Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (19 page)

“No, my lord, you are not. I think your cousin of Warwick is a perceptive man who sees more than we allow of him at times. Of a surety I know you better than any man alive and yet he sees things I sometimes do not.”

That to some degree settled George’s mind. He kept a bland neutral face for all business dealings and even some social occasions, not wanting people to know of his innermost thoughts and desires. They were kept for those he trusted beyond all reason, few indeed were those people, far too few. It had perturbed him that his cousin might see past the mask of innocent intent.

After what seemed a lifetime of small talk, congratulations and chitter-chatter, they attended Compline and went to their beds where Isobel proved to be shy, naïve and embarrassed about her body and anything she had to do as a wife. George allowed her to fall asleep without possessing her, there was time enough for that. They had the rest of their lives together to please her father and breed heirs. For himself, the desire was not there, not with so much to think about. Muttering words about how considerate and caring he was, Isobel slipped into sleep, leaving George to look down at her quiet calm face and the mass of hair spread over the pillow. He had requested she leave it loose for this one night and she had obeyed. Tentatively he touched the silken locks, marvelling at the many shades he saw in them, looking at her almost transparent eyelids and her soft lips moving gently as she breathed. Maybe when they were back in England, when they were in their own home and their own bed, he would take her, gently and yet positively. Before then, she was entitled to her rest.

While he stayed awake, despite being bone weary, thinking of the problems that could lie ahead of him.

Then he grinned. I have the earl of Warwick as father-in-law! What could assail the house of Neville and win? None!

With that comforting thought he fell asleep against the warmth and softness of his new wife.

Chapter 20

Oh the softness of my new wife’s body against mine in our marital bed! Oh the way her hair wound itself around my face and neck, for I did so like her to wear it loose in bed, even if it did mean a lot of brushing in the morning to untangle it. Then it fell in rich waves and I never tired of seeing the brush slide through it and watch as it fell down her back clear to her waist. She was so pretty, my wife, my poor doomed wife who deserved so much better than I ever gave her. I say this now, I say it in my mind and my heart to those who would hear me, those shades, those angels who are around me during these final minutes, hours, days, whenever it pleases my liege lord to end this useless life of mine. I say I was a good husband but I could have been a better one. I could have considered her more than I did; I should have taken her more into my confidence and not taken her for granted. I could have, I should have, these are the thoughts of someone who regrets so much and who cannot turn back the days, months and years and put things right. Oh Isobel, if you be there in Heaven awaiting me, it will not be long now and I can then offer you my apologies. Of one thing be sure, though, I did not stray. Not once. Not that I was without temptations, enough and more of them! A flash of ankle, a tugging at the neckline of a gown to expose more and persuade me to tarry and look, oh I tarried and I looked but I never touched. This I swear on Isobel’s memory, her tomb and her soul. Only when she had departed this life did I turn to another, one who had loved silently and long, one who had waited on my command and my wish, one who served me well. Oh dear girl, I would have you know I loved you more than life itself!

‘Tis passing strange, though, that now I hope against all hope that my brother the king will stay his hand long enough to let me wander through the remainder of my life in memory. I wish to relive all that I did and accept it, good or bad, before I walk through that black door and greet whatever is waiting for me on the other side. I visualise a door, heavy with iron, great hinges of black and a latch strong enough to withstand the assault of demons who might wish to prance into this life and wreak havoc. I visualise this and can see the grain of the fine oak from which it is made, wrought by hands that were not of this world, of a surety they were not, for it is too finely made for that.

I cannot visualise that which lies beyond it and therein lies the fear.

The fear which constricts my bowels at times and causes as much pain as that I am experiencing in my head. None will know of my thoughts, it matters not that I admit such a thing to those around me, for of a surety they must have known others in this situation, those waiting to die and being that afraid of what is on the other side they are in danger of voiding themselves. I fear this as much as I fear that which is to come. I do not wish to lose control of myself, it is a shameful thing and one I would not wish to live through. Listen to the drunken ramblings of a drunken man! Live through this! Life is all but over anyway! But still I hold to the pride which I had when in my prime, before the wine took over and the enemy which lives within my skull began to take his revenge on me. I was a proud duke, I have said so before, I know that. I say it again. I was a proud duke. Such a proud person should not be seen to be that afraid he cannot control himself.

Clarence, in the name of Heaven take the thoughts back to Isobel, poor helpless loving Isobel, she of the soft limbs and quiet voice, she of the glistening hair and logical mind which I used at times when confronted with conundrums that my own mind could not resolve. It is best not to think of these other dire truly awful possible happenings. Oh how I wish Durian were still alive, closeted here with me, to make me laugh, to make me forget for a moment that which is to come! Oh foolish man, would you have imprisoned your Fool? Of a surety that would have been most unfair on the person who loved you so well! It is also to be asked whether the king would have permitted my Fool to be with me until the last. I see and understand that cruel streak in my liege lord and believe it would have been denied me anyway, even if Durian had survived. I wish, I wish, I wish I had been there at the last with him, for I would have known by his face whether what awaited him on the other side of the door was good or bad and I would have reassurance of my own passage through that door. So much denied me!

Come, time is running out. Come, walk the path of memory once more, come, relive the times, the occasions, the conspiracy and the impending battle. Oh the sense of anticipation that we were returning to England to try and take control! Did my brother the king know of our plans in their entirety? I would be dismayed to think he knew of it all; parts, yes, for many were in on the plans and many cannot control their words in front of others. Spies, oh we were awash with spies: Wydevilles, Nevilles, Yorks, you name a family and there were spies awaiting every incautious and at times cautious words, for match enough words together and you have a complete sentence, match enough sentences together and you have a book on which to base your future plans. Or so it was in my household. From the time I was old enough to understand that knowledge was power, I sought knowledge and appointed Durian head of my spy network. I believe it was supreme, better by far than that of my brother of Gloucester or my brother the king himself. Proving that would be difficult but certainly I was well informed at all times. Some of it was trivial: liaisons, gossip, chitter-chatter, of course, but at other times real information came on the back of an incautious moment, an unguarded letter, an overheard command or message. Matched together plans were revealed, scandals uncovered, deception unfolded before our eyes. I knew the strength of my spy network and I knew the quality of the information which came to me. Durian was a perfect spymaster, throughout his life not one person ever hinted that they knew of his role in my household, outside of his being my Fool. They never saw the other side of him. As always, people see what they want to see. I sometimes wonder if this was something I was guilty of at times, although in truth I suspected everyone, befriended few and trusted even less.

We sailed for England, duke and duchess together on board the same ship which took us on our outward journey. We were greeted with great deference and many congratulations by the captain and his men, looking for largesse which I freely distributed. Once more the crossing was calm; once more Isobel spent the entire time clinging to the bunk, swearing that she would never set foot on board a ship again.

But I have to say, in total honesty, my thoughts were turbulent enough to have caused the ship to rock violently, to even capsize, were they in a form that could affect this life. I was torn apart by what we were about to do. I was about to take a step that would reflect on my life in every way. Loyalty is everything: loyalty to family, to kin and to king. I was about to break that which was virtually the eleventh commandment: thou shalt not betray thy family, especially when that family includes the king of England.

Even as I anxiously and excitedly anticipated the insurrection, I was besieged with doubts, with troubled conscience, with nerves that threatened to overtake me. As I stood staring out at the endless waves, marvelling at their constancy, I wondered what power Warwick had over me that he could embroil me in his plans for insurrection. I wondered what alchemy he cast that made me go along with the conspiracy, to draw me in so completely that I could look at myself as a proud duke, new husband, new son-in-law to my cousin of Warwick and not say ‘I cannot betray my liege lord and brother.’

For some time I stood alone on the deck, as alone as you can be on a ship where sailors are swarming everywhere, over the rigging, over the coils of rope, over the boxes lashed to various strategic points and, if I didn’t move smartly enough, over my feet too. I had no desire for my Italian leather boots to be trampled by salt laden crusted sailors’ feet so I was constantly stepping out of their way. For all that, I felt and probably was alone, as no one spoke to me for what felt like hours. I recall the endless sound of the snapping of ropes, creak of timbers, cry of seabirds, smell of wet rope, salt and seaweed, of bodies unwashed even more than mine was. I recall it as clearly as I recall the last mazer of wine I finished some minutes ago for that journey was one of intense heartbreak and misery, in direct contrast to the outward one, when all I thought of was the great occasion of my wedding, Isobel’s radiant happiness – when off the ship – and being allied to the great house of Neville.

Now I faced the reality of treason. It was not comfortable; it was not easy. I had no way of knowing what my brother the king knew or did not know, how much advance planning he had made or whether the insurrection would result in tragedy. Would Isobel be a widow before she was a true bride?

What I recall most is my sense of injustice, right or wrong, and it will be for others to decide in their own minds if I was right or if I was wrong. What I say now to the arras and the walls, to the insensate flames and the empty mazer is that I, George Plantagenet, was consumed by a great sense of injustice. From the moment I was made duke of Clarence I assumed I would be heir to the throne. Foolish as it sounds, I had overlooked the possibility of heirs that would supersede me in that position. This was my arrogance, my short-sightedness, my internal blindness. I know it; I confess it now. At the time, during that period of conspiracy and planning, with the distinct and very real possibility of assuming real power, not that conferred by my brother the king which was mostly make-weight, lacking real substance, the thoughts were seductive in the extreme. The smell, the touch almost of real power held more promise for me than even my new wife’s - at that time - untouched, unexplored body.

In that period of planning and intense discussion I understood that driving force which motivates men to kill, to steal, to deceive and to defy all normal conventional ‘laws’ of life to achieve the ultimate goal: supreme power. I understood it and I gave way to its seduction. I was drawn in and, once drawn in, there was no turning back. No going to Ned and saying ‘forgive me, brother, I almost turned against you.’ For my sins, I was turning against him. I could not even begin to imagine my cousin of Warwick’s wrath were I to do such a thing; I doubt I would be standing for longer than it would take to swing a fist in my direction. I had committed myself to the insurrection: I would go through with it, regardless of consequences. It would at least send the message to my brother the king that this duke was not to be casually ordered to go here or oversee there or marry this one or not marry this other one, that this duke would do what he wanted as befitted his standing in court and in the land, that this duke would not idly stand by and watch his younger, less experienced brother showered with titles, honours, estates and responsibilities beyond that given and awarded to me. Jealous? But of course! Would you not be, oh you who walk the room with me right now, those shades of darkness waiting to accompany me through the door? ‘Tis a goodness that you are insubstantial, I have grown somewhat during this enforced sojourn here in the Tower, here in the prison that my brother calls ‘Royal chambers’, grown so that there would be little room for more than one person to pace endlessly the flagstones which are all that have been left for me. No coverings here to trap the warmth, no comfort here for feet not long left to walk this earth. Is that by oversight or design? Ah, so many questions and my brother the king not here to answer a one of them.

It was in this frame of mind: resentment, arrogance, jealousy, imagined slights and unsubstantiated insults combining to fire the thoughts, to turn them toward insurrection and ultimately, with luck, power, we disembarked and began the journey to our fate.

Had I known how it would eventually end, would I have turned back at that point?