Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (15 page)

There the thoughts stopped as he returned to the fire to huddle close to the log burning fiercely, to listen to the endless rain and the endless sound of a large household going about its daily chores. Each person was carrying out his duties, some quietly, some noisily, all combining to make one chaotic sound that he noticed for the first time. At least the weather that day would prevent petitioners coming to ask his judgement on this matter or that or to adjudicate on some dispute or other, or messengers endlessly ferrying orders or requests from Ned to attend to this or look into this matter or that for him. Sometimes he welcomed the tasks, the responsibility, other times he sought solace for himself and his troubled mind. He did not fully understand why he should need solace, why the life was not enough for him, why he sought more, why he could not lose himself in the hustle and bustle of life, of the business of running a complex estate.

I need silence!

The thought came from nowhere and was acted upon immediately. He got up again and, without a word to Durian, walked out of the hall, snatching up his mantle as he went. He pointedly ignored those who bowed or curtsied as he passed, ignored those who tried to speak with him. He did not want to speak to anyone. He thrust them away from him with his very manner of walking.

The chapel was deserted, as he hoped it would be. There was the distinct aroma of doused candles and incense, dust and crushed rushes, a mixture of smells as familiar as his own bedchamber scents and as comforting in many ways. It was gloomy, the heavy clouds outside diminishing the light quite considerably. The altar was in shadow, the statues appearing like illusory spirits hovering in the corners, awaiting a visitor to speak to. The silence was overwhelming and just what he needed, a balm for a mind full of conflicting emotions.

George dropped to his knees and put his hands together in the classic prayer position, looked at them and then allowed his arms to relax at his sides. His back was straight, his head up, looking at the ornate cross on the altar which, despite the gloom of the afternoon, glinted with knowing light.

He crossed himself swiftly, let his arms relax once more and closed his eyes. “Lord God, Father of all, Jesu Christ, the Begotten One…” A stray tear took him by surprise and he dashed it away. “Lord God, hear my prayer.” What prayer, he asked himself? Why am I here, what do I want to ask the Lord God that He can give me? What do I seek and why do I seek it? Why am I not settled in my mind? What can I want to add to what I have?

“Blessed Virgin Mary…” he began again, only to stop as a sob shook his body. He sank down on the flagged floor and allowed the tears to flow freely, even as he wondered where they had come from and why they were being shed at this time.

It was like a dam breaking, one he had not realised was there. Something was tearing itself out of him, a deep dark emotion that he realised even in the depths of his sorrow had been tormenting him for a lifetime.

Slowly the tears and accompanying sobs eased and finally stopped. Shadows grew darker; the statues appeared to move as he looked up at them through tear-blurred eyes. Superstitiously he felt a thrill of fear, crossing himself several times and invoking the name of Jesus Christ before realising how foolish it was. Nothing but the shades of the afternoon, nothing but the shades of his own thoughts were in the chapel, a place hallowed by more prayers than there were people in the whole of England. What fear, what evil could there be in such a place?

Slowly he got to his feet and, with the greatest care, walked toward the altar, where he found the candles and lit them. The guttering flames made the statues appear to dance for a moment before the light became as still as it could be in a place so full of bitter draughts. George stood before the altar, saw the light playing on the intricacies of the cross and allowed himself a small smile that felt odd, as if the muscles had not been used for an eternity when he had laughed just an hour before at some cutting jest Durian had made.

“Blessed Mother,” he began again, in a quiet emotion-ridden voice. “Blessed Mother, I do not understand my tears this day in this place, except that here I am truly alone, at least here there are no other human beings.”

Then he saw in his mind’s eye his father, the great duke, his beautiful brother Edmund, his uncle of Salisbury, saw them smiling at him, saw them raise their hands in blessing and knew he still mourned for them, that their memory was as fresh as the day they rode off to do battle, the day he would not forget.

He knew too that he mourned the loss of favourite animals, people who had died, whose funeral he had attended or had arranged and, most of all, he knew he mourned the loss of that which he believed was to be his one day: the crown of England.

“I know she will produce heirs,” he whispered, sending the candle flames dancing with the vibration of his breath. “I know it as surely as I know the sun will rise tomorrow. I know it for has she not proved already that her womb is fertile? And has my brother not proved he has the seed, for of a surety there are bastards of his around this court! Do I not know my dreams lie as dead and as useless as the ash in the hearth of my great fireplace?”

And do I not know that until this moment, I have scarcely shed a tear for any of them? That thought came as a great shock, as if he had committed some sacrilege by not crying for any of them but only for himself, for his own loss and his own disrupted life.

“But am I not doing this now?’ he whispered to the silent looming statues. “Am I not mourning my loss of ambition and hope for the crown? Of a surety I am! Am I not begrudging my brother the king his wife and hope of children to come to ensure the continuity of the line of royal blood? Am I not seeking to put my selfish ambitions and dreams before those of the brother I love?”

The statues had no answer for him. He turned back to the cross, glittering in the candlelight. It held a message that took some time to penetrate his mind; when it did, George fell to his knees and began a sincere prayer.

“Prince of glory, I beg thy forgiveness. Whatever dreams thee may have had for thy future, they were taken from thee in an act of great drama and ceremony, even as mine will be. The coronation of Elizabeth as Queen to my brother Edward the King will once and for all end my dreams of kingship. But, Jesu Christ, thee made of disaster a lasting legacy, that all may live on forever in the Kingdom of Heaven. I am a mere mortal man; I cannot make such claims, or even aspire to anything like it. I can, though, live a life that will be remembered through history. I pray it will be a good memory. Help me now to turn this pain in my heart into gladness that my brother is happy with his new wife. I pray that thy angels may keep the dark ones from my mind, for thy sake. Amen.”

Shakily he got to his feet, disturbed by the many thoughts which tumbled through his mind. He tugged his mantle close around his neck, feeling the damp chill of the ancient stones eating its way into his flesh. He crossed himself, genuflected to the altar and then blew out the candles. He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before tentatively making his way to the door. As he did so, a light appeared to move alongside him, as if he was being accompanied by a being cloaked in white. He wondered why he was not afraid, wondered why the being, whatever it was, had filled his mind with peace and music that was out of this world.

Before he reached the door he turned and said, “Who are you?”

He felt rather than saw an answering smile and the light faded, leaving him in total darkness. He took another three or four steps forward and found his hand touching the latch of the door.

He was not surprised to find Durian standing outside, sheltering under the narrow overhang, a heavy wool cloak over one arm. Nothing was said. Durian draped the cloak around George’s shoulders, ignored the surprised face that turned toward him and walked with George back into the hall, where he sent someone for mead and another person for more logs for the fire. He pushed George into his accustomed place close to the flames, nudging a wolfhound out of the way with a booted foot as he did so to allow George space to get closer to the fire. A click of his fingers set the musicians playing a light haunting tune. Durian sat down on a stool, picked up his lyre and began to play an accompanying yet contrasting melody with consummate skill. No words, no explanations, no questions, no condemnation for a sudden departure from that which was normal for George.

George felt himself relax for the first time in many days, if not weeks. The tears, wherever they had come from, had released tensions he had not known were there but which had been tangling up many thoughts and emotions.

With a cup of mead to hand and the fire banked up against the bitter chill, he began to feel much better and actually smiled when his Fool pulled a comic face at him.

“Better,” observed Durian. “I know not what transpired there and I would not wish to know, sire, but it was nothing but good if your face is any indication by which to judge.”

“It is between the Lord God and myself,” George said quietly. “I tell you this, though, Durian, I know not what drove me to the chapel at that time but it was good.”

“That is all I need to know, Your Grace. All else is not for my ears. But I have something for yours, later.”

Idle talk or information. George would have to wait to find out, wait until all were dismissed from his bedchamber, for he insisted he slept alone, had ordered that those who attended him should sleep outside the door to be there if he called but not to intrude on his privacy. A private person with private thoughts, as he often described himself. Servants of any kind, apart from Durian, were an invasion of that privacy. He detested their attentions, even though he had to accept their assistance in washing, shaving and dressing each morning and undressing every night. The least he could do was ban them from his chamber so that he could sleep alone.

Later that night George lay alone in the middle of the thick feather mattress, covered in heavy robes and furs against the cold. The fire burning in the hearth gave the walls a simulated warmth they could never achieve. Durian had left him, after imparting the latest snippet of information gathered from an indiscreet courtier. It was not of great importance but then, trifles were rarely important of themselves, it was when they became part of the whole picture that they were of use to him. He delighted in the piecing together of people’s motives and plans, desires and dreams by collecting and collating their unguarded comments, even their discarded letters. All were good to have, for knowledge was power and power was all-important in a world of ever shifting alliances and politics.

He stared up at the hangings as he thought, catching a glimpse here and there of flashes of light which of a surety could not be real. More signs, he told himself, more indications of other-worldly happenings, perhaps of angel visitations. Had that been an angel who walked to the door of the chapel with him? If so, he was blessed indeed and he gave silent thanks to God for His great mercy. Muttering a prayer for protection during the night, he fell into a dreamless, refreshing sleep.

Chapter 16

Ah but those days are long gone, when angels walked the aisle at my side, when lights flashed in bed hangings, when I felt the love of the Lord God with me. Long, long gone, buried in the mire of battlefields, both real and emotional, beneath what my brother calls treason and I call self-preservation, beneath grief and loss, exile and argument. I mourn their passing for right now, here in this cold, cold chamber, I could and would welcome such an apparition to attend my final days, hours, minutes: I know not how long I have left to stand on this side of the door marked Death. My brother the king does not realise he will be merciful in granting me the absolution of death and does not realise how cruel he is in not giving me an indication of how long it will be before the dark angel walks through that door and into my final moments.

But then again, I ask myself if he does know how cruel are his actions. My brother the king has ever been one for cruelty, although of a surety he would not see it that way. I think now of the time when the men were taken from Tewkesbury Abbey and murdered, even though the law forbids the killing of a priest. He went ahead and killed one anyway. No quarter given with Ned. Never has been, never will be as long as he draws breath. He does what he wants to do and sees what he wants to see and never will he change. The words we threw at one another during my so-called trial linger still, but there is time enough, I trust, to come to that part of this sorry life. Before then there are other years to walk, to remember, to drag back into that portion of my mind which still functions with some degree of accuracy. A part not dulled by malmsey wine and pain, not damaged by fear and loneliness.

The queen’s Coronation was a magnificent event, staged as much for the populace as for the queen herself. I recall with pride riding into the hall on a richly caparisoned horse and myself equally richly caparisoned, if I can say such a thing. Gold sparkled everywhere in the rushlights. I was gracious, I led her into the Abbey, I held the bowl for her to wash, I supervised the Coronation feast and I did it all with a fixed grin that anyone should have seen was false and none did, for they were not looking for that emotion from me. They were looking for a feast which they had, for a spectacle, which they had, for ritual which they also had. They were not looking for a duke to radiate hatred and resentment so they did not see it.

I was told my brother the king beamed his way through the day, ensconced in his chambers, awaiting the return of his bride, as if he could not be done with smiling at everyone. When I saw him, I realised the smile said ‘look at my bride, my prize, my breeding mare. Look at the hair, the face and the radiance of her. Look at her and envy me, you common people!’ and we were indeed common people to him, even those of us with royal blood and as much right to the throne of England as he had. For a king to rule supreme, he must be autocratic, superior, arrogant, supremely right in all things. And in all those things Ned excelled in that he wrapped them in charm, bonhomie of the highest order and a great deal of personal charisma so that those around him did not realise he was autocratic, superior, arrogant and supremely right in all things at the time he declared that this should be done or that should not be done. Even if he was not right, the fact became overlooked because of his charm, his easy manner, his jovial attitude but beneath it all was an iron will, a determination that his will would be done, regardless. It was very much a ‘God be with anyone who stood against him’ reality in the court at that time.