Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (16 page)

My problem was – is – I do not take orders easily. I do not bow to the inevitable without a fight. I do not easily grant another ascendance over my body, my life, my soul and my ambition. Hence, problems. They were coming as surely as a cloud comes to spoil a summer outing. I knew it but whether others did is a moot point and they are not here for me to ask, any of them. So I must, of necessity, decide in my own mind whether they foresaw the problems I did or whether they were happy for my brother the king and saw nothing untoward in the way he took on the world and laughed his way through the days, the meetings, the travelling, the celebrations and the birth of his first legitimate child. I have just taken the whole of his reign as I know it and brought it down to a few words which would fit inside my empty mazer and leave room for many other tomes, but it is true. Edward, my brother the king, ever lived his life as he wished it, to see what he wished to see and saw no other viewpoint. He lived in a world where he was supremely right and all else, no matter what they were, had to be wrong. We fought many times over the years, Ned and I, many, many times, in court and out of it, in his court and out of it, ever did we fight over many things but always I came up against that determination that he was and would be ever right and all else, no matter what, would be wrong. It mattered not that the arguments made sense, for he dismissed those, too.

I smiled too, as I said, but inside I did not. Inside I was burning with anger at the presumption of the new queen and her family, of the complacent smiles sent my way. Poor Clarence, so we took your chance at kingly status, did we? Well, isn’t that just the way Fate is, lifts some and drops others, we were lifted through our Elizabeth’s marriage to Edward and you were dropped because of it. Console yourself with your dukedom, young man, with your estates and such women as you dally with, for it is all you will have from henceforth.

Did they really think those things?

I do not know: I will not know.

Chapter 17

There were times, mused George, looking deep into a mazer of malmsey wine, when it seemed as if he was at odds with the world, as if he alone walked a sensible pathway and everyone else appeared to be walking a different, idiotic pathway and they could not see his point of view at all because of the divergence of the roads on which they walked. ‘I mean,’ he said to his squire, who stood silent as always, knowing better than to voice an opinion which could in future be interpreted as being on the wrong side, ‘there was Worcester and that fool woman Lady Roos. I mean, tell me how in the name of Christ I managed to lose that dispute!’

More wine was poured and George drank it as if it was water, not an expensive commodity that was difficult to obtain. He had given a standing order that at all times his cellar was to be filled with fine wines, especially malmsey, no matter the cost. Money was ever a consideration but wine had to come before sensible thought of finances.

His chamber was warm, a huge fire blazed in the hearth with a page detailed to keep it fed, for George liked his comforts and would have it so, especially during the bitter months of winter. For him the fires began in Autumn and lasted clear through to the end of Spring, for castles and large homes were never warm, never comfortable enough for him without a huge log burning.

Durian looked up from the lyre he was strumming and flashed one of his mischievous smiles at George.

“Tis pointless to ask these minions for an opinion, Your Grace, for either they have no opinion or they are too polite to voice it. Either way Your Grace will have no satisfaction from their answers.”

George waved the squire away and indicated to the page that he could leave, too. At times he preferred nothing more than the company of Durian, when they could talk freely about everything they had discovered. When the door closed after them, he stirred on his chair, tilting it so that he could balance his heels on the table. The mazer turned around and around in his hands and he gazed into it as if the future was written there for him to see.

“How do they do it, Durian?” he asked, almost inconsequentially, knowing full well the next question would be ‘do what?’ for his Fool had not and could not follow his thinking. He circumvented the question. “Those wise women, so-called, how do they look into something like a bowl of water or a cup and see the future? I see nothing but darkness and the state of my head in the morrow.”

“Ah, you see more than that, sire.” Durian poured wine for himself without being bidden, taking a liberty that he was permitted when they were alone. “You see the fact that in the wine you lose yourself for a time. For was not a man more persecuted than you are?”

“Wydevilles.”

“Said with all the venom one man needs to show another how he feels about his brother’s family!”

“At times I do wonder about you, Durian; just how much do you ‘see’ that is not there for human eyes?”

“I can’t tell you that, sire, for I know not myself how much is ‘knowing’ and how much is my piecing together all that I overhear and gather from the many sources you and I together have arranged to bring us those pieces for us to put together.”

“At times you talk in riddles, Durian!” George grumbled, emptying the mazer and reaching for more. The log collapsed in on itself in the hearth, sending ash and sparks flying into the room.

“No more than you do yourself, sire. Of a surety I have never known a man to speak in such riddles as you do in conversation but by a miracle none perceive that you are talking in rings and they are not following a single thread you start.”

George laughed aloud and crashed his boots back onto the floor.

“By God’s great name, you’re right! And they don’t see it, do they? Poor fools!” He frowned. “But I would wish my brother the king would fall into the trap, then I could arrange more land, more money, for the coffers are running a little low these days and I am dependent on him more than I would like.”

“Then it behoves me to mention to you a certain subject which I have been pondering, sire.”

“Ha! I know your pondering! It usually leads me into pathways I can well do without!”

“Not this time. Of a surety have I pondered long and hard on this and feel it is the right way forward, if everyone concerned allows it to proceed, of course.”

“Now you speak in the riddles I mentioned, Durian! If you have something to say, then say it.”

“All right.” Durian laid the lyre aside and stood up. “Is it not time Your Grace thought of marriage?”

“Well, it has crossed my mind, of course it has, but who-” He thumped his fist on the table and laughed. “This is your pondering, is it not? You have already decided who would be right for me and are seeking a way of putting her name before me. Am I right?”

“As always, sire.” Durian acknowledged the statement with a nod and a knowing smile. “And I suggest to you that the eldest daughter of your cousin of Warwick, Isobel, would be the perfect bride for Your Grace.”

In all his wondering about a future bride, the daughter of his cousin Warwick had not really crossed his mind. He had looked at the women in court, daughters of knights and earls who pandered to Ned’s every wish and wondered if he took any of them to be his bride whether he would be taking one that Ned had cast off. It was difficult to know which of the countless pretty women who frequented the courts and homes where Ned travelled and disported and held meetings had actually favoured his bed, too. He was certain Warwick would not have allowed it, especially after Ned had so casually thrown out the plans for the foreign alliance and with it, all Warwick’s dreams of power for the future, by making his own choice of a woman. How good it would be to be part of the Warwick entourage and at such a high level: son-in-law.

But what then of Isobel herself? Would she be prepared to be helpmeet and companion to him?

Impatiently George leapt to his feet and strode across to the polished steel which served as a mirror. I am handsome, he thought, looking at his image. I am handsome, tall, healthy, a knight, a duke, I bring royal blood to any marriage and future child and I have wealth although I would like more. I ride well, I could hold my own at a tournai were I asked, I am sure I could and would do well in battle –

His thoughts broke off there. Would any of this be of interest to a bride? Would she care about his battle prowess, would she not prefer him to be home, not risking life, limb and reputation on a battlefield? Would she care about the joust? Would she not prefer words of love and tenderness and some thoughts of how good a father he would be?

An image of Isobel as he last saw her flashed into his mind, her dark brown hair decorously caught up in an elaborate jewelled head-dress that caught every flash of light from the cresset lamps. He recalled her quietly pretty face and wondered why he should think of her that way, quietly pretty. At first he had believed her sister Anne to be the truly quiet one, a mouse, shying away from people and loud noises and yet rumour had it that Dickon was enamoured of the mouse-like Anne. That had surprised George, he had thought his brother would have wanted someone more assertive, but maybe it would suit him better to have a quiet biddable wife. But he also knew that Warwick had other plans for his youngest daughter, plans that none but he knew of, or so he thought. In an unguarded moment he had expressed them in the hearing of a squire who was in George’s pay and the news came to him immediately. Anne was to marry a Frenchman and secure a dynasty there, Warwick being determined to have power, if he could, in that unpredictable land.

But Isobel, bring the thoughts back to Isobel, to the one with the quietly pretty face, the dark brown hair and the curves in the right places. Yes, Isobel would be a worthy bride for the duke of Clarence, she would be an asset at the high table, at banquets and at ceremonials. She would doubtless be an asset in the bedchamber too, if he could teach her well enough. But what would Warwick make of such an alliance and even more than that, what would Ned make of such an alliance?

Curses, he thought angrily, that I need to consult the king before making a marriage!

He swung round on his heel and confronted Durian, who had stood patiently waiting for George to speak to him.

“It’s a damned good thought, Durian, I thank you for that. I will consider it and approach-”

“Arrange it with your cousin of Warwick first,” Durian said quickly. “Let the arrangements be under way before you speak with the king. Let it seem as if it is all but in hand and you might sway his opinion.”

“Why should he care who I marry?”

“Because he wants to use you as a pawn, sire, as he uses everyone. Come now, you know your brother the king well enough to know I speak truth.”

“That was the last thought I had before I spoke to you just now, that I need to consult the king before making a marriage and I resent it.”

“It is protocol, sire, sad to say. You are subject to the king whether he be brother or not, being high born and part of the ruling family.”

“Tell me of things I do not know, Durian, things which will not depress me. I will speak with Warwick as soon as I can. I wish to know if the Lady Isobel would entertain the thought of an alliance with me.”

“She would be in difficulties to find anyone better, sire.”

“Spoken like a loyal friend, but there are many out there who could offer her a good life, apart from the Yorks, that is.”

“Maybe, but who else would bring so much royal blood to a marriage, sire? And blood counts for so much with these great families.”

“What is yours, Durian?”

A genuine smile split the expressive face. “Part peasant, part Celt and, I am told, a trace of royal blood from someone in my past who was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“The Celt explains the fey farseeing, of a surety it does, and I can believe the trace of royal blood for at times you speak and act as an aristocrat and it is not all playacting for my benefit.”

“Thank you, sire.” Durian obviously meant every word of his thanks.

George hesitated, words trembling on his tongue, wanting to be spoken. He looked around as if to assure himself the room was deserted, no hangers-on trying to eavesdrop on what was likely to be a very private conversation, a rarity for him. Life was so crowded with people who felt they had to be treading on his shadow at all times in case he needed them.

Finally he spoke. “You are one of the very few people I trust, you know that.”

“I do. And I am grateful for your patronage, sire.”

“It’s more than that, isn’t it, Durian? More than patronage, more than the gold I toss in your direction. It is not that alone which holds you loyal to me.”

“We are speaking the truth here tonight, so yes, it is more than that.” A half-smile, almost apologetic, crossed his mouth. George watched the expressions fleeting across the dark eyes, calculating, considering, then finally clearing as Durian made up his mind what to say. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, serious voice George had never heard from his Fool at any time.

“I could find another place tomorrow, with more gold, more comfort and better looking women than here with you, Your Grace, if you will forgive me for saying so, but I could not and would not find a better man to serve. Whatever men say, I know the measure of you, as duke, as brother, as son, as friend and as employer of many. I have seen you at your worst, when the temper has taken you and destroyed your common sense, I have seen you at your best when you flatter and charm those you cannot stand. I have comforted you when you were sick from too much wine and I have laughed with you at the antics of others. I have shared bread and meat with you and drank your wine. I have done everything with you apart from three things: I have not worn your clothes, for you are taller and broader than I, I have not dallied with your women, for that is not the way I am inclined and I have not slept in your bed for if I had done so, I would not be responsible for my actions. I know you as well if not better than I have known any man and I say this: high born or not, you are a fine man, one worthy of respect and honour. And that I give you, in full measure, George duke of Clarence.”