We Speak No Treason Vol 1 (36 page)

‘Life treats you well, friend.’ He smiled a double-edged smile at this.

‘Certes, I have a good master,’ he answered, and flickered past me into Candlewick Street. I watched him disappear into The Parys, a tavern frequented by the wealthiest lords, and I pondered on him all the way to the house of my betrothed.

Well, the banns were cried, and Grace and I were married, and my mother came to church in a litter borne by two of her oldest servants, who had burned to ride on the second Agincourt but were too full of years. The candles gleamed, and we plighted our eternal troth in God’s holy house, and took the wedding breakfast at my mother’s. There were smiles all round, even on my face, because not for naught was I trained as an actor. Then I took my lady and got her with child; and in the dark, she had very long, soft hair.

Grace was rounding to the grandchild which my mother would never see, the day I sat in the Boar’s Head and watched the men returning from war, and saw the faces no longer smiling and heard the voices that no longer sang. Some of them passed through the tavern without words and quaffed ale as if to sate a thirst for blood. Their faces were such I thought it more prudent to sit silent until a figure I knew entered. It was my cousin, who halted at my bench, standing splay-legged, tall and fearsome with eyes like iron bolts.

‘You should have come with us,’ he said, sickly with scorn. ‘For that was a fool’s errand, yea, a fool’s errand, by Jesu!’

‘How went the battle?’ I said, frightened. He lobbed his spit over the table edge and down by my feet.

‘You should have been there,’ he repeated. ‘For there was much hearty jesting, and dancing, and sport, sweet talk, fair words. By Our Lord, I need drink! Tapster, wine here!’

‘And the fighting? How many casualties—how many men did Charles of Burgundy send?’

‘Not a blow was struck,’ he said, on a great swallow. ‘Not one blow. And as for Burgundy...’

There was a clamour at the inn door and a company of young archers came in shouting. They were spoiling for a fight. There had been no booty, no plunder for them in France. Outside, a minor riot was developing among lewd soldiery who had ravished no women, plundered no dwellings. One of the archers was a little flown with drink.

‘You liar!’ he cried to a fellow. ‘My father paid taxes to make war, not sign treaties!’

Blows followed, and the landlord seized a truncheon from the wall and ran among them. It looked a good fight—I fingered my staff, then felt my cousin’s fingers gripping my arm. He was gazing through the window where could be seen the livery of the King’s Peace officers. ‘Be still,’ he muttered, and I obeyed, watching while they entered and arrested four, five, six of these young hotbloods, clapping them in manacles and dragging them away, still foamy-mouthed with ale and passion. Then my kinsman told me all.

King Edward had signed a peace treaty with France on the bridge at Picquigny. Charles of Burgundy had never arrived at all; he had gone wandering off to besiege Neuss at the crucial moment. It had been a bloodless truce.

‘Disgrace,’ I whispered, feeling torn to pieces. ‘Oh God, dishonour!’

‘I warn you never to speak thus,’ my cousin said grimly. ‘His Grace has said farewell to mercy.’

He told me that times were a-changing; that the King now intended to punish—with the swiftness of the Almighty—all miscreants in word or deed: thieves, murderers, and those of seditious tongue. ‘He may have signed for gold with Louis, but he is still our King, by God’s grace, fearful and omnipotent. You’ll see.’

‘And all the lords stand with him,’ I said miserably.

‘Yea, they were well pleased with the fine presents King Louis showered… save for one, that is.’

‘My lord of Gloucester?’ I murmured, and he said, somewhat shortly, why did I ask him of the doings in France, if I knew them already?

‘He was as angry as any out there.’ He pointed to the grumble-haunted street.

‘Don’t ask me to believe he quarrelled with the King,’ I said.

‘The Devil have my soul, when I see that day,’ said my cousin with a laugh. ‘Louis sought to woo him full lovingly, but the more he smiled the more fiercely did Gloucester scowl. He would not dine with the French King, as did my lord of Clarence and de Bretaylle. At the King’s direction he accepted Louis’s presents, but with as much wrath as if he thought he’d sold himself.’

‘Though the Boar is rooted in the Rose,’ I mused. ‘It seems our King could set the realm in flames and his brother would cleave to him.’

‘I know not which he loves more, England or his Grace.’

‘They are one and the same,’ I said. ‘Whatever the end, France is conquered.’

‘And Hogan keeps his head.’

‘That charlatan!’ I roared. On all his perambulations round England the wily old soothsayer stirred up the people. No matter which way the wind blew he could lay claim to foresight and this day no exception. He had forecast that France would be conquered—so had she been, for 50,000 crowns a year and a trade agreement.

‘The Princess Elizabeth is promised in marriage to the Dauphin.’

This was the end for me. ‘I would leave London,’ said I. ‘I would go home.’

He smiled. ‘So the north is now home to you. You’ve caught a tincture of its speech—d’you know it?’

Gloucester had taken his anger back to Middleham, yet I was still in London when they burned John Goos for heresy. My mother was fading fast and Grace’s time near, like the ebb and flow of the tide. The cook-shop would be mine by my mother’s will. Grace expressed the urge to manage it, though I would liefer have put in some trusted body to see to these affairs, and have my wife and child by me in Yorkshire. We quarrelled over it. If I ever conjure her into my mind these days, which I do rarely, I see my lady with her weapons of war to hand: a kettle, a pewter platter, a ginger-jar. Once, she heaved a whole pig’s head, hot from the fire, at me. That was one missile I did not catch, but on the whole she fumed in impotence at my dexterity. Though she had her way over the shop.

‘I will have no Month’s Mind kept,’ my mother said, in a whisper.

‘If that be your wish,’ I answered with regret. I wanted to remember her publicly and in honour, came the anniversary of her departing. The physician approached and set leeches to her temples. Her pallor deepened and her eyes closed in pain. I could not brook remaining in that hot room heavy with sickness and my sister’s sorrow. Grace’s kinfolk were there too: her haughty brothers and her sister Kate, who was tender to my mother as if she were truly of her blood. I walked with long marching steps through London. Aimlessly I went Tower-ward, where Margaret of Anjou no longer lay; for the King had ransomed her as part of the peace bargain with Louis, and she had returned to France, no longer fair, an old woman.

On Tower Hill there was a vast crowd and some who recognized me. So I gave them a heel-and-toe and a bawdy rhyme, before the real revel began and they led Master Goos, self-confessed Lollard, to the stake. The sheriffs and priests stood about him with stern pleading. He had a sallow, gentle face; and even at that late hour he spoke of Wyclif with quiet conviction as if the whole matter had been decided for him years ago. They beseeched him to die a Christian man but he shook his head. So they looked at one another with thunderous cold looks, and made fast the chains about his body. The smell of the pitch rose high as they soaked the faggots and touched them with flame.

One priest persisted, stepping close in the whirling smoke. ‘My son, my son, is not the Holy Sacrament Christ’s Body?’

‘It is but bread,’ gasped the heretic.

When the blackened head drooped, there was a woman who writhed on the ground and wept, despite the tuggings and hushing glances of her friends. There is ever, I have found, one woman who mourns a death. Many may weep but there is always one who loves, and most times she is unknown. Like the dame who cried for Owen Tydder, with his poll on the highest point of Hereford Market Cross. Some unwise philosophy made me say aloud: ‘He died for what he thought was right.’

‘Yea, he did and is damned for it,’ said a great bellied cordwainer who stood by me, and spat towards the sinking flames.

There were many such sights that year. King Edward was better than his word. He said farewell to mercy and he spared none, not even his own domestic. There were hangings by the score, quarterings and beheadings. Ears were nailed to cart wheels and their owners given a knife and told to leave town. There was even a boiling, but I did not see it. The gaols were straining at the seams. But there were no more mutterings of England’s dishonour, for the people were, in a strange way, comforted. They still had their strong fierce monarch, their Rose of Rouen, even if the Rose’s petals had curled a little. I saw him a couple of times in the distance. On the first occasion I might have thought him slightly changed for there seemed an unfamiliar fullness about his person. The second time was on the day I returned from the graveyard, walking behind the empty carriage with its big black horses (many accompanied me; my mother was respected). My heart turned a little even in its sadness as the King passed. He was half hidden by his gentlemen-at-arms but what I saw seemed foggy, with no clear outline. It may have been the last of my grief confusing me, but he did not seem so strong and sharp as in my remembrance. It was to be twelve months before I knew the truth of this.

‘Right worshipful husband,’ wrote Grace after my return north. ‘I have had occasion to dismiss Master Bates and Mistress Mary Slone, for idleness was upon them and the woman Slone was in the habit of wasting scraps on back-door vagrants. She was insolent and spoke of going to the Gild for settlement but my brothers talked with her and she will cause no trouble now.’

Mary had been with my mother for fifteen years. It had been her custom to feed beggars; my mother had turned a blind eye.

‘My brothers have found a dozen fresh knaves for the work; they are stout fellows and loyal to us. We do not find business to be thriving as you told me, I know not why. Master Fray came in the shop last week. He said he hoped all was pardoned and we shook hands on it, as I see no call to harbour dead grudges.’

I began to wish she would cease to write me. Then the next bit caught my fancy. ‘Duchess Isabel has been passing sick, and was brought to bed of a boy lately. Men say she will not live, her lungs are bad. It is hard to be warm in London, so you freeze, no doubt, in the north parts.’ With this joyful thought she commended me to the Almighty, bidding me burn the letter. I turned it sideways to read the postscript.

‘Item, the Duchess Isabel is dead.’

That cast a shadow on Lady Anne’s Christmas, the year of 1476, though she herself was well, and rosy from the sharp weather. Edward throve, and little John waxed strong. My lord of Gloucester rode against the Scots and returned victorious. I made them good cheer and we were peaceful together—until the King summoned Gloucester to the Great Council at Westminster. There had been grave tidings of a death, and that of one more important than the quiet Isabel. Charles of Burgundy was dead; not of anger over the Picquigny scandal, but from a surfeit of steel in his noble body. Rash as his nickname, the Duke had been besieging Nancy with a depleted force. Thus, in January snow, perish great princes. I stood behind Lady Anne on the castle stairway and watched my lord depart. His company moved out of the gate and down the dale, and the spring day was a little dimmed for my Duchess.

‘Truly, he seems never at home.’

‘Duty robs Beauty, ’tis the thief of joy,’ said I.

‘He hates London,’ she murmured.

King Louis had made a proclamation. Now that Charles was dead he declared Burgundy to be his, all its domains reverting to the Crown of France.

‘This day I saw the lords ride to Westminster,’ wrote my lady. ‘His Grace, whom God uphold, has it in mind to stand with Burgundy, but he would liefer not upset the Frenchie. My lord of Gloucester has advised taking arms, but my lord of Clarence has the notion, men say, to wed the Princess Mary and thus rule Burgundy himself. He is wonderfully strong in his wishes, but I fancy the King does not share this ardour. Messengers take ship daily to the Duchess Margaret but none yet know her mind, that of her late lord’s heir, or indeed, the mind of our King.

‘Item, my sister’s husband is sore afraid lest we fail to keep Flanders. Is it not enough that his ships have trouble with the false Scots and the Hanse traders? For another cargo of wool was taken three days past, and he fears that should we lose our ally, he will lose his livelode.

‘Item, Mistress Petson’s man was fined £1 this day for scalding hogs in the street. Your son has been sick, but is well again.’

We were to know the King’s mind, and that of Clarence, before the end of summer. A company came back from London, among them minstrel John, laden with new songs for my lady’s delectation. I met him near the smithy, in sunlight.

‘This is a fair rondeau,’ he said, joyful.
‘J’ai pris amours de ma devise.’

‘That’s the music of Flanders,’ I said. ‘And how are they singing in that realm?’

‘There’s most wonderful mischief.’ He drew close. ‘Clarence’s suit was rebuffed.’

‘By the Princess Mary?’ I smiled. ‘George stuck in her gorge, then?’

‘Nay, ’twas the King would not allow it,’ he said urgently. ‘And as for names, the lady might fare worse to consider St Anthony Woodville.’

‘Earl Rivers?’

‘’Tis the Queen’s wish, but they say she will not have him, either. As for Clarence...’

‘Tell me naught,’ I chuckled. ‘He is enraged, and stalks about the town, vowing the Woodvilles have blighted his troth. Blighted his plight, he wanders meatless and Maryless, making his moan.’

‘Far worse. There was a woman hanged by his jurors, and they all in fear of their lives and property to prove other than her guilt.’

‘What woman, why?’

‘Ankarette Twynhoe,’ he whispered.

I remembered Ankarette from the court days. She was Duchess Isabel’s chamberwoman, a nice old soul. John told a strange tale.

‘My lord swore she had poisoned the Duchess. He sent eighty armed men to her dwelling to drag her from her bed. She was tried speedily and hanged quicker.
Yet the one who should have dangled wears a crown.’