Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (6 page)

“I wish we were back in Fotheringhay,” he whispered and then hid his face on his brother’s chest. George stood for a moment, dumbfounded. His little brother never showed his feelings, no matter what was going on, whether he was being berated for breaking some rule, misspelling his lessons, being told he could not ride that day or even that a favourite animal had died. Not knowing what else to do, he put his arms around the small slim shoulders and held Richard close.

“We’ll be all right.” It was said with more confidence than he felt but he had to say and do something. This was unprecedented and was in danger of breaking down all his barriers, which would never do. He had worked hard to build them, to shut out the harsh world that threatened at times to invade his peaceful life. If you denied, vehemently, that people went away, that they were injured and sometimes died, if you denied that animals died or were killed by others, if you denied people entry to your love and your emotions, you could not be hurt. From the moment Margaret had ridden away from Fotheringhay, trailing dust and memories, leaving shadows and emptiness behind her, George had built barriers to keep all emotion out. He had functioned mechanically, going to lessons, visiting his mother and attending services without letting any of the homilies reach his mind. All that was under threat by the shaking bone thin shoulders of a small boy who was homesick and heartsick and reaching out to a bigger - but not so big that he was overwhelming - older brother to take care of him.

“Come on,” he said quietly, aware that a page was standing in the doorway, no doubt waiting to take them downstairs to eat. “Let me help you with that.”

“I wasn’t going to bother you…” Richard began, obediently lifting his arms up so George could slide the tunic down over his head.

“We’re family, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but…”

“But you never asked me for anything before and you didn’t want to ask me now. I’m glad you did.” A rush of love swept through George, which he bit back, hard. “I miss Fotheringhay too, you’re not alone, but we have to do what our lord father wants. Our lady mother will be here soon, all the Yorks will be together.” Apart from Margaret, his mind responded immediately. And his other sisters, too, but he didn’t know them and they, unlike Edward and Edmund, were so rarely mentioned that they might as well not exist. His two brothers, on the other hand, were mentioned often, usually with great pride. Now he had met them, he understood why. They were golden people indeed, tall, handsome, no doubt incredibly talented and skilled with both weapons and horses.

“Lord George,” the page began. George looked over Richard’s head and nodded.

“I know. We will be there soon. Grant us a few moments, we are tired, we have had a very long journey, we were two days on horseback.”

The page nodded with a sympathetic look. Richard tugged at his tunic, fastened the belt and looked up at George with a brighter smile than he had given for some time.

“Thank you. I will be back shortly.”

The small figure hurried out of the room and George sat down on the edge of the bed. They had ridden for two whole days locked in their own private misery, neither of them sharing their emotions with the other. But if they had spoken of it, the escort would have overheard, would have known that the York brothers were homesick, and would doubtless have thought them weak. Overall it was better they had not spoken then, had kept it to the privacy of the rooms allocated to them in this fortress where they were assured of safety, or so it seemed.

In a sudden moment of overwhelming compassion, George knelt down by his bed and clasped his hands, something he had not done voluntarily since he was a very small boy.

“Dear God, give my brother Dickon courage to face life here at Ludlow,” he said earnestly. “He is so young, so much in need of protection. Let none harm him here. In Jesu’s name.”

He hastily got up, hoping no one had seen him, a hope that was shattered when he saw Richard waiting outside the door for him, together with the page. He walked over to them with one of his dazzling smiles. “Are we ready to go down?”

Richard raised an eyebrow in query but George ignored it. Let his little brother think what he wanted, let him think he had found religion, anything but let him know he, George Plantagenet, had said a prayer for someone who, up to that moment, he had managed to exclude from his emotions. His brother had been there, a part of life every bit as much as his squires, his nursemaid, his physician and anyone else allocated to take care of him, but no more than that. In a single moment of weakness he had allowed that small person to make a chink in the armour in which he lived. It would not do. It had to be rebuilt, repaired, restored to full defensive ability again. Soon.

Chapter 6

I recall my lady mother arriving at Ludlow in great style, ornate carriage, huge escort, packhorses and all. I recall being so pleased to see her, I forgot my manners and rushed forward to greet her, then standing back wracked with pain as she scooped Richard up into her arms before she even looked at me. I put it away, told myself it didn’t matter, that we so rarely had a hug from our mother it made no difference that I didn’t get one this time. But oh it did, it did. She did reach for me and drew me close to her so I could smell her delicate perfume and the ethereal essence that was she. I was held against her silk gown for a few fleeting seconds and heard it rustle as I moved my legs. I was proud when she told us how pleased she was that we had made the journey alone – if you could call riding with what felt like hundreds of men at arms ‘alone’ – and I was aware of glowing with importance when she said how well we looked. We had only been apart for a week; it felt like a lifetime. So much had happened, for Ludlow itself had cast its own spell, outside of being in the company of my revered brothers. I was proud and yet the pain persisted. I had reached her first, my legs being longer than Richard’s but it was he she reached for. It confirmed what I had always suspected but never had proved to me – I was second best. Sadly for me, I continued to be second best for the remainder of my life.

As if in compensation, that summer was golden. My brothers were attentive, understanding, patient; when not at practice in the tiltyards and on the butts, they showed us the castle grounds and gave us arms with which to practice, taught us the elements of hawking and riding to hounds, which we had not been allowed to do up to that time. Our lord father was invariably closeted in some meeting or other, some notable person with his entourage was ever riding into the bailey and there would be fuss and scurry, greetings and formal meals which we were summoned to attend and abjured to be on our best behaviour. I wondered at times why it was easier to be well-behaved at Ludlow than it was at Fotheringhay and then decided it was because no matter how long we were there, it still felt as if we were temporarily lodging in the castle, that we would be moved on at some point. So it behoved us to be good whilst we were there. We knew not where we would go next. Fotheringhay was home; this was not. At Fotheringhay it was more difficult to remember to be a royal prince, that was the place where we had grown up, the castle which had seen our every stage of progression, from incontinent toddler to young aristocrat did not feel like a stage on which we had to perform our very best acts before the exalted company, dukes, earls and lords of all names and places come to confer with our lord father. The sheer number of visitors made it even more apparent to me how important he was, in what high regard he was held, for these people came to him, he rarely went to them.

Being perfectly behaved was never a problem for Dickon, always the perfect royal prince. It was for me. I still longed to kick over the traces, to run to the stables, grab a horse and go riding through the local countryside. I could do none of it, for along with the many visitors was the constant air of menace, of apprehension, of looming black clouds despite the summer sun. The talk was of uprisings, of problems with the king’s army, the king’s policies, the king’s alliances and the king’s wife. Name it and the Yorks appeared to have a problem with it. I have asked myself a hundred thousand times since, even more so since being incarcerated here in this prison - call it as it is, not as it appears to be, royal apartments - why the Yorks had so many problems with what was being done in the country as a whole. If we were not in supreme control, we wanted to be. When we were, we were unhappy with this one or that and unhappy with each other. If ever a family needed to work together it was the Yorks: if ever a family was divided against itself, it was the Yorks.

Was it because we were three? Because we divided two against one in every possible way we could divide two against one? I fought with my brother of Gloucester for land and wealth and had my brother of March to adjudicate between us. My brother of Gloucester fought, in that he spent the whole of Christmastide arguing my case, for me against my brother of March. I know; it was brought to my chamber how eloquently he fought for me when he had fought so eloquently against me. Would that we could have been true brothers of the heart as well as of blood! Would that we were on terms when I could go to my brothers and say ‘I fear I am dying and none can save me. I beg and plead for your absolution, my dear brothers, that I do not go to my Maker with my sins against you heavy on my soul.’

Ah, the foolish pride that held me back when this began holds me back even now from admitting to my family that Clarence has a weakness, that the pain which devours him from the head down is eating his very soul away and all he longs for is the merciful hand of Death to end it all.

I divert. I divert for my thoughts are as scattered as the ashes which flee from the hearth when the log disintegrates and dies under the power of that which consumes it. Even as I do.

The summer at Ludlow. Full of the companionship of two golden brothers, tinged with the air of menace and apprehension, of meals cut short when riders arrived with urgency written in every line of their clothes and their actions. Our lord father would leave the table and closet himself with them, emerging with a blackness that boded ill for any who crossed his path.

It all ended that disastrous night which we knew was coming, we knew from the quantity of men in the castle grounds, from the quality of the guests, from the intensity of the discussions and from the worried look our lady mother wore. No one need speak to the young Yorks of that which was troubling the family; it was writ clear for all to see. The summer was going to end in violence and bloodshed and we were mere pawns in the endgame.

In my later life I heard some say Richard duke of York lost his nerve when the army came close to Ludlow. None said it in my own court, for I would have nothing said against any of my family, my father more than anyone. But it was said in other courts, in other gatherings, for did I not have my informants in every place there could be informants, to keep me forever aware of what was happening in every place at every moment? I heard of the talk against my lord father, those who tried to say that the recklessness that drove him at Wakefield to ride out into the battle was in compensation for the night his nerve broke and he left Ludlow under shadow of night.

I say to those persons, Richard, duke of York was nerveless. A more courageous man never walked this earth and I say that knowing of my brother of March’s valiant fearless fighting on the battlefields of Towton, Tewkesbury, Barnet and everywhere else that he fought under the banner of York. I say that knowing of my brother of Gloucester’s prowess on the battlefield, for did he not lead the vanguard in his very first battle and win the day for his brother of March?

And what of me, I might ask? What of me? What was my prowess on the battlefield? Would I have out-fought all who came at me with battle-axe and sword, with dagger and with lance?

Once. Once I rode to battle and heard the singing of the blood lust in my ears and knew no fear. Once I knew the thrill of the surging muscles of a destrier beneath me and knew I could conquer all. The siren call of battle is deceptive, enticing and seductive. To see men fall, spouting their blood, to hear their final cries, should this be seductive? Yes, if it was your life or theirs, then your own life takes precedence every time.

Would it continue to have been so?

Chapter 7

It was explained to them in simple terms. The duke’s secretary, ink stained fingers winding themselves around each other in his distress, sat in a large carver and looked at the two boys standing before him, wearing faces as blank and guileless as it was possible to be. The room where they normally took their lessons had the look of being hastily searched, books had been pulled from their shelf and left where they fell, quills were scattered across the tables and ink had been spilled.

“Your lord father has had to leave Ludlow.” He coughed, reached for a handkerchief, did not find it and coughed again. “Your lord father has taken with him the earls of March and Rutland and Lord Salisbury. He has gone with a retinue of men at arms and will be issuing an array to raise another army with which to fight.”

“Why did my brothers have to go, sire?”

George turned and looked at Richard in surprise. Never had he heard him question anyone over a decision made by his father during his entire life.

“The king’s army is close, the king’s army is greater in number than the men we had here. Ludlow, I am sorry to say, did not prove to be as safe a haven as His Grace thought. When the army comes – as we know it will – if your brothers were to be found here, they would be slain, Lord Richard. I am sure you would not wish that.”