Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (3 page)

The angel sighed over the baby as he lay, not forgotten but temporarily neglected as the weary mother was attended to. Quietly she breathed into his mouth as it opened, breathed in pure light and life, poured in that which she had in abundance, pure unconditional love. Then she stood back as the midwife approached the cradle to look down on the one she had just helped to bring into the world.

“A fine boy,” she murmured, so low the angel believed only she heard the words. “A fine boy, destined for greatness and for great shame. Oh yes, there will be dragons but mostly of your own creation, little one.” She looked around furtively, afraid of being overheard, of anyone realising she was more than just a midwife. No one was near, they were all too busy with their duties, flustering around the Duchess who doubtless would have preferred to send them all packing and just lie there with her child at her overflowing breast. Protocol was everything, though: when a royal prince arrived, protocol had to be followed to the letter, whether the mother wished it or not. Soon he would be carried away to be baptised, to ensure his place in Heaven. Only then could his exhausted mother look at her new child and the wet nurse be able take up her duties.

The woman reached out a gnarled finger and traced a sign on the baby’s forehead. It was the sign against witchcraft and the angel sighed again. It would take more than a sign from a wise woman to protect this one from the life he had to come.

Chapter 3

“George, come on!”

He was crossing the Great Hall, a vast area of flagstones, timbers, huge intimidating tapestries and heavy carved furniture, when his sister raced up to him, her blue satin skirts rippling in the afternoon sunlight, copper coloured curls dancing in her agitation.

“Come on, where to?” he asked politely whilst inwardly anxious to get away.

“Our lord father’s arriving soon! You said you wanted to see him ride in! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where have you been hiding?”

She looked flustered and irritated, as well as conveying a sense of excitement. Her eyes betrayed her inner feelings more than her face; at the age of eight Margaret Plantagenet was fast learning to conceal that which she felt. George, just five, had no such control and expressed all his feelings with open candour and engaging naivete.

“I wasn’t hiding, I was in my chamber and then a squire said there’s a litter…” His voice trailed off as he realised what his sister had just told him; their lord father was due at Fotheringhay very soon and he had asked, if not outright demanded, that she go with him so he could watch from the battlements when the duke arrived. He hoped that by going to that forbidden place with his sister, he would avoid the inevitable censure that came from breaking one of the many rules that governed every part of his life.

“Come on! I think there’s still time!” Margaret set off at a run, skirts bunched in her small hands, embroidered slippers flashing shards of light from the gold thread stitched among the flowers. George raced after her, leather boots thumping on the flagstones. He skirted the long table, narrowly missing a carver, snapping his fingers at his favourite wolfhound sprawled indolently in front of the hearth. The dog looked up but didn’t move.

The bailey of Fotheringhay held the heat of the late afternoon sun within the great stone walls, the grass browning through lack of moisture. Fortunately no one was around at that moment, a rare event indeed; the castle was normally a hive of activity. George grinned as they ran across the brittle grass and climbed the stone steps leading to the walk at the top of the castle walls. That was the place to be, where he could see everything and, with luck, no one would see him, although he was well aware he was wearing one of his brightest tunics, a vivid glowing red bordered and decorated with gold. Against the stonework he would stand out like a misplaced flower. Perhaps they won’t look up, he thought. If I keep my fingers crossed like this, they won’t look up and no one will know we are up here. I can do magic, I know I can!

He looked at Margaret’s deep blue dress shot with cloth of silver and thought she looked like a displaced cornflower. But magic would cover both of them, of course it would. No one would see them.

The gentle breeze brought the scent of summer, of ripening crops and fruit, of dust and dried grasses to George. The smell was as familiar as the herbs and rushes inside the castle itself. The stone was sun heated and rough under his crossed fingers, the walk warm even through the soles of his boots. It was good being so high up, a small person feeling like a large one for a while.

“I hope no one sees us,” Margaret panted, dropping one side of her skirt to push her curls back from her face, which had gone red with exertion. “We’re not supposed to be up here.”

“No one will miss us and it was your idea, you said come on.” George, energetic, fit and strong, had no outward signs of being out of breath despite the fast climb.

“I know, but you asked – George, Susanna might be looking for us.” Second thoughts were setting in. Margaret looked and sounded distinctly uncomfortable. It was one thing to be brave when down on the ground, another to maintain it when high above everyone, in a place they were strictly forbidden to go.

George leaned against the stone bulwark. “I think you can see half of England from up here,” he commented as he looked across the landscape. Then he turned to his sister to give her the charming smile which melted hearts and persuaded people to overlook many of his escapades. “Susanna can shout, but she won’t come up here and find us. She’s afraid of heights.”

“Silly; that won’t stop her waiting on us when we go down again,” Margaret fretted, tugging at her sleeves and then began pulling the lace from a small handkerchief in her anxiety. She looked at her brother who was as tall as she was, despite the difference in their ages. “George, let’s go down. I don’t want to incur her anger.”

“Not yet, I want to see if anyone is coming. You promised me we could wait up here until our lord father arrived.”

“Yes, but -”

“But what?”

“I didn’t think-”

“Well, you go down if you’re afraid of a servant, Margaret! I don’t care if she shouts at me! I want to see them ride in, I want to see the horses, I want to see the pennants and I want to see their swords and lances! I want to see our lord Father in all his royal glory!”

“Typical boy!” Margaret looked at her brother with a fond expression. He might be demanding but he was the golden George, free with his emotions, his smiles and his kindnesses, when he was in the right mood. If he was balked in his desires, he could be a virtual tyrant; stamping his rage into the flagstoned floor and causing mayhem until his wishes were granted. They invariably were.

He turned to scan the horizon, looking for the telltale signs of a large group of armed men on the move, flash of light from weapons, dust from the hooves, fluttering colours of the pennants. The duke of York was coming home and the world had to know it. The breeze stiffened, ruffling George’s fair hair and tugging at his elaborate tunic. He looked down and wondered, briefly, if he was dressed well enough for him to be presented to his father that day, or whether he should rush back and ask Susanna to help him change into something else. It would do, he decided, for his father rarely noticed him anyway. The tunic was new, in fact most of his clothes were new, he had seemed to outgrow everything that summer. People had commented on how he had developed, how he had become so much stronger. The tailor had compared his measurements and told everyone he met in the castle how much Lord George had grown since his last visit.

His nursemaid, Susanna, tutted over his wardrobe, muttering dire imprecations on his head and other parts of his body if he didn’t take more care when playing with puppies with sharp teeth and kittens with sharp claws, if he didn’t stop leaping on ponies and riding out, regardless of what he was wearing. He would throw himself down beside a pond or river and gaze into the depths, trying to see the fish he knew were there, regardless of whether the bank was muddy, riddled with stones or rank sharp bladed grass, indifferent to the state of his clothes when he rode or ran back into the castle, radiant with the sheer joy of being alive. His lady mother had decreed he was not to leave the castle grounds but often enough, when she was away with the duke on official business, George would coerce escorts into riding out with him. They, like everyone at Fotheringhay, had come under his spell, falling for his charm and his winning ways and in truth there was little he was denied. What were clothes other than things to keep you warm or protect you from kitten and puppy teeth and claws? What if they were damaged? There was always something else put away for him to wear.

“There, Margaret!” He gestured frantically toward the far horizon. “There he comes!”

A distant dust cloud, a glint of arms, a flash of colour. George was all but jumping up and down with excitement when a shout reached them.

“Lord George! Come down immediately! Lady Margaret, come down immediately!”

Susanna’s tone brooked no argument. Their strict disciplinarian nurse was standing at the foot of the flight of steps, hands on substantial hips, a scowl twisting her already dark visage. Her cap had been partially dislodged; strands of greying hair were escaping which would not please her when she discovered it. She was as severe with her own appearance as she was with those she had in her charge. She never took no for an answer and George knew it.

Disappointed but unable to argue, despite his brave words, he turned and stamped back down the steps, a sullen look replacing the joyous one. My fault, he thought, my fault, I uncrossed my fingers. I forgot for a moment. Magic fails when you forget. You have to hold on to it. Margaret followed closely behind him, equally subdued.

Susanna waited, one foot tapping the bottom step, until the two children finally reached ground level.

“Come! Now!” She grabbed their hands, hurried them across the courtyard and pulled them back into the castle, through the Great Hall and up the stairs, lecturing as she went. “How many times have you been told about doing things like that? Eh? How many times have you been told to wait until someone is with you before you climb anywhere? Eh? Making me search everywhere for you! Your lady mother has asked that you are made ready to greet your lord father when he returns. I’ve been in every room in this castle, I do swear I have, looking for you! She would not be pleased to find you have been on the battlements alone!”

“But ‘tis the best place…” George began, but was silenced as Susanna pushed him into his chamber.

“Wait on me in there, Lord George, do not move! Lady Margaret, hasten to your chamber, please, be sure to wash your face and hands and go down to the Great Hall where your lady mother awaits you. Be sure there is no dust on your skirts, young lady!”

Margaret hurried away without a backward look. George stood, angry as well as disappointed, waiting for Susanna to return. She bustled into the room, grabbed a damp cloth and began to wipe his face and then his hands. The lecture continued unabated.

“Why must you do such things, Lord George? You know you are not allowed up on the battlements! What would your lady mother say?”

“She would say ‘tis the best view of the countryside, she would say of course you could watch for your lord father from there, my son, were she given the chance!” George glared his defiance, anxious to be gone, not wanting to be fussed over any more, wanting to be free of the strictures of his nursemaid. Disappointment made him more reckless than usual. The moment he spoke he regretted it but bravado made him stand up for his desire to be taken seriously.

“Hush your cheek, young man, before I arrange a whipping for you! Now, please go down to the Hall and greet your lady mother. Do not dally on the way, do not touch anything to get dirty, do not speak until spoken to, or I will be very angry!”

“All right, Susanna. I’m sorry.”

With one last brush at his clothes, Susanna pushed him out of the door. George sighed as he tried to walk sedately down the stone stairs. It was much more fun to run, to race up and down stairs, to see how fast he could get from one side of the hall to the other, to romp in the stables with the puppies and kittens that arrived as regularly as the morning sun, or so it seemed. The occasions when he had to be quiet, to be the perfect prince, seemed to come too often for his liking. The duke coming home was an event that he had anticipated for some time, planning to be on the battlements, to watch the armed guard escorting him home, to see the fluttering pennants and hear the clatter of hooves, harness and arms as they rode across the drawbridge and into the castle grounds. From that vantage point he would have been able to count the escorts, to see his father in his beautiful clothes, then he could have rushed down the steps and into the stables to smell the richness of tired, sweating horses, to hear the men talk of their adventures in the great wide world which he knew only through books and which he longed to see, to experience, to be part of. The formal meal would be endured much easier with memories to help him through the tedium of each course and the polite chatter of those bidden to eat with the family. It had not occurred to him that someone, Susanna of all people, would find him there and be angry.

He kicked the walls as he went down, needing to dissipate his bitter disappointment. By now the group would be close enough to be seen, had he been able to stay up there on the walk, but he also knew that his mother’s word was law, as indeed his father’s was and if she had ‘asked’ for him to be present in the Hall when his father returned, it was as good as a command from the King himself. He would be there. He had no choice. Miserably he continued down the stairs, kicking the wall at every step. It didn’t help his feeling of being deprived of something so long planned and anticipated, all it did was scuff his boots and make his toes sore, but somehow he couldn’t stop doing it.