We Speak No Treason Vol 2 (50 page)

Then suddenly Ursula came, hurrying, hobbling in, smiling joyfully, with her eyes blinking like a mole in the light. Unseeing and heedless of the silent work, the sadness, or the Mother’s prone, praying form beneath the candles, she came, while the ranks of mourning men parted for her. It was days since she had left her cell. In her arms she carried a sheaf of satin riches, green as love, each shining rose perfect and proper, each spray a living frond, each colour a jewel, with the stern words of the Absolution limned like lustrous soldiers around the edge.

‘I’ll make penance the rest of my days,’ she said in a joyous whisper. ‘I’ve missed Mass, I’ve missed Confession. But, oh Lord, Sister! ’Tis finished! Is’t not fair?’

She came close, blind to the grief, or the figure on the bier. ‘And for you, child, see!’ with a daring, naughty look. ‘So small, and in
his
honour too!’

She had fashioned a silver Boar in each corner.

‘Ursula,’ I said. ‘Ursula.’

She did not hear me. She was looking at his body, his murdered naked body, so white, so still.

‘Ah!’ she said, with deep compassion. ‘Ah, the poor young knight!’

And she unfurled the beautiful frontal, like a banner. It was heavy, but with one movement of her old arms she threw it out upon the air, so that it caught and glowed in the light, green, the colour of hope, with its roses like stars, its crosses of flame, and the eternal words of the Absolution tall and clear. And it fell, as she had intended, upon the body of Richard, and he lay beneath it, lapped in green fire, and was magnificent.

Today, once more, I am forced to remember. It is All Souls’ Day, and a lady sits by his grave. As she has come purposely to see us, I cannot refuse her.

It is sixteen years since we buried him, here in our own cloister, among the crumbling tombs of sisters long-departed, some of whom even lived in the era of saints. I think they might be pleased to know that such a one lay among them.

While the hangings went on outside, we sang the solemn
Dirige
and
Placebo
. Our voices stretched to Heaven, while the low sad note of the men was like the buzzing of bees whose summer is over. The whole community kept vigil that night, and in the morning we fashioned a Mass for him as glorious as Ursula’s gift. He had no money, so the Mother gave the Mass penny for him, that he should rest in Christ, in a place of cool repose, of light, and peace, and we prayed also for the brave men who had fought beside him and those who at that moment died by the rope, through that very bravery. Sir Francis Lovell escaped, and a man of York, John Sponer, who stayed behind to talk to us, only got away by the hairs of his head. He spoke of vengeance. Meanwhile, he said, he would show to the people of York what a great mischief had been done through treachery, that the Devil was surely let loose, and, in tears, said he wished his was not the task.

‘It will bring them much sorrow,’ he said.

My companion stirs. She is incredibly old, this lady, but her wits are still as undulled as the carvings on the Mother’s tomb, against which she leans. Dame Lucy is Prioress now.

‘That was exactly what was written,’ she murmurs. ‘In York Civic Records they noted it down. “Our good King Richard, late mercifully reigning over us. He was piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this city.”’

I should not sit down on damp November days. Here am I, striving to rise, one would think I was the octogenarian, yet she sees my infirmity and gives me a most kind hand. Holding mine, she asks me something, fittingly whispered. ‘Is it true?’

‘Yea.’ I can smile into her pretty, wrinkled face. ‘A daughter. She died.’

My Katherine. There are days when I am certain it was better so and this is one of them, for I have heard fresh lies about her father, and though the oath I gave her kept me silent once, now it is too late.

But my guest’s face becomes sorry, thoughtful.

‘I had hoped at least one of his children lived,’ she says. ‘Especially after the business with John o’ Gloucester, which was one of the most heinous acts ever wrought. You know why Henry had him killed?’

Nodding, I say: ‘For having treasonable correspondence with Ireland.’

Years ago, the heralds had bawled it in Swine Market, lest any be in doubt.

‘One letter,’ says my lady, angry and sad. ‘About hawks and fishing and a new doublet. And to a kinsman of mine, too. It makes me feel to blame. Cursed be the King.’

I feel a tremor of life. I will offer her refreshment, later, and we will use her last words for a toast.

‘There was no harm in John.’

‘Yea!’ she answers. ‘But he lost his life. Because he was a King’s son!’

I think of John sadly. I was once jealous of his mother. So was I jealous of this gentle lady, standing with her hand in my twisted claw. I think of John. And young Warwick. And Warbeck. Warbeck of Barnard Castle. Richard the Fourth, silenced for ever. But the brief fire dies and Katherine of Desmond is looking down, face quiet and tender, concealing all the things of which we need not speak. The talk that still goes on, unfought, for there is none to fight it.

‘Jesu preserve thee, Richard,’ she says, softly. Then: ‘Why, the weeds grow on his grave!’

It’s true. They break through even the cloister wall and come up in between the stones. Nasty, trailing, tangling things, they wrap themselves around his rest, and the ivy is the worst of all. As soon as I strip its horny tendrils down, a fresh growth seeds itself. But while I have the power I must combat it, for it rots the fabric and the roots go deep. For all it symbolizes Fidelity, it clings like a slander.

Soon my lady of Desmond and I will go inside to pray, and. take wine, and then she will leave. I shall write of her coming in my book, which I must burn before I die. I can smile at that! It should have been burned sixteen years ago.

’Tis no heresy to love, and be mad.

For I have known death, and am risen, not to glory but to a plain of calm shadows. What I have told my lady today is all like something read in an old romance, and there is no movement in me, not even of sadness. And I construe this, for I can do no other, as the sure and true manifestation of mercy, contained in a special prayer whose touchstone of worth I have but lately learned to value.

Then may that mercy be in my heart, my mind, my wit, my will, for ever and sustain me. Through the last stages of this old complaint called life.

HERE ENDS THE NUN’S TALE
AND THAT OF THE MAIDEN

Against a magnificent backdrop of lusty, dangerous fifteenth century England, this novel shows Richard III as seldom seen – passionate and troubled, loved by two women and one man, and torn apart by a civil war waged by powerful barons, while bound by loyalty to his royal brother. This sees the beginning of a journey through hazards and hopes to a bliss shattered by the death which will change Richard’s life and the lives of all who care for him. Peril is everywhere – betrayal threatens his peace. And there is a lover he has left behind...