Succession (5 page)

The king held his high court of parliament at Saint Edmunds Bury in the county of Suffolk … during which parliament the Viscount Beaumont, then constable of England, with the assistance of the Duke of Buckingham and other nobles of the realm, at the king’s commandment arrested the famous and noble Duke of Gloucester, uncle to the king.

Great Chronicle of London

 

The Duke of Gloucester had ridden to the parliament in good faith, through the bitter weather, though he was troubled by gout and by an unnamed complaint of the bowels. And even though the parliament was held in Suffolk’s county, he was not unduly apprehensive.

Everywhere was deserted; the few cows and sheep they passed stood motionless, as if frozen to the earth. The sky was white, like a helmet of bone; each blade of grass had whitened and stiffened, and where sky and earth met there was only mist like the vapour that rose from his horse’s nostrils. He wondered if his eyes were failing, along with the rest of him, for it was hard to tell where the earth ended and the sky began, and from time to time the mist seemed to form misleading shapes. At one point he could have sworn he saw his brother the warrior king riding towards him, as he used to ride towards his generals before a battle. Then the mist shifted and the image disappeared and, mentally, the duke shook himself. His brother was not the king. His nephew, his brother’s witless, ill-starred son, was king and was even now waiting for him in the abbey of Bury St Edmunds. The duke was one day late, but
they could not expect him to travel so far quickly, in such weather, and so he did not hurry his men or their horses over the frozen ground. Though he was well wrapped in furs, the cold scalded his cheeks and the inside of his nose. He rode on steadily through this landscape that was like a ghost of itself, thinking of fires and wine and other bodily comforts.

But his reception was not warm. At his lodgings there was a message to say that the king expected him immediately. He was irritated by this, but since relations between them had deteriorated recently and he had been refused an audience on more than one occasion, he left his men to see to their horses and went on with only a few attendants.

As soon as he entered he saw an unsmiling king, and the queen, who would not normally have been present at such an assembly, together with a group of those lords who were most hostile to him: his old enemy the Cardinal Beaufort and his puppet nephew, the Earl of Somerset; Suffolk and his lackey Moleyns (recently made Bishop of Chichester); Salisbury and others who fawned upon the queen. He looked at their faces and began to understand.

Still he was not daunted. He, the brother of the warrior king, veteran of so many victories against the French, would not keep quiet in the face of their ruinous counsels – he would speak the truth as he saw it, before them all.

Before he could say anything, however, Suffolk rose and accused him of plotting against the king.

He was outraged, of course, that this son of merchants and traitors should stand before him at all. He would not speak to him; he spoke directly to his nephew.

‘What nonsense is this?’

And the Earl of Salisbury rebuked him: ‘Do not speak out of turn to his majesty!’

‘Your dog is barking, my lord,’ the duke said to the king. ‘I find it difficult to hear your reply.’

At once it seemed that everyone was shouting, including the queen, that yapping French bitch who should not even be there. But
it was not for nothing that he had bellowed orders to thousands of men on French soil, and he raised his voice above them all.

‘I will not speak before this pack of wolves!’ he shouted. ‘Where are the other lords?’

And into the sudden silence Suffolk said, ‘Do you say you will not answer to your king?’

‘I will answer,’ he said, ‘if the king will speak.’

‘Make no conditions before the king,’ Suffolk began, but the king had risen and was walking towards the duke. Gloucester found himself looking at his nephew as though he had never seen him before: that vestigial resemblance to his dead brother was wrongly assembled somehow – it was hardly possible for a son to be less like his father. There was stubbornness in the face rather than conviction or assertion, and that injured look, that deep uncertainty in his walk, though he did not take his gaze from his uncle’s face, and did not stop until he was within several paces of the duke.

‘My uncle,’ he said, ‘you have betrayed my trust.’

‘Traitor!’ someone shouted, and there was another outburst of accusations. The duke had spoken against the king’s marriage, he had made public the loss of Anjou and Maine without the king’s consent, he had spread malicious rumours about the queen.

‘What rumours?’ the duke demanded, but the king simply turned his back on him and walked away. The duke could see the look of triumph on the queen’s face. Furiously, he shouted after the king, ‘You are listening to traitors now – to the counsel of traitors – and women!’ but his voice could hardly be heard. And the king merely continued to walk away from his uncle, towards the back of the room, where the duke could hardly see him. But the duke had only made public that which the public ought to know – that Suffolk had bought the queen so dear. And the people hated him for it, as the duke had known they would. Then Suffolk said loudly that he had made vile insinuations against the queen’s honour.

He had said, in fact, that the queen kept her bedfellows close. People could make of that what they wished.

‘Ask him about his own wife,’ someone called, and suddenly he knew, or part of his mind knew, that it was over.

He could have defended himself, for though his wife had been condemned for treason, for using witchcraft against the king, he had been cleared of all complicity. But he had lost battles as well as won them, and could detect those changes of fortune against which no man’s efforts stand. He could see the eager savagery in their faces, the cardinal’s vulpine smile. He raised his voice once more, addressing the king he could hardly see.

‘I will not speak here, where I cannot be heard. Your majesty knows I am no traitor – I have acted for the common good. What else would your majesty have me do?’

And into the sudden silence the queen – not the king – spoke.

‘The king knows your merits, my lord.’

And there was a rousing chorus of assent.

The duke would not even look at her. He looked instead to where he believed the king sat, partially obscured by the other lords. ‘Why do you let others speak for you?’ he called.

And the king heard. He rose unsteadily; Gloucester almost felt sorry for him. So many talons, he thought. ‘Let the king speak,’ he said, and another silence fell. ‘What is it your majesty wishes?’ he continued in a conciliatory tone, though he could not keep the contempt from his stare. He wondered if here and now the king would pass sentence on him for treason, but somehow he doubted it. And he was right. The king spoke unevenly.

‘You may go – to your lodgings – and await our pleasure there.’

Gloucester bowed and immediately turned to leave.

Only as he left did his thoughts start to race and he began to speculate. Would the king go so far as to have his own uncle executed? Surely there would be a trial?

He could already see the probable outcome of events. Yet, oddly, he felt more alive than he had done for months. Lately, he had begun to feel a little displaced from his life, as though only on the battlefield had he felt truly alive. He spurred on his horse and rode swiftly through the streets to his lodgings. He would not
dishonour himself by attempting to flee; he would make no admission of guilt.

As he rode he had a powerful memory of the king as a little boy: foolish, affectionate, usually cheerful but very prone to tears. Disinclined, from the first, to take any part in military sports. He had promised his brother he would be a father to his son; he had failed, entirely, to love him.

Then another memory surfaced. He was a child with his brothers, all three of them, in the orchard of some castle’s grounds. And Henry, the eldest, had suggested that they should have a race to see who could gather up the most fallen apples. Henry had won, of course, and he, the youngest, had gathered up the least. He had tried to smile, and failed, then Henry had generously tipped his share of apples into Humphrey’s basket. ‘You will always receive your portion from me,’ he had said. In the duke’s memory there had been a halo of light around him; he had looked up at him through a blaze of sun. Even then, he had hated himself for smiling up at this brother, whom he had hated and admired and loved.

That was irrelevant now that all three of his brothers were dead. His parents had had six children, and he was the only one left. It was a strange thing to be the only one to have survived. He felt as though he were a relic of a bygone age in which honour and glory, not flattery and acumen, ruled.

Still, he was alive, and they were dead.

Even before he entered the street where his lodgings were, he could see them waiting for him. A group of lords on horseback: Stanley, Stourton, Somerset and the queen’s own steward, Viscount Beaumont, Lord High Constable of England, who rode forward to meet him, closely followed by Buckingham. He reined in his own horse and waited until they were close enough to hear, then said, ‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’

And the Lord High Constable of England rode forward and formally charged him with treason.

And this foresaid noble duke … was found dead in his inn, of whose death many tales were blown about the land … and when he was found dead his corpse was carried into the abbey church that all might see him, but on his corpse might no wound be seen or found.

Great Chronicle of London

 

Some said he had been strangled or suffocated in his bed, between two mattresses, or else ‘thrust into the bowel with a hot burning spit’, while others, more inventively, said he had been drowned in wine and dried again. Whatever they imagined, almost all were agreed that he had been foully murdered, and no viewing of the body changed their minds. Those few who reminded them that the duke was old and fat and drank to excess were shouted down, though some were prepared to concede that he could have died from shock and grief because of the nature of the accusations levelled against him.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, however, that Suffolk was to blame: Suffolk, who was giving away their lands in France piecemeal, and enriching himself in the process, so it was said; Suffolk, who had brokered a dishonourable deal with the French, and brought them a worthless queen
.

Within days of the Good Duke’s death, the mysterious alchemy of public opinion was turning supposition into truth: Gloucester had been murdered and Suffolk had arranged it. The king, who was famously pious, could never have done such a thing. Suffolk had taken it upon himself to rule the king and country both, and was even now bedding their worthless queen.

Gloucester himself, bellicose, degenerate and profligate, was remembered for his kindness, his many deeds of patronage, his willingness to stand and fight – not for marrying a witch who had conspired to put him on the throne.

For who now would stand between them and those wolves and jackals surrounding the king? Who would defend them against the French?

Many people turned out to mourn Gloucester, or to touch his shroud, for it was already said that miracles might occur, and the people needed a miracle to save them from the disorder and lack of governance in the land, for the country stood on the brink of ruin and disgrace.

And anon after the death of the Duke of Gloucester there were arrested many of the said duke’s servants, to the number of twenty-eight squires, beside other servants that never imagined the falseness of which they were accused. And on Friday the 9th day of July next following, by judgement at Westminster, five persons were damned to be drawn, hanged and their bowels burned before them, and then their heads to be smitten off, and then to be quartered, and every part to be sent unto divers places by assignment of the judges … [and] on the said day [they] were drawn from St George’s throughout Southwark and on London Bridge, and so through the City of London to Tyburn, and there they were hanged, and the ropes smitten asunder, they being still living, and then, before any more marks of execution were done, the [Earl] of Suffolk brought them all a general pardon and grace from our lord and sovereign, King Harry the VI.

Gregory’s Chronicle

 

And all the commons of the realm began to murmur and were not content.

Brut Chronicle

 

And in that same year the Duke of York, Richard Plantagenet, was exiled into Ireland for rebellion … fully and falsely as it was afterwards known.

Gregory’s Chronicle

 

He had already pulled off his boots, sent for wine and was sitting in front of a roaring fire when his wife came in. She walked towards him eagerly, then stopped at the look on his face.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Ireland,’ he said, looking into the fire.

‘Ireland? Not France?’

There was only a slight alteration in his face; his eyelids flickered downwards. Then he leaned forward and poked one of the logs back on to the fire.

‘So who is Lieutenant of France?’ she said.

‘Somerset.’

She made a small sound that might have been a snort of disgust. He poured wine for them both.

‘The king looks forward to me subduing his land of Ireland,’ he said.

‘I’m sure he does,’ she said. ‘And he will provide you with much money, and many ships.’

The duke only glanced at her sideways. Everyone knew that the king had no money. It was said that he had pawned the crown jewels for his wedding.

‘How much?’ she asked, meaning the annuity.

‘Four thousand marks.’

She closed her eyes briefly. He was grateful there was no outburst. He did not mention that Somerset would be given twenty thousand pounds a year. In all probability, neither of them would see either amount.

‘So generous,’ she said. ‘Or is that what you have to pay him?’

There was a gleam of humour in the duke’s eyes, but he did not respond.

‘When?’ she said.

‘As soon as may be arranged.’

‘I imagine,’ she said, ‘that will take some time.’

The duke merely said that it was Ireland, not the North Pole.

‘Did he not think to send you to the North Pole? That was remiss of him.’

The duke said that he would be sure to remind the king, next time. But the duchess was pacing the room, frowning.

‘Or to one of the circles of hell,’ she said.

The duke said that he would not compare Ireland to hell.

‘Your uncle might have,’ she said, and the duke said nothing. His uncle, his uncle’s father and his father before him had all died in Ireland. It was partly to retrieve the lands left to him there that he had agreed to go.

A gift of land in Ireland is a gift of blood
, it was said.

‘I will not be sailing in winter, at any rate,’ he said. ‘It will take me until spring at least to muster some men. And the ships. It will be summer before I can sail.’

The duchess stopped behind his chair and put one hand on the back of it, near his shoulder.

‘
We
,’ she said. ‘Before
we
sail.’

The duke turned to look at her; there was the beginning of a smile in his eyes. The Rose of Raby they called her, after the castle in which she was born. As she was growing up, everyone petted her because she was so pretty; she had the kind of prettiness that even now led people to think she must be sweet.

They did not think it twice.

‘You believe that you can subdue the Irish?’ he asked.

‘I will not be left behind,’ she said.

The duke’s smile broadened. She did not like to travel, but she accompanied him everywhere. Three of their children had been born in Normandy. Now she leaned forward so that her face was almost – not quite – touching his, and spoke softly.

‘You did not think that you were leaving me behind?’

‘
We
will sail,’ he corrected himself, looking up at her. And, almost imperceptibly, the look changed between them: hers softened; his became more intent.