Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (30 page)

Beneath all the prayers, the concerns for his estates and family, his loneliness and isolation, ran the current of fear, fear of what was on the other side when he was finally killed. He would not use the word executed, even to himself. That fear caused gut wrenching agony at times as it wracked his body as well as his mind: intense, all consuming fear. Faith, apart from prayers to God, was eroding under the confinement and the enforced isolation which left his mind free to roam places it would not otherwise have gone. Fear wrote a scenario that was driving him toward insanity, combined as it was with the excruciating pain in his head. Oh God, he prayed endlessly, let it all be over and let it all be over soon! I am so afeared of my body betraying me and that would be shameful, humiliating and unworthy of a duke. Just let it be done, in the name of Heaven, let it be done!

He was summoned before the king and parliament on the 16
^th
January by writ from Parliament.

Two of his squires came early to his chamber and helped him to dress in gold and black, his favourite colours. His long fair hair was brushed until it shone, a black cap with gold trimmings was set firmly on his head. He clenched his teeth against the sudden pain and hoped neither of them realised he was in agony. His beard was brushed until that too gleamed. An ermine lined cloak was placed around his shoulders, shining black leather boots were slid onto his feet and he stood straight and tall, smiling at them. The doublet might be a little tighter than he would have wished or desired but it looked fair enough to him.

“This is my time,” he told them. “Whatever happens today is in the hands of Almighty God, not my brother the king, for only God can direct the course of our lives.”

He was pleased the words came out clear and unequivocal. During the latter part of the old year and the first few days of the New Year his voice had begun to break up when he spoke. He carried a new fear that he would be incapable of defending himself against what he knew were false charges. It was simply that he was now an encumbrance to the Wydevilles – if not an actual danger - and a thorn to his king. Edward, being Edward, desired the removal of the thorn: permanently. None of this had been spoken aloud or even written anywhere. It was George’s knowledge of his brother’s nature and his own fey abilities which told him that this really was the final act in a masque of such ridiculous performances that of a surety history would laugh at it, were they to read the records in full.

They walked down the many steps, out through the huge intimidating doors and into the first truly fresh air George had breathed since June of the year before. A bitter cold wind blew sharp ice laden rain into his face but it was welcome, it was the ice experienced by free men. He mounted the horse brought for him, noted the armed escort, blank faced and immovable, who surrounded him. He was not being given a chance to escape, even if he had that thought in mind. They rode through all but deserted London streets, the weather keeping most citizens at home until they had of necessity to venture forth. Those who were going about their business did not look twice at the procession. They were well used to nobles and knights riding with armed guards and did not recognise the duke of Clarence, bearded as he was, heavier than he had been. His appearance had changed but in truth, he asked himself as he rode, would any of them have recognised me had I still been in my prime? How many commoners could recognise the aristocracy when they rode among them? Caps were doffed should anyone look their way, but that was about the limit of their subservience and recognition.

The fresh air was wonderful, even if it was bitterly cold and caused a constriction in his lungs each time he took a deep breath but the opportunity was too good to miss. Hold on, he told himself as he rode, hold on to the thoughts, speak clearly, speak strong and speak well. You have to go down fighting.

Go down? He asked himself the question as familiar buildings were passed and the horses snorted steam into the winter air, hooves clip clopping on the frost baked road. Go down? Why am I so sure I will go down? What an odd expression for me to use! But a true one, another voice argued. Ned is king, so no matter what you say, no matter what defence you raise, George Plantagenet, he will have the last word and the last word is to rid his life of that which bothers him. No doubt it bothers the Wydevilles too, no doubt they had a hand in all of this.

He wondered, briefly, why he should be diverting his thoughts in this manner when he had known full well for months that this was no more than the final act before the curtain came down, until he realised he was bolstering himself for the ordeal to come, the struggle to speak clearly and stand straight and tall so no one would suspect any physical illness. He did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing he was ill. He had long since decided that he could, with a small note to the king, dispense with this trial, this mockery of a trial, not give his brother the burden of having ordered him killed. He had long since decided he would not do so, he wanted to leave the stain of his murder on the reign of Edward IV as a lasting memorial, if history did not remember him any other way. It was, he thought, a very sad, almost heartbreaking verdict on our relationship that it has come to this.

Now, the question: should I, dare I, suggest before Parliament this day that all is not well with the marriage to the Queen? Dare I say aloud before the gathered officials that my brother the king is not legally married to Elizabeth Wydeville, as there is a –

No! Be not a total fool, Clarence! Be sure of this one thing, the truth will come out, one way or another, in the fullness of time. Let it not be from your lips, foolish man, for that will seal your fate sooner than anything else. Let it be on your behaviour, your actions alone, not on the actions of your brother the king.

The wiser voice prevailed. He resolved to say nothing of Stillington and his knowledge but wondered if anyone else knew or suspected he knew of the pre-contract and whether it would come back on his name in the future. Anything was possible in this world of spy and counter-spy, of deceit and double talk, of treachery and self-interest. It was all he could do not to laugh aloud at the last thought which entered his mind. Treachery and self-interest. Doubtless they were at the very core of his brother’s accusations against him but ones which would not be voiced. They would be couched in terms which would make it look as if he were the guilty one in every way.

His escort rode stony-faced, staring ahead all the time. They had not observed any of his expressions, had not bothered to concern themselves with his feelings. They were doing their duty, escorting the duke to answer the King’s summons. Nothing else mattered. Suddenly he was intensely lonely, even lonelier than he had been in his chambers in the Tower during the Christmas festivities, when he had sat alone before the fire, drunk on malmsey wine, imagining the gaiety of the court, wondering if any had given him so much as a passing thought during the whole twelve days. This loneliness, this feeling of being totally and completely alone, cut through him like a lance thrust, almost toppling him from the horse. He gripped the reins hard and clamped his knees against the horse’s sides, determined to hold on to his dignity. It would not do to fall now, not when he had been so carefully groomed for this final walk onto life’s public stage.

All too soon they arrived at Westminster.

Chapter 32

In the days since my trial I have gone over it a thousand times but I cannot recall any faces who looked on and did not speak. I only recall the face of the man I once called Ned and now called king, for the man who glared at me was not my brother of March, not the golden presence who filled my life with joy when he came to visit us, not the one who rode out to battle with a smile and a word for us all, inspiring us as only he could to do our best for him and for England. This man was a stranger, even more so than the one who had glared at me in similar fashion in council so many months earlier.

I knew others were there, heard their shifting feet and bodies, heard the collective sighs and breaths, felt the collective intense interest in the proceedings but name them? I could not, were I now to face the rack or anything else in the Tower torture chambers. They were blank to me, as blank as I will doubtless be to them when the writ is executed and I am killed. Still I refuse to use the word executed when referring to my death. It does not sit right in my mind or in my mouth.

Oh the king was so calm at first, detailing the case against me, my relationship with our cousin of Warwick, fighting against him, taking him prisoner, taking the law into my own hands with the trial and execution of Ankarette Twynho and those who died with her by my actions, my seeking the hand of Mary of Burgundy in order to strengthen my case to take the English throne. At this point I laughed aloud and Edward’s face grew dark as thunder.

“Our sister Margaret proposed the marriage, Your Grace,” I said with great formality. “It seemed a marriage that would befit my status as a royal prince and duke of this kingdom. It had nothing whatsoever to do with claiming the throne. Your Grace has a son who will take the throne when Your Grace leaves this mortal life.”

“It is immaterial!” Edward shouted, literally shouted and those around him drew back from the sheer force of his anger. “It could have been!”

“Could have been but was not. Does Your Grace not realise I know full well my standing in this court, in this country, when it comes to the succession? Does Your Grace not realise that my previous attempts to claim that which Your Grace accorded me before the marriage to Queen Elizabeth and the result thereof, your son Edward, came to naught and so I put away all thoughts of becoming king?”

“So full of smooth words, Clarence, as always! Have I not held out the hand of forgiveness time and again for your indiscretions and treacherous acts? But this time you have gone too far. Taking the law into your own hands, subverting the judiciary, executing innocent people-”

“They were as innocent as Thomas Burdet!”

“Without a shred of evidence and against all due process of law!” he continued as if I had not spoken. The gathered masses seemed to hold their collective breath for all become totally still.

I waited, waited several heartbeats and then said, quietly:

“Your Grace had no evidence against Thomas Burdet either. I understand he protested his innocence to the moment his life was taken from him.”

Edward was not to be dissuaded. He continued his imprecations, my treachery, my disloyalty, my dishonour to the House of York. I said no more for no more could be said. His mind was set and my words only inflamed the situation. He said over and over that he would even now forgive me but I had gone too far. It was nonsense and we both knew it was so. He had made up his mind – or had it made up for him – and there was no turning back.

It was almost a relief to be found guilty. I could turn and walk from the council chamber, I could re-mount the horse and endure the lonely ride back to the Tower and my official residence, all communications to George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence, to be delivered to the Constable of the Tower, please, where I would await the official sentence. At least then I no longer had to fight to speak clearly, to see clearly and stand straight. I could, at long last and with great relief, give way to that which was eating my life away day by day. Let them think I was in shock, let them think the ordeal of the trial had caused its own problems, let them think what they would. I alone knew the truth, I and the shades around me who are, of a surety, moving in closer and closer.

Buckingham pronounced the sentence, death as a traitor. Edward IV signed the writ himself, befitting my rank as a royal prince, or so I liked to believe, or was he just making sure I knew that it was by his hand I was to die? I still do not know the manner of my death, but I am sure that it is not by hanging, drawing and quartering, the standard horrific death for a traitor, for I believe he will be merciful in that way. Whether I am to be beheaded instead, as befits one of my rank, is something I do not know but do not fear so much, it will be quick and my agony will be ended, at long last. My fear, this ongoing endless stomach clenching fear, is still what will happen when I walk through that door marked Death, the one that ever grows larger and clearer in my mind whilst all else seems to fade. I keep saying that, it is true. It is a constant in my life and I cannot escape it. I find it hard to recall the faces of those I loved: Durian, Isobel, my lady mother, my lord father, they are misty, so indistinct. What was it about Thomas Burdet that made me care for him and how did he look, I do not recall. It is sliding away from me, I am afraid for my sanity before the end.

Does the king regret the trial now, I wonder? Does he have any compassion left in him for me? What of Dickon, gone from me to the North, what will he truly feel when he hears the news, for of a surety someone will ride north with a message or a letter or official document detailing the trial and its outcome. There is nothing more he can do, will he feel useless, helpless in the face of such implacable royal will?

What are my children thinking of me now? Are they safe, are they in good custody and will they be told of the way I died? What of my estates, my staff, my animals, my –

There is no need to go on, Clarence, foolish man. What good is any of this to your mind right now? It is out of your hands, out of your control in its entirety. Let it go.

And so I go back, back to those far off days at Ludlow when Ned would reach for me and swing me round with such a huge smile it was unbelievable and then he would, with great courtesy and dignity, solemnly hold out his hand to Dickon, that small dark-eyed boy I shared my early life with, the boy that once clung to me and sobbed in his loneliness and homesickness.