We Speak No Treason Vol 1 (12 page)

And it was then I knew why women stooped to mix potions and simples, to wreak strange works in moonlight, for there is naught one will not do to attain the object of such craving, and this gave me remembrance of the Duchess of Bedford and that night four years ago. In my childish way I thought I understood the actions of the Queen and her mother. For if Elizabeth felt for his Grace as did I for Richard of Gloucester, we were as one.

Fresh entertainment came forward, as a pair of singers, a youth and a maid, knelt before the King. Then a soft air, a simple melody, rose to the ears of the suddenly hushed court; and for me, it was May Day again, and I was no longer cold, for the sun burned bright and the grass smelled of its sour-sweet bruisings and an old man fashioned a ballad for the Nut-Brown Maid, who would ever be true to her lover. I leaned towards the brightness and, in an abandonment of joy and because there was none to see, tore off my hennin and let my nut-brown hair fall to my knees. For I would be a child again, for five minutes, and remember the time when men stopped to gaze at me, with my chaplet of flowers crowning that at which they all marvelled, and longed to touch and stroke and possess. The maiden sang:

‘Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?

I pray you, tell anone,

For in my mind, of all mankind

I love but you alone.’

I heard Patch’s light step behind me in the passage, and without taking my joyful gaze from the scene below, stretched out my hand, crying:

‘Ah, my friend, remember you this day! When all men called me fair, and the old ballad-maker said I would be a true maid, and fashioned this song for me ere he died! Take my hand, and say you have not forgotten!’

And I felt his hand in mine, and we stood together, listening to the music until it ended, and I turned with shining face to give him one kiss out of my true pleasure, for after all he was my friend and had shared this moment with me. And the hand which held mine did not belong to a fool, but to the King’s youngest brother, who stood looking down at me with, God be praised, the same look I had seen in the eyes of men that May Day long ago.

He was there, he was real. His hand, slender and warm, held mine firmly. And I was bereft of speech, as completely as if my tongue were torn out. So, of necessity, I waited, and it seemed an hour before he spoke, which when he did was in a voice passing quiet; a deep, a gentle voice.

‘Is it a custom, damoiselle, to stand alone in this cold place?’ he asked. ‘I know the court can be wearisome, but health can suffer from these chill vigils. You should be below, enjoying the festivities.’

There was irony in his last sentence.

The torch above his head blurred and came clear again. His face was in shadow, for he had moved closer, but I could see the gleam of his eyes in the flame. Belatedly I remembered who addressed me; a royal Duke, a Knight of the Garter. I sank to the ground in curtsey, and his hands raised me swiftly.

‘You do not answer,’ he said. ‘And I know you have a voice, for it gave me fair words just now when you bade me listen to the song.’

‘Most princely grace,’ I whispered, ‘I am not cold. And I’ve no place in the Great Hall, for—I am naught!’ I bit my tongue at the witlessness of my words. He was silent for a moment, then he laughed. A right lovesome laugh he had. Was there aught of him that did not please me?

‘Naught,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, who shall say who is naught and who is otherwise? And, by St Paul, you do not look naught to me! Had I known you stood above I would have come before and spoken with you.’

His eyes travelled over me, as mine had over him many times, and that same awed gaze fell on my hair. I heard him breathing deeply, as if he were aroused by his thoughts; the last of my wits deserted me.

‘My lord, I must go,’ I said desperately. I longed to run away, to fall on my couch and weep for the tongue-tied fool I had shown myself, when the chance to be so near him might never come again. I tried to pull my hand away, but his clasp had become a grip of steel. I could not budge.

‘Does my company prove so distasteful to you, then?’ asked the quiet voice. ‘I had hoped you would remain for a while. I tell you, I am dolorous tonight, and already you have cheered me more than a little.’

‘I’m glad of it, my lord,’ I murmured, and let my hand lie still. He asked my name and I told him, thinking even that sounded foolish. Yet he repeated it to himself, as if he took pleasure in it.

‘Do you not dance, then, mistress?’

‘Yea, my lord, I like it well,’ I replied. And I thought: Richard, Richard, only would I love to dance with you, but how shall one, who has no quality, who is shadow and not substance, think in this wise? I glanced down at the minstrels, saw the smooth movement of the viol players bowing their instruments, the swift fingers plucking the wires, and the sharp cold strains turned my heart to ice, an ice that burned as it froze. The coloured court spun in a glittering skein. I trembled all over. My skirts quivered on my legs.

‘But you are cold,’ he said, and chafed my fingers between his hands. I shook my head, looking wildly over his shoulder, anywhere but at his face. He had the advantage of me, for the light fell on my countenance and he could see how my colour came and went.

‘To dance would warm you,’ he said; and from the subtle change in his voice it came to my mind that he was not so composed as he would seem, that mayhap
he
wished to dance with me, and a little of my courage returned. And as he bowed to me, just as he had done to the Countess of Desmond, there was naught in him save chivalry and kind graciousness. So I sank before him in accession as I had seen the Countess do, and we began to dance, slowly, with only the cold stones to watch us. Moving into the torchlight, I saw his face again, and the dark eyes were fixed on mine with an intensity that took my strength.

As the music reached its height and I the peak of my intoxication, he led me easily in a circle, passing me behind him so that our backs brushed lightly. As the last note sobbed to death, we came face to face, closer than was natural, our steps meshed in the confined space. My body touched his. Even in that instant I was conscious of the strength, full marvellous in one who looked so slight, dormant in him, like a coiled whip. I felt the catlike velvet of his doublet, the sharp pain of a cold object biting into my breast. I looked down: it was the King’s gift that had touched me; a silver emblem shaped like a tusked boar rampant with ruby eyes. It seemed a ferocious, snarling creature for him to wear. Already I felt a bruise forming; wild thoughts of evil omens filled my mind. I gave a trembling laugh.

‘I fear he mislikes our dancing, my lord,’ I said, stupid and gay. ‘For he drove his tusks into my skin as if to bid me begone from his master.’

Timidly I fingered the beast, bending my head over the pearl tusks, the fiery eyes. I felt the lightest touch, like a leaf falling, brush the crown of my hair, and stood motionless, staring at the boar’s unwinking red orbs.

‘Why did you choose this device, my lord?’ I whispered.

His voice low and a trifle sad, he answered: ‘The White Boar is my special cognizance. From the Roman name for our royal house. Ebor
^*
... Eboracum; his Grace and I thought it fitting. My late father’s Duchy, too. So I took it for my blazon.’

Then I thought of York, Salisbury and Rutland. Their heads on Micklegate. I was lack-wit to ask, I thought. I have excelled myself in folly this night.

Restlessly, he walked away, turned like a sentinel in the passage and came back to me, while I leaned on the pillar and watched him. The torch flamed up in a sudden draught as a door at the stairfoot opened and loud voices, complaining, laughing, sounded disquietingly near. My time with him was over.

‘Farewell, my lord.’ A better curtsey this time, more controlled.

‘My lord of Gloucester, are you there?’ bawled a voice.

‘Dickon, where are you?’

Richard looked in the direction of the sounds. ‘It is Lovell,’ he murmured. ‘Stay, lady, I pray you.’

Frantic, I caught his sleeve. ‘Sir, there will be trouble if my lady of Bedford finds I have left my post!’ I whispered. ‘Sir, I beg you, do not speak of it, or I shall be disgraced.’

He turned swiftly. ‘I shall tell no one, least of all the Dowager Duchess,’ he said, with a biting edge. Then he took my hand again, and I burned in the flame of him. ‘For were you discovered I doubt you could return tomorrow evening and that would grieve me. For it seems a lonesome nook for one, a happy place for two.’

I listened without belief. I clung to his hand to steady my trembling.

‘You’ll come?’ he said.

The sounds were coming closer, shouts and laughter. A commotion as someone fell downstairs.

‘God keep my lord,’ I said, and tore myself from the hand that would detain me, feeling as a trapped fox which, to achieve freedom, bites through and leaves a part behind.

I dreamed no longer of my faceless knight. I dreamed that I stood on the gallery with Richard Plantagenet, that we danced together, and he told me of the White Boar and his lips brushed my hair. And on awakening I was sad that such a fair dream must fade, until the frosty sun brought remembrance, and I roused Elysande with a hearty kiss which set her grumbling mightily, for she swore I had tossed and groaned night-long and had now broken the best of her slumber. She pushed me out of our bed and I sat on the floor and sang about the Nut-Brown Maid, while all the other women in our chamber looked affrighted, thinking I had had my brains addled by an incubus in sleep. They reckoned me a wanton little thing in any event, coming unheralded from the country under the mantle of my smile, and plying my wheedling craft upon my lady of Bedford until (they vowed) it sickened them.

Yea, and I willingly served her, disagreeable though she was that day, for ’twas through her I had attained my bliss. I massaged and perfumed her aged body, poured praises over her with the rose-water and, as if she were young and beautiful, spent hours tiring her meagre locks. I fetched her her potions and physics, held the mirror up and flattered its reflection with honey breath. She preened herself. And all the while that morning, after the dreaming night, I served her thus with great distaste in my heart, thinking about Sir Thomas Cook and the arras, and of the way the Woodvilles used Richard, with their cold glittering looks, their sharp elbows thrusting him from the King.

Of him I did not need to think. He was part of me already; wrapped close within my heart, warm and safe, with his dark eyes, fire and ice, his quiet voice, his hands that were hard and gentle. When I heard the sixty voices of the choristers in the Royal Chapel sweetly raised in the
Gloria,
I smiled for joy, for his kneeling image came so sharp and clear I knew myself in spirit at his side.

But all this made the Duchess no less capricious and tiresome. She complained of her liver, saying that the banquet last evening had not been to her taste, though Elysande whispered that she had eaten overmuch of green figs, and this was doubtless the truth. She moaned and muttered; I flew about frantically, soothing her with possets and sacred amulets upon her stomach. The Queen sent Master Dominic to tend her; he who had made such a jest out of himself at the birth of the Princess Elizabeth by so firmly prophesying a male heir; but my lady would have none of him. He in turn would have sought the skill of Doctor Serigo, the chief royal physician, but she ranted against this with such passion that he finally spread his hands despairingly and slid away to juggle with his almanac, in the chamber hung with cabalistic signs and thick with the reek of herbs. It was all most wearying, and catching a glimpse of my face I saw that I was pale, with bruises under my eyes. This cast me down, for I wished to look fresh and fair for my tryst that evening.

That he would not come I did not for a moment think. There was that in him better than honour; a lack of light-mindedness, and the cognizance of one who keeps a promise no matter to whom it is made. This trait shone from him, wordless, yet lacking no expression. My hands shook. I must be doubly careful not to spill anything, to fall prey to clumsiness and enrage the Duchess. I felt like the tumbling-women at the May-Games, balanced on sword-points, each nerve stretched in a dangerous skill. For I knew it would take but a little annoyance to drive the Duchess back to Grafton, and then I would need to work my wiles upon the Queen, a very different matter, for Elizabeth was of iron, and had plenty greater than I to flatter her. Also I had bound the Duchess to me with my sweet considerations, and I doubted she would let me leave her. So the other women shook their heads in wonder at my ceaseless toil and, murmuring that I did the work of four, shrugged their shoulders and snatched a little more leisure themselves, thanking me for a fool.

In the afternoon, Anthony Woodville came to visit the Duchess in her apartments, bringing some translations of the verses of Christine de Pisan that he had made. The gentlewomen fluttered like birds, for he was handsome. Attired like the most royal of princes, he strode through the gold-hung chamber in a journade of white velvet edged with ermine. Stylishly, he carried a tall hat on the end of his cane with an affected air. The pikes of his shoes, a quarter ell in length, were caught up at the toe and buckled about the knee with gold chains. He walked with caution. He had two new rings: a sapphire the size of a small walnut, and a pearl-and-enamel thumb-ring shaped like the royal rose. Very recently had the King bestowed on him the Order of the Garter. He knelt to kiss his mother’s hand. All the women withdrew to a modest distance. Elysande pulled me down beside her on to cushions. She gave me a little shadowy smile, with a teasing cock of her head in Sir Anthony’s direction.

‘You see his shoes? Jesu, I wonder he does not braid his legs and tumble on his face!’

I smothered a laugh.

‘The Pope has sent a Bull into England,’ whispered one of the other women. ‘He’s sorely vexed at the worldliness of this new style, and says he’ll excommunicate any cordwainer who fashions such long pikes.’