Crown in Candlelight (55 page)

‘Never lose sight of the aim,’ said Davy Gam. Both eyes so clear and bright. ‘Edmund is the one.
Duw a’n bendithio
. God bless us.’

Wales shall rule England
. They said it together. The smoke swirled and filled Hywelis’s eyes with pain.

‘Help me,’ she said. ‘Help me, against the black one, Eleanor of Gloucester.’

‘We will help you.’ Their voices were faint. ‘Be brave.’

‘I don’t want to die!’ she cried. Madog started to howl ‘I want to live, until he comes to me again!’

‘We are with you,’ the faintness said. ‘He will come, but not yet. Be brave.’

Summer came. Summer passed. And in summer, Humphrey, at Windsor, stood admiring himself in the reflected twinkle of the mullioned window. He wore a new velvet jupon and mantle so richly red it pained the eyes. His soft black hat was powdered with lilies; across his chest was the gold Lancastrian collar of SS’s. All this elegance was marred somewhat by an uncomfortable tightness at his waist. But let who dared say he was becoming stout! His valets, in any event, had all but swooned with admiration. It was a day for careful rejoicing … Oh, Beaufort, Beaufort, he thought. As I wax, so shall you wane!

The long feud had burgeoned, a black growth, and Humphrey had applied the clyster, flushing out Beaufort’s treachery and greed into the sight of men. He thought: I have actually called him traitor before the Council, and have heard the murmurs of assent. How are the mighty fallen, Beaufort! It was I who made the Council aware of your monstrous acquisitiveness. It was I who, while you were away in Calais, drew attention to your misuse of the Statute of
Praemunire
, your angling for Papal Bulls so as to retain all your ecclesiastical preferment in England. Your discontent with the red hat, your illegal clinging to the See of Winchester … not to mention the Crown jewels! He laughed at his own thoughts. The young man who sat reading at the table behind him looked up, smiled a faint, cynical smile, and resumed his book.

The joy and satisfaction it had given Humphrey to snatch the greater part of the royal gems and plate from Beaufort’s cache at Sandwich was past telling. How eager the Cardinal had been to lend incalculable sums to Parliament in a desperate measure to redeem and ingratiate himself! but Beaufort would never again be trusted. Most wonderful of all—Humphrey of Gloucester now led the Council. I waited, he thought. Though my impotent fury half wore me out, I waited: Just as Harry did until cities fell. Attrition never fails. And now, save for my brother of Bedford, I am the most powerful man in the realm.

‘Beautiful,’ said the voice behind him, as if the mind to whom it belonged had been accompanying his bubbling thoughts. He turned. Richard of York closed the book and carefully folded it in layers of silk.

‘The
Astrolabe
? Or the
Legend of Good Women
?’ Humphrey could again, at last, appreciate Chaucer’s work. ‘Both,’ said Richard. ‘Weren’t they inspired by his travels in Italy?’

‘You may borrow them if you like,’ said Humphrey. Richard of York bowed. The reflected glow of Gloucester’s mantle rosied his face. It was a short strong keen face with fine bones and an unusually hard jawline, as if his teeth were permanently clenched. The eyes were a bright light blue, forceful and direct.

‘You’ll keep them safe,’ said Humprey. ‘Are you going up to Westmorland? Your betrothed lady will enjoy reading them. They get little in the way of culture in the North, I imagine.’

‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘I wrote to her from Calais.’ His hard face softened for an instant. ‘But naturally my main purpose here is to see your Grace, and to return the King.’

‘How was he in Calais?’

Richard said: ‘As usual. Everything seems rather too much for him. But he’s safely back, and at his prayers.’

‘Let’s have some wine,’ said Humphrey. Richard poured two full goblets from a tall gold flagon. Gloucester sat down opposite him, and raised his cup.

‘Sink our enemies,’ he said, and drank.

‘From what I hear,’ said Richard with a little smile, ‘most of yours are already
en perdition
!’

‘Ah, have a care, Dick,’ said Humphrey. ‘Some. Not all. Beaufort has lost face greatly. But de la Pole …’

‘Oh, Suffolk!’ said Richard of York. ‘Yes, indeed. He’s the Cardinal’s man and trades on his long history of martial closeness to the crown. My lord, I saw him in Calais. He advocates the new Treaty—this Treaty that is planned for Arras, if Burgundy and Armagnac keep the promises they have sworn together.’

‘Is it possible?’ said Gloucester incredulously. He refilled his gold goblet and took a great swig. ‘Did that witch-woman do so much damage that the feuding nobility of France cluster together like children frightened of the dark?’

‘France is sick,’ said Richard cryptically. ‘The
écorcheurs
still roam at large. Thousands of mad ragged wretches—some scarcely out of childhood—burning and looting and raising havoc, all in Jeanne d’Arc’s name. The poison’s within. The country’s crazy. Even Philip and Charles realize that unity is now the only hope.’

‘And the Treaty of Troyes no longer exists!’

‘Ay. Pope Eugenius declared it null and void, and the Fathers of Basle now recognize Charles the Seventh as rightful King. Only a marriage between the nations will give us back our foothold …’

‘How history repeats itself!’ said Humphrey bitterly, ‘Drink up, Dick. Tell me more.’

‘Philip is mellowing in his age,’ said York. ‘I wouldn’t say he has forgiven Armagnac, but he’s ready to forget. He demands reparation—thousands in gold spent on Masses for Jean sans Peur, his assassins found and punished (most of them are dead anyway)—and full expiation made for that day at Montereau. Charles attempts with some success to exonerate himself. He says he was young and led astray by false companions. And Philip is not the man he was. He bestows the new Order of the Golden Fleece willy-nilly—even on some Armagnacs. The Ram no longer butts and batters. All the lands that England and Burgundy won together will be thrown back into the common pool. Sweet Jesus!’ he said in sudden disgust. ‘All those decades of war, those mighty families decimated, for nothing.’ He spat on Humphrey’s fine Turkey rug, apologized, and said: ‘It’ll kill my lord of Bedford, all this.’

‘You think so?’ said Gloucester slowly.

‘Well, it’s trouble on trouble. He was most distressed over the death of Anne, his wife. We couldn’t comfort him for months.’

‘And with her went our last link with Burgundy,’ said Humphrey morosely. By now he was slightly drunk, his mood went up and down. He said, after a moment:

‘You’re a good and useful subject, Dick. How would you like to be the King’s lieutenant in France? He favours you, doesn’t he?’

‘It’s more honour than I deserve, your Grace. And yes, he does.’ And he trusts me too, he thought. Because I have the wit to be kind and sympathetic to his fancies. Not like you. You old devil! Then smoothly he returned to the topic of French policies.

‘They’re desperately concerned to have Charles of Orléans back—God’s life!—’ he laughed—‘it will be twenty years since he was imprisoned. Suffolk says …’

‘What does Suffolk say?’ said Humphrey heavily. The flagon was almost empty.

‘Suffolk, as chief warden of Orléans’s captivity, declares it will need the ransom of five kings to secure the Duke’s release. Though Orléans, I gather, is far from unhappy. He has least two high-born mistresses, and writes poems to them. Let’s hope he doesn’t get their names mixed up.’

‘Dick,’ said Humphrey, no longer listening, ‘about the King. Henry must marry—’ he belched—‘one of Charles’s daughters.’

‘I’d already heard that was what you had in mind. But,’ he said delicately, ‘Prince Louis is still heir to the French throne. Ten years old, ugly as sin, but strong. However, you know best. My lord of Bedford will hate the thought of such an alliance!’

‘It will kill him,’ said Humphrey thickly. He tipped his winecup over, cursed, and rang a little silver bell as if he loathed it. A page mopped up and brought more wine and withdrew. The two men sat silent. Richard of York watched Gloucester closely. Yes my lord. I know well how much your mind frets over thrones and kingships. How much you’ve craved the crown of England yourself. And, by sweet Christ Jesus, so do I!

Soon, he would come into his vast inheritance, the proud acres of York, the dukedom’s northern holdings and his father’s entailed lands not to mention the vast Mortimer estate due him through his mother Anne, whose brother had died childless years ago. His square jaw tightened as he looked at Gloucester’s lax scarlet form. I am a king’s councillor. I shall be a king’s lieutenant. But by right I
am
a king. Through my undeniable claim which none has ever taken seriously. They will. I am the direct descendant, on the distaff side, of the third Edward. Now I pay lip service to this bully of Lancaster. But I’ll stake my claim or die in the attempt. And I have a woman behind me. Once again the taut Plantagenet face softened as he thought her name. Cicely Neville. The Rose of Raby, waiting for him now in Westmorland. Cicely with her panther’s heart and her mind like finest Nuremberg steel. Centuries of high Norman blood roaring in her veins (and his); beauty to make the pulse of even the blind beat faster. His true and chosen mate. The future mother of kings. Of this he was as sure as if a sybil had spoken it. With Cicely, he thought for the thousandth time, I can achieve the world. The thoughts made his face hot. He said lightly:

‘This is good drinking and good company, my lord. Is there more you wish from me? You’ve seen the despatches?’

But venom was creeping over Gloucester; the wine worked in his brain.

‘So, Dick,’ he said with contempt, ‘you think the King is old enough to take a wife?’

‘He’s in his twelfth year,’ said York, and shrugged. ‘Though he’s passing fond of his mother still. We came by Hertford so he could call on her.’

And he smiled at the remembrance of what he had seen. The strange, secret ménage at Hertford, a little world, fraught with tremors of an unstable ecstasy that one could almost touch. He had been fascinated, loath to leave, especially with Henry in tears again, clinging to the Queen-Dowager and to Master Tydier, and the tumultuous ambience of love had made him think of Cicely, his Rose, his own lieutenant in the cause …

‘You saw his mother,’ said Gloucester. In his hand his goblet felt pliant, as if he could crush the soft gold shapeless. ‘What of her?’

Richard didn’t answer for a moment. Master Tydier seemed on very familiar terms with the King. ‘
Paid a llefain, Harry, bach!
’ he’d said, looking at the boy with those strange eyes, and the tears had ceased. As for Katherine … he smiled again.

‘Well,’ he said. He shot a little glance at Gloucester under his lashes, man to man. He laughed. ‘Totally given over to the pleasures of Eros, I’d say. The children are very comely, the two little boys …’

The winecup did bend. Two dents appeared on either side. Humphrey said hoarsely: ‘Two boys? She has children?’

Richard swallowed his surprise. He said with great diplomacy:

‘I know that your Grace sees nothing of the Queen-Dowager these days … that would explain … I was aware, however, for the King speaks often of his half-brothers, to whom he seems attached. There was, I believe, another child, a girl, Margaret. About a year ago. But she died soon after birth.’

A long silence, during which an unkindness of ravens set up a barking in the trees outside, and Gloucester studied his winecup. Richard watched. He felt the quivering indrawn rage, as surely as he had felt the tremors of passion at Hertford. Now why? he thought, intrigued. Spleen at being made to look ridiculous? Fear that two little bastard boys find favour with our future sovereign? Or—and this perhaps unlikely—mere male jealousy? For Katherine is a peach, a prize. I’ll try that one, just for bravado. Like poking a stick into a nest of hornets.

‘I must say,’ he remarked casually, ‘that Master Owen Tydier looks very fine. Welsh wildman he may be, but, by Christ’s bones! I swear he must be the handsomest man in England!’

And sat back and waited, holding his breath, and would have been disappointed save for the sight of a vein galloping uncontrolled in Humphrey’s temple. Christ! he’ll have a stroke, thought Richard with interest. Gloucester rose, and walked to the window. He said, looking out:

‘The woman is a disgrace. She profanes Harry’s blessed memory. She must be mad, like all Valois.’ Then he said: ‘How does she seem?’

Richard had also risen from his chair. ‘My lord, you’ll soon have the opportunity to see for yourself. I passed her equipage on the road.’

And took his farewells and bowed out, graceful, hard as a diamond. He listened for an instant outside, to hear the little oath and the flung goblet’s tinsel note. Then made his way swiftly from the palace. Time I was away. Westmorland now, and the face and voice of the Rose, and beauty and strength in the plans for the House of York to live for ever.

Gloucester kept Katherine waiting for half an hour after her arrival. The Duchesses flitted in and out of the antechamber, greeting her with light kisses and meaningless courtesies. She had seen none of them for a long time. She felt the vibrations of their subtle curiosity. The gown, your Grace, the azure and gold,
ravissante
. But your Grace still has the cough,
hélas
! She wanted to say: this is the first time I’ve coughed in months and months. It’s because he keeps me waiting. The longer I wait the more I cough. Silently she rehearsed the conversation, wondering how best to put him off balance when he came. My lord, I have tried seven times to see you. My lord, what are these rumours I hear of a match for the King with his cousin of France? My lord, I understand it is your custom to persecute my son; he weeps overmuch. I command that this cease forthwith … He struck him.
Owen told me
.

The dry spasms in her throat continued. One of the Duchesses brought her a drink, admiring her headdress, a little pale-blue cap crowned with two snowy horns of veiling. Owen chose my dress for today. He didn’t want me to come. I started coughing, it worried him. He had Guillemot brew me some elecampane, the yellow flower. The leech-women at Glyndyfrdwy call it
marchalan
. Now, how to begin with my dear brother-in-law? Do I still fear him? Yes. No, I fear nothing these days. Owen has taught me not to fear. He has taught me to show passion, and anger; he has released my inner self. Yet I still cough, waiting for Humphrey. Think of something else—quickly. That’s what Owen always says. When you are in a difficult situation, a static situation like this, think of something interesting, or challenging, or beautiful. There are so many beautiful things I can think of, while waiting for Humphrey.