Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (31 page)
Read Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence Online
Authors: Dorothy Davies
I recall one night he came to my room, ignored the page and got into bed with me. He put those thin arms around me and held me as I cried after yet another whipping. No matter what they did, I could not learn to behave as a royal prince should and was forever getting into trouble. It seemed that tendency has stayed with me throughout my life. He slid quietly out of bed and out of my room when I stopped crying, never looking back and never speaking of it afterwards. I remember the feeling of love that came to me. Dickon only did that once but I never forgot it.
I remember my beautiful brother Edmund, who lived so short a time and died so dreadfully at the hand of someone who could have spared his life. I remember my proud father, his head ignominiously on a spike crowned with a paper crown. I will not forgive that act if I spend eternity in Purgatory. I think now of my sorrowful mother, losing her husband, her babies, her daughters to marriage and her sons, one by cold blooded murder and one by execution. This time I say the word. In the name of heaven, how much more will she have to endure before she walks through the door marked Death herself?
I remember the good times as well as the bad; I remember the Christmas festivities, the great religious ceremonies, the coronations where I officiated and the great regard in which I was held. I remember it all.
I have come to the end. I have come through the twenty-eight years of my troubled life and looked at it all. I am left with the question, why did it all go wrong?
Chapter 33
The angel hovered by the huge arras over the fireplace, unseen, unnoticed, as she had virtually been throughout his life. Her sigh sent the tapestry rippling and he looked up, maybe wondering where the air had come from to disturb such heavy cloth. But then he looked down again, staring into the depths of the mazer before him, the empty mazer. Once again it seemed the wine had disappeared into his body and once again it seemed to have done nothing to take away his pain, physical or mental.
Could I have done more, the angel asked herself, staring at the fair hair of the man she had loved, shadowed and protected for 28 years. Could I have persuaded him not to take the pathways he insisted on travelling, could I have directed him in other ways, better ways?
It is at the very end of someone’s life the questions are asked, the answers unforgiving. No. He could not have walked any other pathway. It was his karma, his fate that he should do those things, endure the hardships, the losses and the grief for his soul’s progression. He would not have understood this if she had told him, for his mind had been clouded by wine and devious thoughts, by elements of greed, ambition, need and, at the last, the all devouring tumour eating his brain cells. It was the karma, the fate of others, to live with the legacy he would donate to them, his death on their conscience, his life on their minds, his memory a haunting reminder of what might have been.
The angel stirred, moved, cast one last loving look at George Plantagenet and prepared to leave him. He had no further need of protection but she had work to do. She had to find Isobel, duchess of Clarence, and advise her that the time was close. She might wish to be there when the moment arrived. If not, well, the angel would do her duty and greet her charge when he crossed the divide. At least it would give her the chance to say ‘sorry, I did my best but only on one occasion did you know I was there. After that you ignored me. You really thought it was imagination, didn’t you? No, I really was there in the chapel with you, longing to reach out to you and help.’
She sighed once more and again he looked up at the arras. This time he gave the radiant smile that had won so many hearts and minds, the smile no one would see on this side of life after this day. She reached out a wing and touched his forehead. He put a hand up and rubbed his face, looking puzzled.
Then she was gone.
Chapter 34
I dreamed:
Of being king.
Of being the owner of Fotheringhay.
Of having a wonderful marriage.
Of fathering many children.
Of having power.
Of being part of the York family.
Of living to an old age.
My dreams are dead.
Soon, of a surety, I will be dead, too. My brother the king signed the warrant on the 7
th
February. Today is the 18
th,
by my reckoning. He will not allow me to live much longer. I am an embarrassment, I am a burden; I am a blot on his conscience. I know my brother; he will not delay further. That which troubles him is dismissed, disposed of, removed from his life. He wishes a peaceful reign. As long as I live he cannot guarantee peace. Little does he know I wish for it to be done, that every day is a torment to my body and my soul. But I still cannot bring myself to give him the satisfaction of requesting that it be over, any more than I can bring myself to tell him I would die anyway. Even now I am not prepared to be magnanimous.
To Hell with it, it no longer matters. I can no longer see clearly, the words run together on the paper, so burn it, burn it and be done with it, as my life will be done with before too long.
Oh the words I will not give the priest, for all that I trust him with my soul. I say them now, I say them to the stark cold stone walls that absorb everything and give nothing back.
God, forgive me my sins.
Richard, forgive me for all I did.
Edward, forgive me for all I did.
Mother, forgive me for not being the son you wanted.
Father, forgive me for not honouring you in my memory as I should.
Isobel, forgive me for not being the husband you really wanted. I loved you dearly – for a time.
My dear children, forgive me for not being there as you grow up.
Warwick, forgive me for not saving you at Barnet. I tried but it was too late.
Ankarette, forgive me for taking your life. Now I wonder why I did it.
John, forgive me for taking your life. Now I wonder why I did it.
The wine is long gone. I hear footsteps on the stairs; they come at last, with what? The door creaks, it is not opened much these days. At last the priest is come; my squires carry more wine. Outside the guards stand firm, as if I can run anywhere, as if I would!
There is a sense of sadness about them all. There is a sense – of termination. My squires bow and leave. The guards step in. I understand suddenly. It is they who will take my life. Of a moment all my fear has gone, drained out of me into the flagstones, the uncaring unmoving unmoved flagstones that have felt my feet trample on them these long tedious days of waiting for this moment. Of a moment every nerve that has been tight woven and painful has released itself. The calm is amazing, I welcome it, as I am able to confront that which is to happen without the knowledge that my body will betray me, that one stupid fear that has haunted me these long tedious days of waiting for this moment. At last it has come and with it has come the calm to face whatever is ahead.
The priest moves towards me.
“Your Grace,” and I swear his voice quavers as he speaks, “I am bid to hear your confession, to offer the last rites, to give you this wine and to ask you to take the bath now being prepared for you.”
Ned was merciful at the last, or did my lady mother plead for clemency? It all shines clearly in my mind. I doubt not that the wine is drugged, I doubt not that I shall be quietly drowned in a warm bath. So be it. There are worse ways of leaving this troublesome, troubled life. I could, as he ordained, have been forced to suffer the traditional traitor’s death of hanging, drawing and quartering. I could, had he ordered it, been taken to the scaffold and there waited for the sword to sever my head from my body. Somehow I knew it would not come to that; I was most sure my brother the king would want a quiet, dignified execution for someone of his own blood. I was also sure my lady mother would have pleaded with him and he, being a dutiful and loving son, would have listened to her words and acquiesced.
So it has proved to be. I am not able to send my thanks, but in any event they would be inappropriate. In truth, what would I say to him? Forgive me? If he had a mind to offer forgiveness, I would not be staring Death in the face in the form of a drugged mazer of wine, two strong guards and a priest shaking in his robes at what he was to witness. Thank you for a kind death? I think not. No death is kind, even if it will release me from this agony and this turmoil.
Forget the thanks, Clarence, consider that which is ahead of you, the next few minutes, the next half hour or hour, however long it takes to confess. It is time to leave this world.
It is of no importance that this man will not be able to understand a word of my confession; God will hear and He is the only one who matters.
With a silent prayer of thanks for mercy shown, I sink to my knees on the cold, unforgiving floor.
Epilogue
On the 18th February 1478 the physical life of George, duke of Clarence, came to an abrupt end. Legend has it that he was drowned in a butt of malmsey wine, a tale promoted by Shakespeare and believed by many historians. Quite why anyone would believe that is a mystery to me: malmsey wine is very expensive, why waste a hogshead of it? It is said that the fumes from an open butt would cause men to pass out but we are expected to believe servants held a possibly heavy person head down in the wine until he drowned. I didn't think it made sense … and that was before I met the duke and got the real story.
The facts of the ending of his life came from the duke himself, as did the whole book. At no time did I have any input into the writing of this life; the entire story came from the spirit who came to me in 2005, saying he was George, duke of Clarence and asked if I would write his life story.
We began writing the book in 2006, in just six months the work was done. How much of it has been 'added to' for the sake of a good story by the spirit author is anyone's guess, but his intention was throughout to make a good read for anyone interested enough to buy the book. His comment is, if he has strayed from the truth here and there for the sake of the story, it is no more and no less than many academically qualified and experienced historians have done, those who do not bother to check their facts and go on what others, equally careless, have written over the years. But essentially he assures me it is his life, as he remembers it.
You may well decide not to believe that this is a channelled book direct from spirit, that I am a good author and wrote an interesting work of fiction, in which case I hope you enjoyed your read. If you choose to believe that I channelled the work, then you will have had an insight into a period of history usually only seen through the eyes of historians. There are more such insights to come from a great variety of people, who have approached me with the same request, to tell their story and put the truth in front of the world.
My next book is observations on the life of His Majesty King Henry VIII. The same criteria applies: you can enjoy it as a piece of fiction or you can accept that it is channelled from His Majesty himself. Either way, I hope you will look out for the book and when you buy it, you will enjoy the reading of it.
Thank you for buying this book and thank you for reading it to the end. If nothing else, you should have a different opinion on the 'false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence' beloved of Shakespearean scholars and readers alike – which is what we set out to do.
Dorothy Davies,
Isle of Wight, 2008.
Books By Dorothy Davies
Brief and Bitter Hearts
Captain Of The Wight
Cast In Stone
Daniel A Life
Death Be Pardoner To Me
Fools and Kings And Fighting Men
Forever
Ghosts, Mediums, Spirits and ‘Death’
I Bid You Welcome
I Diced With God
Living In The Shadow Of The Cross
Not The Shadow Of A Man
Then Came The Liars, Then Came The Fools
Thirty Pieces Of Silver
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