Death Be Pardoner To Me: The Life of George, Duke of Clarence (9 page)

Richard opened the book again. “It’s good to know you appreciate it,” he said with an edge of sarcasm. “Sometimes I think you see no further than the mirror, provided it is reflecting yourself, of course.”

“Ah, you have no interest in clothes, Dickon! I find it so strange that with so many wonderful colours to choose from, you allow the tailor to do what he wants, rather than what you want and so your colours are dark and dour!”

“Clothes are for covering the body and keeping you warm, not to let you dress up like a popinjay, George. Now, please, let me finish this section before the bell rings for noon.”

“I despair!” With a theatrical flounce that would have better suited a mummer or a Fool, George walked out of the room, wondering if he would ever educate Dickon in the ways of fashion, to appreciate colour and design, to admire the cut of a tunic or the tilt of a hat. He doubted it very much. Dickon was only interested in books, in acquiring more knowledge and then more knowledge and in taking life so very seriously. For one so young he seemed to act and speak so old, as if someone had given him the head of an elderly learned man, not that of a young boy. There was no point in trying to change him.

“Lord George!” one of the servants called to him from the doorway. “Quick, it has ceased raining, for which thanks be given! Come, the dogs are ready for games!”

George hurried out of the door, grateful that in his life, at least, someone understood there was more than just books to be read and essays to be transcribed in laborious italic handwriting, hard taught by tutors who despaired of ever getting him to write neatly, even as he despaired of encouraging Dickon to take life in a lighter manner.

From July to September the agonising wait went on: longing to be reunited with family, desire to escape the confines of what was fast feeling like a prison and an overwhelming need to know what was going on made for broken nights and endless days. To make matters worse, if it could be made worse, word had come that their sister Margaret had returned home and was with their mother. When the letter arrived, written in Margaret’s perfectly formed unhurried script, George all but screamed in anger, startling Richard who was reading his own letter at the time and sending a page scurrying from the room in fear of repercussions.

“Margaret’s home!”

“Yes.” Richard indicated his letter, written in the same neat script. “It seems the family are moving on and so-”

“That’s not the point!” George was on the verge of tearing up the paper in sheer rage. “The point is we are here and she is there and I want to be there!”

Richard sighed and with that simple action he deflated George completely. The anger drained out of him, his face returned to its customary ruddy look from the high colour which had consumed him for a few moments. “God’s teeth, Dickon, does nothing touch you?” he muttered, clutching the letter to his chest, regretting the impulse which had almost brought its destruction.

“Don’t let anyone hear you blaspheme like that,” Richard commented mildly, as if for once understanding his brother’s intense rage. “No. I let nothing touch me that I cannot control. If I cannot control it or change it, then it has to be allowed to pass by. Sooner or later we will be reunited with Margaret. Until that time, I bid you calm yourself and do not allow such anger to overtake you. In the grip of such emotion, you are not in control.”

“Control, control, it’s your favourite word!”

“And it should be yours, too. One day – when all is as it should be – the Yorks will be in power and then you will need to learn to curb your tongue, your rages and your enthusiasms. Never let anyone see what you are thinking or feeling, George. It is not good; it gives away too much to the other person. They can use it as a weapon against you.”

George stood, astonished at the wisdom coming from his brother. It made sense and yet it was cold, almost icy in its single-mindedness. He had not appreciated Dickon had such depth of thought. It explained so much, the bland face he adopted when speaking with people, his lack of emotion when given news or letters of family members George knew full well he cared about or his singular lack of interest in puppies or foals. Dogs not fully grown could not be commanded, horses not fully grown could not be broken in and ridden. He was on the verge of saying, ‘would it not ease you to laugh, cry or rage occasionally?’ when the bell tolled for Terce and the mood, the moment, was broken. It never presented itself again and the question was never asked, although it was rarely far from George’s subconscious mind. He was teased with the thought of what Dickon might have answered. Was there anything in the calculating mind of his brother to be eased? If there was, in the name of Heaven, what could it be?

September arrived and with it, word was sent for George and Richard to be prepared to travel into London. At long last the much desired release was in sight which somehow made the last few days of waiting to travel even worse than the days which had led up to that time. Impatient as ever, George had his belongings packed and ready to go a full week before they were finally told their mother was arriving the next day to take them on to their London home.

“At last!” he shouted, throwing a new cap into the air and catching it again before it fell to the flagstones and damaged the fine feathers which decorated it. Richard half smiled at his brother’s exuberance.

“May I suggest a ride, George? You need to do something to rid yourself of the energy which seems to be your curse in life.”

“Energy? A curse? No, Dickon, a zest for life which you are singularly lacking! Yes, a ride would be good. Come!”

He was out of the door, shouting for their horses to be saddled and brought to the courtyard before Richard had even got to his feet. When he reached the hall George was standing on the steps, stamping his feet with characteristic impatience, surveying the sky as if assessing the weather, watching the coming and going of the Archbishop’s many workers, hands busy tugging his cap, adjusting his doublet, checking his lace cuffs, playing with the gold chain and the ruby which hung from it, never still for a moment. He turned round as Richard approached him.

“We can dispense with cloaks, Dickon, it does not look like rain. That means we ride free!”

Richard shrugged. “Tis as one to me, George, riding with or without. A ride is a ride, is it not?”

“No! Of a surety it is not! Riding with a cloak means something to encumber you, to stop the wind pulling at your body, to wrap around your arms, to stop you doing what you want!”

At that moment George’s horse was brought round to the front of the house, a fine dappled gelding that he had become very fond of and hoped very much he could take with him to London.

“This is what I mean!” He threw himself at the horse in an effort to do a showy mount, missed his footing completely and landed head-first in the courtyard on the other side of the animal, putting his teeth through his lip in the process. He got up, smiling ruefully, dabbing at the blood, to see Richard throw back his head and lose himself in a genuine belly laugh for the first time in his life. It almost made the incredibly painful lip worthwhile. He snatched up his cap, dusted it and made his way a little unsteadily back into the house for his nurse to put some salve on the wound. When he came back, Richard was sitting patiently on his horse, waiting for him. There was no sign of the laughter, not even a hint in the dark eyes which looked him up and down. It was as if it hadn’t happened but it was a memory George carried with him for the rest of his life.

Lady Cecily finally arrived at the Archbishop’s on the 15
^th
September, complete with her retinue of armed escort and ladies. George could hardly contain his joy at seeing her again but did observe the almost formal pleasure shown by Richard. It revealed to him yet again how much their exile, for all that they were still in England, had affected his brother.

A day later they were in London. The crowds were good-natured, there were cheers and waves for them as they rode in, despite the fact hardly anyone knew who they were. It was enough that they were Yorkists entering their great capital city. Colour, palpable sense of excitement and joy, masses of people and the prospect of the family coming back together again, joined together to give George a lift of spirits which had been sorely lacking for many months.

They were to stay at a massive home called Baynards Castle, right on the banks of the Thames itself, all turrets and corridors, massive rooms and elegant hall. It was a delight to George, who wanted the security of the thick walls and massive doors to keep him safe. It was something he always desired, security, safety, constancy in his life. He had so little of it.

He found Margaret had changed, she was older, more sophisticated and smart, more aware of herself than she had been before she went away but she was still Margaret, still the loving sister and he was more than happy to be back with her again.

They might be in temporary lodgings yet again, with the prospect of another imminent move, but it was home for a while. George could hardly contain himself, at times running from one to the other to make sure they were still there, finally throwing himself on a settle, allowing exhaustion from the sustained emotion to take over. In those moments he looked very much the prince he would become, rather than a young boy whose feelings at times ran too close to the surface to be contained. His joy was increased by the fact that the temporary lodgings had been acquired for them by his brother Edward, the golden giant who, despite all the demands of politics and court, visited them every day, making time for his younger siblings. This was even more important when their mother left them to go to Chester to greet the duke, who was at last coming home from Ireland. It would not be long before all of them were back together again.

His brother’s visits were like the sun coming out each day. George would be busy at lessons, sharing the table with Richard, scowling over Latin or French or primers of some kind, when he would hear the commotion that meant Ned had arrived. There was always the great booming voice, the laugh, the shrieks of the maids and ladies at his jests before the boots made their distinctive sound on the flagstoned floors. George would throw down his quill and rush down the stairs, stopping short of the golden giant and making a perfect courtly bow to his brother.

This would invariably make Ned laugh and he would scoop up the young boy, hugging him fiercely before putting him back on his feet again.

“Soon you’ll be big enough to pick me up, brother of mine!” A daily jest and one that never failed to bring a smile to George’s face. He longed to grow quickly, to equal his most handsome and glittering brother. Ever would he admire the beautiful clothes and the heavily jewelled rings Ned wore with such nonchalance, as if being wealthy was his natural state. He was somehow unmarked, despite his hard-won reputation as a fearless soldier. How had he fought and not been wounded? Only by luck, judgement and having a faster arm and eye than those who tried to fight him. One day, George vowed, one day that will be me, fearless soldier, victorious in battle, quick with words and jests to entertain the ladies, wearing gold embroidered clothes and beautiful rings.

Then Edward would look past George and he would know that Richard had made his much more sedate way downstairs and was patiently waiting for his brother to acknowledge his presence, which he did with the same quiet courtly air as Richard had about him. This was something else George noted with great care, treating like with like, never imposing. Richard was not the sort of boy you picked up and hugged, he was old before his time so he was treated with the respect someone of a greater age would merit. Clever, he would muse when lying awake at night in his bed, staring up at the drapes and seeing pictures in the pattern of the cloth created by the flickering tallow candle he was allowed for a while. Treat everyone in the way they expect; flirt with all women, regardless of their looks for each is a female, of a surety; you treat two boys entirely differently because of their different personalities; you give respect to the old, be jovial with the men of your own age and somehow everyone – everyone – adores you and you get the attention and service you demand without demanding it. Oh, such cleverness! Night after night George fell asleep determined to emulate his golden brother, to be that clever in the handling of the people around him. Morning after morning he found it hard to do and wondered if he would ever truly conquer the art of being as clever as his brother Edward, who was almost a king in his eyes.

One day I will grow up enough to understand how he does it, he told himself, walking the grounds of the beautiful home. He wished they could stay there for it suited him well, high walls and espaliered fruit trees, neatly laid out vegetable plots and stately trees for shelter and to house the birds that roosted there. One day I will have a home like this, he told himself, standing under one of the trees, looking at the elegant gardens. One day I will have a home like this and none shall turn me out of it, no matter what prevails in the country. One day I shall not have to pack my possessions and be moved on yet again, to accustom myself to another property, another set of rooms, another bed. One day … oh, are dreams not made of such statements? But I will, I will!

Chapter 10

Such times were not to come again. Such times were and are branded in my mind forever as even more golden than the time at Ludlow and that was sunshine after rain indeed. Golden days when my brother Ned came to visit us, days of walking in the gardens, of being in London with all that London had to offer. I only had to listen to the cries of the street vendors and those who tried to go about their business but were caught in the snares of those who tried to sell them food and items, or caused a commotion by chasing cutpurses and robbers, listen to the carts and carriages, the horses, the dogs and the animals held for slaughter, to realise this was a thriving city, one that had nowhere to go but upward and onward, to be the greatest place in the country. Where else could such things be found? Of a surety, as a boy I could see no further than the boundaries of London and found outside those boundaries wanting. I almost managed to overcome the loss of the dappled grey gelding in the joy of being there for I was not allowed to bring it to London.