Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (17 page)

Durian turned away, grabbing a mazer as he did so, as if embarrassed by his words, embarrassed by his expression. George did not hesitate; he walked over to Durian, took the cup from his hand and replaced it on the table.

“Look at me,” he said softly but with a hint of authority to make him obey. “Look at me, Durian.”

Durian tilted his head to look up at his master, tears threatening to spill from half closed eyes.

“There are only four people in my life that I trust: my mother, my brother of Gloucester, Peke and you. Of those four only you hold my innermost secrets, only you know my ambitions and my dreams, only you find out that which I wish to know. Because of this, Durian, you hold my life in your hands. Such is my trust in you. I did not think we would ever confess such thoughts to one another but I am right glad we spoke of it. I am comforted by your words and will sleep better this night for knowing the depth of your feelings. Know they are returned, four fold.”

He stood, helpless, as Durian’s tears finally overflowed and the small man shook with the force of his sobs. Then he reached out and put his arms around the thin body and held him close, recalling instantly the skeletal feel of his brother Richard when they had newly arrived at Ludlow and all was strange and frightening, remembering how good it felt to be the strong one then and realising how good it felt to be the strong one now. He knew, even as that thought crossed his mind, that at times he was capable of weakness. It was something he had to guard against. Thoughts raced through and around his emotions which were raging through him. Sleep? That would not come easy after these words, no matter what he might say to his Fool. It was very unusual for him to declare his deeper emotions for anyone or anything. His usual way was bluster or charm, scowls or smiles but all of that was designed to cover his real feelings, which were kept locked away behind the equivalent of a breastplate. Feelings were to be denied, ignored, crushed, for the moment you began to display them, people took advantage of you. Show softness and they would walk on you, show loyalty and they would deceive you, show love and they would leave you. Give nothing but pretend you are giving and you hold the upper hand. Durian had just got behind that breastplate, in the same way his brother of Gloucester had. I must be on my guard against tears, George told himself, even as Durian pulled away, slowly, and rubbed a sleeve over his wet face.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” Formal again, trying to re-establish their previous positions.

“Forget it, Durian,” George smiled at him with genuine fondness. “It’s too late for titles. Keep that for when we are in public.”

“As we are most of our lives, sire.”

“Unfortunately. I have cherished this time we spent alone, my friend.”

The casual use of the word almost started tears flowing again but with a supreme effort Durian visibly choked them back. George watched the struggle, then handed his Fool the mazer he had picked up earlier.

“Here, I feel you could do with this right now.”

“I could indeed.”

The wine disappeared and Durian smiled, a little awkwardly. “I did not expect that to happen.”

“Neither did I but perhaps we should have foreseen it, opening our hearts to one another as we did.”

“We should prepare ourselves for Compline, sire. The time grows short.”

George picked up a cloak and swung it around Durian’s shoulders, laughing at how much of it trailed on the ground. Durian joined in the laughter as he struggled to walk with the heavy garment dragging around his legs. “No, of a surety I cannot walk in that, sire! Here, you will need it, you feel the cold much more than I, despite your size.”

With the cloak on his own shoulders, George walked toward the door, then hesitated, a hand on the latch. “I thank you, Durian, from my heart. Your words have done much for me this night.”

“I thank you in return, sire, for the gift you gave me, your compassion. That means a lot to one such as myself.”

“Let none speak ill of you in my presence, or they will know my wrath, on that I give you my oath.”

“And that is enough to frighten Lucifer himself, Your Grace!”

Chapter 18

Ah, Durian, such memories! Why are you not with me now, to lift my spirits, to walk the paths of my memories with me! What had I done that God took you from me in that terrible winter, when the tertian fever struck down so many and the physician was powerless in the face of your torment? Do you know how much I wanted to be there, to comfort you in the last days and hours, even as I need comforting now in my last days and hours? Do you know how they denied me access to your room, saying I should keep myself away for fear of contracting the condition myself? Do you know how I did not care at the time if I did or not? My one need was to say farewell and thank you to a dear and trusted friend. Peke held me back; demanded I stay away for the sake of my family and those around me. Peke was right but I damned him for it all the same. Ah, that other devoted man, he put himself in dire danger by standing before your door and barring me from entrance, me, in one of my towering rages, too! A brave man, Peke, brave to the end to defy me thus. You know, Durian, only too well, what I am like when the temper takes me. But he stood firm and I knew he was right. So now I say to those spirits I am sure are gathering around me at this time, find Durian for me, find – no, even now I do not say your true name for you entrusted me with that, my friend, and even in my death days I will not reveal it to the world, not that the world can hear me! But you know how thoughts have energies of their own, do they not? I will not speak your name. Durian you were to me and Durian you will stay until I am with Isobel in the tomb in Tewkesbury which awaits me.

Again I ramble, oh how I ramble in these thoughts! Spirits, angels, whoever is with me at this time and of a surety there are phantoms here, I feel them, I sense them, I beg, I plead with you to find the spirit, soul, the essence of Durian and tell him how I treasured his friendship, his devotion, his loyalty, his humour and his music and how I was prevented from saying farewell by those who sought to keep me healthy.

And tell him how much of a joke that is, for here I am, under sentence of death twice over and it is no more than a toss of the dice which decides what will take me from this life! Ah yes, comes the part of me that wishes against all sensible thought that my brother the king’s execution warrant is enacted first: I would not, after all, deprive him of the knowledge, the ongoing memory, that he had his brother killed, murdered in cold blood. How cold that blood is, too, for Ned’s anger has long since abated. He does not carry it for too long; he is not one to brood on injustices to the point when it interferes with his hedonistic life. It is my wish to remain a regret, a torment in his darker moments. I know my brother the king, I know his sense of loyalty to family and I also know his pride. It is more than he could face to withdraw the sentence of treason from me and admit to being wrong, to restore my lands and my finances to me, after they were all returned to him to use as he wished, to dispose of as he wished and I doubt not that there were Wydevilles only too ready to accept the gifts of my estates. It is a small revenge on my part for his taking of my life. Petty, almost, but right now it is making me feel better and in that sense there is no argument; I will not tell him.

Did I not own so much and now do I own nothing at all but the clothes I wear against the cold of this prison cell? I refuse to call it anything but, it is a prison cell, I cannot open the door and walk out, find a horse and ride to Greenwich, to Tutbury or anywhere else. I cannot visit my lady mother, go to Isobel’s tomb and shed tears for her passing and what we might have had, I cannot find Peke and say my farewells to him and offer him my thanks for all his loyalty and devotion, too. I do swear these walls are closing in, that the room is smaller than it was some days ago, that inch by inch everything moves closer to me until in the end this will be my tomb. I long to go outside, to breathe clean air, to feel the wind on my face, to become wet through with winter rain and feel cleaned by it. I cannot.

I long to go and speak with those I loved and cared for and give them my thanks. I cannot. Even if I were free to walk outside, my words have gone, fled under the power of that which consumes me moment by moment. That of which I dare not think, let alone speak. I cannot allow it to win. I have to hold it back.

The shutters rattle against that fierce wind that is trying to get in. What will it find if it does? One tormented duke whose balance is gone, whose voice is gone, whose looks are gone. I have a beard, what would Isobel have made of that, I sometimes ask myself? I have a beard for it is easier when the men come to tend to me for them not to trouble with shaving me. I shake at times and the blade can slip. I have no colour any more, or so they tell me, for I have not been outside to gain the benefit of the freshness that is out there for those who do not appreciate it. And I am much heavier than I was, for there has been nothing for me to do but pace the floor and of a surety that becomes tiresome in the end, especially when balance has gone. So I sit and hold a mazer, empty or otherwise, stare into the flames and wish for someone to come and speak with me or for it all to be over, for this is not living, this is not death. This is a dreadful time of waiting and not knowing and, I repeat, for I am sure I have thought this already in these rambling memories, there is a cruelty in the not knowing.

On which thought I have to say my brother the king has not visited me in this prison but my brother of Gloucester has.

He came unannounced, walking into my chamber, my prison, as if it were the great hall of Fotheringhay or the state rooms at Tutbury. He came in rich robes which made me feel shabby, for my jewelled doublets are no longer available for me, nor do I really wish to wear them. I wear drab coloured tunics, dark hose and embroidered slippers, for where is there to go and who is there to impress?

It was as if he knew of my condition, for the first thing he said was “do not speak. Let me talk instead.” Squires were dismissed, the door was closed and my brother of Gloucester sat down opposite me across the table, his face solemn and the lines deeper than I ever saw them. Characteristically he immediately began to twist his rings, ever did I see him do this, twist those rings around and around as if they bothered him in some way. I pushed a mazer toward him but he shook his head. I recalled he rarely indulged in wine, only on special occasions. I recalled he was abstemious in most things of the body and wondered if I would have benefited from being thus whilst realising it was too late for such thoughts. He sat for a moment, as if wondering how to begin. When he did, the words came in a rush as if he would be done with them and be gone. I did not blame him for this, it cannot be easy to say goodbye to a brother, loved or otherwise.

“George,” he said and I thought, oh heaven be thanked, he did not call me Clarence as our brother the king had done. “I come to tell you this. I am leaving for the North in a day or so, when the packing is done and the provisions are prepared. I am leaving because there is nothing more I can do for you. If I stay I would be at Ned’s side pleading for your life and you know as well as I that if you demand of Ned he does the opposite, if you plead too much he does the opposite. I have spoken with our lady mother who has tried to intercede for you but also had to withdraw her petition for the same reason.”

I recall nodding emphatically for I knew this only too well of my brother the king. He was this way before he became king and having that supreme power had increased that tendency a thousand-fold. I knew just what Dickon was saying to me in the secrecy of my prison cell, knew it for God’s honest truth.

“I cannot bear to be here when you are executed. I cannot bear the thought that our brother has caused this to be written and will cause it to be carried out.”

Heartbreak. It was not just those who worked for me and were friends with me who would suffer when I finally walked through the door marked Death, but my family too, my lady mother who had suffered so much already and this caring thoughtful brother. My sisters? I did not know them well enough to be able to predict their emotions. My children would have to live with the knowledge that their father was a traitor, so-called, and make up their own minds whether that was the truth. I watched his face, watched the emotions chasing one another: anger, sorrow, love.

“I have arranged for more malmsey to be brought to you, I feel it is the least I can do at this time, George. I wish you-” He broke off, suddenly overcome. Richard, lost for words, Richard, the supremely controlled person, in danger of losing control. He kicked the chair back and stood, holding on to the table with hands that clenched so tight I feared for the wood itself. “I would undo this if it were in my power to do so,” he said so softly I wondered if I heard aright. “I would undo this but I cannot. If I go, if all pressures are removed from our brother, he might reconsider. Let them tell you I left without caring, let them tell you I gave no thought to my brother’s execution, that the North called instead. Let them tell you what they will but you have the truth, George. I am going because I think it might help and if it does not, then believe I am going because I cannot bear to be here when it happens. I will remember you in my prayers for the rest of my life.”

He strode to the door, that fine built man, hammering on it with a fist that sounded like iron. The door opened and he left without a backward glance, as if he could not stand to look upon me again. I had not realised his stature; I had not appreciated his aristocratic bearing until that moment. It was there in my thought, a fine built man.