We Speak No Treason Vol 2 (10 page)

So they were, Lord Wenlock and Somerset. From a vantage point the boy had picked out what seemed only a boil of confusion.... Beaufort splitting Wenlock’s skull in a rage, calling him traitor—we learned after that he vowed he’d played him false, not giving him of his strength against Gloucester’s wing. But at that moment we only wished to know they were in flight. They ran like hares towards the town, towards the Abbey, plunging into the river, fear-crazed, sinking like stones under a hail of arrows and the weight of their own harness. They raced across the meadow, whose green carpet had grown red flowers, and we were after them, yelling derision at the lumbering lords mail-burdened, and the terrified commons all spread out in flight across the field. I cried for my horse, and my esquires, singing their delight, pitched me into the saddle and I rode like a madman, for all are mad in war, close upon the heels of the waving Bull of Clarence and those who upheld it, and our quarry who was young, and royal, and his French bitch of a mother’s heart’s pride; and the heat went out of me as our prey turned with face bared to George Plantagenet. I saw that face, like a young wolf, as the woman of Bruges had said; yet a brave white young wolf, with lip back-curling and fear clothing the fangs, and my keen sight picked out the fierce eyes that had doubtless once smiled in friendship at turncoat Clarence. And I turned away hearing his scream of ‘Mercy!’ for whether or not he was begotten of the Holy Spirit, or, as men said, from the loins of an Earl of Somerset, he had been but lately hand-fasted with Prince George, and it was George’s men who struck at him, ringing him round so that he went down with a soundless fountain of blood spurting from that young wolfish face, and they hacking at him in laughter. So where, ah where, does loyalty lie? But there was no time to ponder on such riddles, for all around was the beat of hooves and the triumph-cry of a victorious army and I too was swept up within it, and possessed by the grim glory that beset my captain and the three Plantagenet princes. The river grew thick with corpses, its clear stream running heavy and red.

We trod down the Beauchamp Swan, the Griffin of Montagu. The lilies of France bloomed bloody. I saw all: the sweeping, fear-crazed rout going in waves before us, my horse’s ears rising before me as we plunged through a hedge and were enfolded in the shade of the Abbey.

King Edward dismounted at the North Door. He raised a sword clotted with hair and blood, and struck the oak a fierce blow. Slowly the door swung back, but not so slowly that I could not hear the force of that blow still thundering and rolling up the length of the great vaulted aisles—past the sleeping forms of long-gone knights and priests, like the harbinger of all the evil at which Hogan had hinted. And I was suddenly sore afraid as I saw the old Abbot framed small by the huge portal, sad of countenance and upholding the golden Tree of Christ, while behind him trembled an acolyte with the pyx and Eucharist in his hands. So the King and the Church confronted each other, while the banners flared above us, the Sun in Splendour, the Bull, the Lion, the Boar, and my own gay emblem of the bend sinister.

‘Holy Father, let us pass.’ The King’s voice was hoarse from the cries of war.

‘Sir King,’ said the Abbot steadily, ‘there are men within who seek succour in God’s House. Go in peace. It is the law of Holy Church.’

For a moment I thought the King’s humour would soften. Then his eyes raked the darknesses behind the upraised cross and I saw that look redden like the river behind us.

‘Beaufort!’ The name itself a death sentence. ‘Stand back, my Lord Abbot!’

The old man had no choice, as we, a mailed wave, poured powerfully over the threshold. And it was only knowing that Tewkesbury was not by law a Sanctuary
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that nerved my arm as I ran with the others among that forest of pillars and fought, my breath a snarl of war-lust, up the nave to the High Altar where the candles, thick as a man’s thigh, burned coldly. There was a knight who shrieked like a trapped rat while aiming fiercely for my head with his axe, and my sword bit a slice from one of the tall Norman columns as my unbelieving eyes saw the quarterings on the tiles all overspilled with gore. I fought this rat of Lancaster into the south transept and there, by the gilt tomb of the Despensers, I found a weakened rivet and took his life away, and came limping back through the aisle to see them dragging out Beaufort of Somerset past the stiff stone form of a Saxon Abbot, who looked as if he had sprung fresh dreadful wounds, for his effigy ran with blood.

As Beaufort panted out his spleen, mad Hogan’s words rang newly in my ears... ‘This England will be a stew of red life...’ and I grudged him right on one count.

They straightway tried them, Beaufort and the other traitors. A few were pardoned, among them Morton, lawyer and churchman, who threw himself upon the King’s mercy and pledged allegiance. King Edward seemed anxious to see the affair concluded, but Richard Gloucester came in, tardy, to sit beside Sir John Howard. He had his robe flung hastily over his mail; his eyes wore a red glaze, but he held the mace of Constable of England firm enough as he pronounced sentence upon Beaufort and watched him pass, heavy guarded, through into the market-place. I stood beside Richard, waiting while a priest shrove Beaufort, and I thought briefly on our sojourn in Flanders. He was not changed, I decided, only sadder, and battle-weary, as were we all.

‘You fought with marvellous strength, my lord Richard,’ I said.

‘A bloody business,’ he said bitterly. ‘The Lord Abbot says the Church must now be closed for reconsecration—the first time since its beginning,’ and he shook all over. I, thinking he had taken a secret wound, gripped his arm.

‘I have seen her,’ he said, looking straight ahead at the waiting scaffold. ‘Anne. Anne Neville. By the holy house at Gupshill. Once more... and by the Rood! She hates and fears me’

I had no space to reply, for they brought Beaufort then, handsome Beaufort. When they loosened the neck of his jerkin for the axe, we saw that he carried near his heart a sweat-soaked device. A marguerite, in cloth of silver.

‘So, Beaufort!’ said Clarence derisively. ‘For all you bore her emblem close, your Queen’s cause is lost. Finished forever.’

‘You forget, Plantagenet,’ said Beaufort, showing his teeth. ‘I have a cousin whose name also lends itself to this cognizance.’

Lady Margaret, I thought. What hazard she? What hazard any weak woman? and then I was not so sure, thinking on the Queen, wily and beautiful; Margetta, who had well-nigh driven me mad with worry while parted from her, and the woman of Bruges, who had conquered me through my own knavish lust. And Richard, who had a woman in his mind that moment and shook with dolour. ‘She hates and fears me,’ he said again.

Beaufort mounted the block under enough May sun to turn the axe to fire as it fell. (How was it, Beaufort, that swift death? Would Jesu that I knew.)

There was neither fear nor hate in Anne Neville when I rode to Middleham six years later with the call to arms against France. Never have I seen woman cling closer to her lord.

I killed a horse on that ride to Middleham. My blood was high with the foretaste of glorious war. I killed a horse, and that was all I killed. I could almost smile now at the remembered sight of Louis on the Bridge at Picquigny: dressed like a mountebank, all motley colours, and his aide and chronicler, Philippe de Commynes, clad in facsimile; Oh Louis, so full of méfiance that he dreaded assassination even with his hand clasped on the fragment of True Cross, and over King Edward’s.

The fifty thousand crowns. The priceless plate, the betrothal between Edward’s Elizabeth and the Dauphin. The sumptuous banquet—spoiled only by Richard of Gloucester’s humour. For we had been so merry together, and so busy on the crossing and ride inland from Calais that I had envisioned the old fugitive time together and the brotherhood reborn between us. Not so, however. One look at his countenance, filled with a mixture of sadness and disbelief, halted my move towards him; and I stood, solitary, west of the Bridge, while all around me they rolled the fine fat casks of Gascon wine and ale and started the fires under the spitted oxen, and turned the wenches out of doors like so many Salomes writhing for England’s head. And the soldiers fell to with a will, while I watched, empty-minded: the worst state in which to find oneself, for devils enter.

‘Come, sir, why so dour? A fair day for England!’

Anthony Woodville spoke; horsed, sparkling and smiling and shining, with his helm streaming its silver mantling, like a winged god, packed with poesy and music and more learning than I could ever hope to attain. My friend and good lord.

‘Fair, yea, Sir Anthony. The sun shines, but I doubt if Harry Five would have smiled upon this day.’

He shook his jewelled bridle. Even that sounded like a song.

‘Are you ailing?’ he enquired. ‘Forsooth, you are gay enough at court. And this is a time for rejoicing. No more debts for England... by St James, you are grown dour as others I should not name.’

And with one accord our glances crossed to Richard Plantaganet, stiff as a lance on his great bay horse.

‘I am a Woodville, and some of England does not care for me,’ he went on. ‘In fact,’ he mused, ‘it would seem there are those who reckon England’s honour weighted in the dust by that handful of gold.’ He paused. ‘But what is the designation of honour?’

‘What is honour?’ I repeated in obedience. The back of my hand began to sting and burn and I slapped at it, but the louse or wasp or whatever it was had vanished. There was only my old white scar, talisman of Flanders. Unsightly brand, I thought, drawing on my glove.

Thereupon Sir Anthony began to talk to me, about honour in love, and in war, and how the changing values of this life render honour impossible to examine, century by century, and when he reminded me that even Antisthenes had spoken of how ‘modesty and fidelity and justice and truth are fled’ I got his drift plainer than ever before, and looked at the King with even greater worship, seeing in his extended hands, and in the treasurers loading their coffers with Louis’s first peace payment, a new era beginning, where all men smiled, and victory no longer wore a bloody gown.

Sir Anthony sent me a dish from his own table that evening. Sturgeon, and venison frumenty. I saw him raise his flagon to me once, flashing a smile, and I watched how closely he loved King Edward, and charmed King Louis on three occasions with a tittle of verse to the honourable event,
ad libitum
. And I also watched Dickon of Gloucester, knight of the dolorous countenance, and was impatient with him in my heart. And then Thomas Grey, Marquess of Dorset, climbed over the trestle to sit by me, though I knew him but slightly; and he enquired with great kindness after my estates and fee-farms and Margetta, inviting me to describe her beauty and worthiness. He vowed he would come one day to take a cup with me on my manor—when the King could spare us from our duties, that was; and he spoke of young Ned, and little York.

‘Jewels, both,’ he swore, kissing his fingers. ‘Priceless jewels.. Mischievous, the younger, yet a true prince.’

He took a sliver of meat delicately from my platter and ate it with strong teeth. He looked around the crowded chamber, redolent with music and crushed flowers, strong wine, rich food, and gave a happy sigh.

‘This is indeed a time for joy,’ he said. ‘Peace with France—York and Lancaster united at last, and at Ludlow, a noble infant heir, waxing beautiful. For that then, doubly a toast to my royal mother.’

We drank. ‘The Queen!’ I said obediently. Then he enquired: ‘Did you bring many men to his Grace’s bidding?’ I could laugh with wine in my belly.

‘They were lusty for war,’ I said. ‘Yea, as many as my ships could carry,’ and I told him, even boasting a little. For a moment I thought I saw a look on him like that of Sir John Fogge, noting my blazon when I first approached the King. I preened under his interest while the distant fife and tabor from the streets mingled with the sound of Louis’s dulcimers.

‘How they do caper!’ I said.

‘Even Gloucester’s sad Yorkshiremen,’ said he gaily. ‘Many followed him, did they not?’

I told him the exact number.

‘I have never seen so many stony faces,’ he said lightly. ‘By God’s Body, the north would not be to my taste. How did you find Middleham?’

‘It has a kind of peace,’ I said truthfully. ‘And the Lady Anne prospers—the ambience suits her health, and that of the boy.’

‘Sickly, sickly, the Nevilles,’ he said soberly, then went on with his swift courteous converse, dropping on first one topic, then another, with a kind of light and schoolboyish lift to his manner which was disarming.

‘My lord of Gloucester seems a fair judge of men.’

‘He’s loved in the north country,’ I answered. This I had noted during my short sojourn there. It had been like stepping into a foreign land where Richard was King. I had sat at his Council and felt the warmth emanating from behind those stony faces. I had seen his justice, and an old woman bending to kiss his shadow as it fell across Bootham Bar... Dorset was laughing.

‘I was thinking of Lord Stanley. Stanley is blessed with infinite patience and there! Richard has him sitting without the gates of Berwick all those days and nights... are they well reconciled, those two great lords?’