.”

“You can’t blame a man for not wanting to live with his in-laws forever.”

“I suppose not. But is there
really
no way round it? Selling the Chantry, I mean. Never mind Izzy, what about Uncle Gareth?”

We’re crossing St Peter’s Street in a bright, plastic bustle of shoppers. He sighs and shakes his head. “I’ve had my conveyancing specialist turning it inside-out, and it can’t be done. Did you know that Sparrow’s Lane is a private road?”

“I suppose so. It says so on the sign, or it always did.”

“Yes. The neighbors have persuaded the owner to block access for construction traffic. Whereas if we sell the whole property, they can use the back gate.
That
lane’s a byway—public road—even though it’s not asphalted. It’s all or nothing, I’m afraid.”

It sounds unarguable, but I want to argue it. I didn’t think I would; thought, if anything, that it would be good to shed the last scraps of my English life. But it isn’t, because that means…shedding the last scraps of my memories of Mark.

Mark?

After seeing—what? His ghost? I can’t pretend to myself any longer that it’s not important, that it’s all long ago. Yes, it’s long ago, but it mattered too much. Things that mattered that much—that once hurt that much—don’t cease to exist because years pass, because I moved to the other side of the world, because Adam and I were happy.

Somewhere inside me something stirs. Not nostalgia. Not sadness. Something small but fierce, about now, not then.

“So you’re writing about the Wars of the Roses,” Lionel’s saying, as we cross Chequer Street, shouldering our way through delivery-men, traffic wardens, and tourists making for the abbey. “York and Lancaster and so on. Does the battle of Saint Albans come into it?”