Edward - Interactive

by Mike Voyce

  Chapter 5 – A Kaleidoscope

  Angharad phoned me after that Sunday and invited me round for coffee. I delayed going to Peterborough just to see her, late on Monday morning, when I should have been facing the cross-country traffic. She smiled to see me, almost reading my mind; she has a talent for getting people to confide in her. I told her the whole story, even the archivist and the fragment, and my feelings about Edward. I told it to her even as I’ve told it to you.

  I finished lamely,

  “That’s it really, just the imaginings of a lost soul. But it leaves so many questions.”

  She smiled again, knowing how I hate things left in the air.

  “I wish I could make something more of it and not just leave it there.”

  “You can’t leave it. You couldn’t if you tried; anyway, how do you know it will leave you?”

  And now it was that question which hung in the air.

  “So, how are you going to go about it?”

  After a pause, I gave her a list of the things I wanted to know. It committed me to channelling, and more than that, to telling Angharad what I found. I was to realise, it would carry me to the end of this book and conclusions I wouldn’t have entertained but for Angharad’s prompting. How could I have explained it to anyone else but for her?

  “By the way, I’ve been experiencing the life of this dead prince.”

  Perhaps it won’t surprise you that Edward was waiting for me, like that little girl at the start of the last chapter: like a series of old memories, that came slowly at first and then with quickening vitality.

 

  (Past)

  There came a day when Lady Katherine parted from her son. She looked young and slim, even beautiful, just as I’d seen her at the monastery in Brecon. Edward, still no more than seven years old, was tearfully hanging on to her hand.

  Patiently, Katherine tried to explain to him why he had to go, holding back her own tears and trying to be strong. Yet she wasn’t at all strong, she was soft and accepting. In all her life till Henry’s death there’d always been someone to protect her, to tell her what to do. Now she had to decide for herself, and for her son.

  Edward was all starched linen and new clothes, his soft blond curls framing his freshly scrubbed face. He didn’t like it and he didn’t understand this leaving, he only knew he was being taken away. He wanted to stay with all his heart and there was desperation in his pleading. He loved his mother, his home, his family, he wanted to stay; to be dragged away would be like losing Papa all over again.

  Gentle Lady Katherine did her best to hide her tears. She was once more a duchess, now the new king had restored her lands and titles. She would act the part, no matter what her feelings. Yet she was powerless against the will of the King and that stern lady the King’s mother. Maybe it was an honour for Edward to be brought up a prince but the steel edge of command put all sorts of fears into her mind. Her young nephews, Edward and Richard, were murdered by their guardian. The poor little lambs disappeared only two years ago.

  Katherine didn’t trust these Tudors; always out to better themselves; always out to win, sounding reasonable when it gave them what they wanted, sounding dangerous if they didn’t get their way. Katherine wasn’t used to grasping behaviour; she thought it ignoble. Now her son was being grasped from her.

  The carriage waited and Edward was handed in, by the de Stafford maid who would go with him. It cost Lady Katherine a promise to receive the King’s uncle, and even so, what trust could she put in a young maid? Still, she would stay with him, she would comfort him. It was Katherine’s only consolation. She watched the carriage out of sight then went indoors to weep bitterly.

  Edward’s dearest wish was to go home. As the days stretched into weeks and the weeks turned to months the hope of rescue faded. Only at last, with the passage of time, did acceptance cover the awful wound of abandonment. In the end he could become resigned to living his life with strangers.

  Yet, there was one little girl in the household who wasn’t a Tudor, who had no power, one Edward could like. In fact they came to be friends. She held the key to pass the defences he set about his soul; someone must for all else was loneliness.

  These images pleased me no better than the ones before. The wrenching of that child away from his mother was a fresh pain. I sort of felt it, the loss and isolation, rather as he must have done. I didn’t like it, but my questions were all still unanswered. I kept on. There’s something else, really quite trivial, but it was also a discouragement from channelling. All my life I’ve had occasional twinges of pain in my side, for no apparent reason, and I’ve always ignored them; they happened so rarely it never seemed worth consulting a doctor. But after this channelling they happened much more, and sharply too. Maybe my meditations were less relaxed than I supposed, for I’ve always considered muscle tension the most likely cause of that pain.

  Other scenes came to me, more and more easily but I needed some focus, some sort of theme, to try to make sense of them. Where better to start than that little girl?

  (Past)

  Eadie looked down the long hall at this new ward, another child of some great family, to be kept by Lady Margaret, here at Coldharbour. Eadie was uncomfortable in her Sunday dress and shoes; it made her resentful. She wanted to be out in the open, at a secret place she knew, it had once been a quarry for building stone, long, long ago, and now all sorts of wild animals lived there. They were her friends. It wasn’t as if she was going to meet this boy, not that she was interested anyway. She liked it best when she was by herself. Who was he anyway? The servants said he was a great lord, when you spoke to him you were to curtsey and call him “Sir Edward”. He didn’t look much like a great lord. He looked frightened, he was small and silent, and he didn’t even smile once, not at anyone.

  Edward, for his part, stood in the great hall to be introduced to this great array of strangers. There were so many people here. Lady Margaret Beaufort would receive him later. She was the King’s mother, she’d once been his great aunt by marriage and surely she must be very, very old. He did his very best not to let his family down, he tried to behave as he’d been taught. Inside he felt empty and lost, he longed for a familiar face. Tears were ready to betray him at any moment and he bit his lip that it shouldn’t quiver.

  He looked into all the faces before him and passed on from them to others down the length of the hall, to where Eadie stood. His eyes rested on her for a moment, she was about his own age. He noticed her dark, curly hair and her eyes that held his glance. He admired her confidence. She was skinny and couldn’t seem to stand still, perhaps she was bad tempered; he dismissed her and his eyes moved on.

  Much later Edward found himself in the great kitchen. He’d been in the household more than a week. He’d met Lady Margaret, but still it seemed he knew no one. It was from Lady Margaret’s chamberlain Edward learned about his great uncle, Sir Henry Stafford, whose kindness and care had preserved Margaret and Henry Tudor through the first ten years of Yorkist rule. They were the dangerous years of the Wars of the Roses that had finally taken Sir Henry’s life. From Lady Margaret herself Edward heard nothing about his family.

  At least, here in the kitchen, the great fire burned brightly, to warm an aching soul. It was a place to be away from people, for there was little bustle of servants at this time of day, if there had been, Edward would have been sent packing.

  On matted rushes, at the edge of the hearth, lay Eadie. Edward was pleased he could remember her name. She was laughing and giggling at the gambolling of a litter of tiny kittens as they played on the floor in front of her. She looked up briefly when he walked in and then went back to the kittens, ignoring him.

  The fire’s glow was welcoming; it threw the walls, this girl, everything into soft relief; in contrast with the cold greyness of Edward’s lonely life. He sat on the cook’s chair, at the corner of the fire, and stayed to watch the kittens.

  “You’ll get scratched when the mother comes back.”


  “Na, I won’t, the cat knows me.”

  Cats are creatures of witchcraft, only tolerated for keeping down vermin. The kittens would have been given a broom end if any of the servants had seen them.

  Eadie carried on happily waving her shoeless feet in the air, lying on her stomach, teasing the little creatures. Edward said no more, just sat at the fireside. Eadie should have known better than to show off. One of the kittens climbed on her back and started patting at her hair. The tiny claws hurt and Eadie got up with a yelp, the kitten hanging on for dear life. Edward didn’t laugh; he merely rescued the kitten from Eadie’s hair.

  “You’re Eadie aren’t you? I remember your name.”

  Eadie blushed, she was still discomposed as he handed the kitten back into her arms.

  “And you’re Sir Edward.”

  Eadie would not curtsey, no matter who told her to.

  “They used to call me Lord Stafford, but at home it’s just Edward. I don’t ever remember being a knight.”

  “Then Edward it is.”

  This time Eadie did curtsey. It was the best introduction they could have had.

  These were the earliest days Edward spent in Lady Margaret’s house but there were later days too, when Edward and Eadie would play together.

  Eadie showed him her secret places, blackbirds’ nests and foxes’ dens. They even went on a secret quest to a badgers’ set. The days and weeks passed. Eadie asked about Edward’s family, Brother Henry and his sisters and Lady Katherine. I can see the children together but I can’t bring to mind what Edward said; he got up, waving his arms about as he walked up and down. He didn’t want to talk about it: not even his young brother.

  Eadie wouldn’t say much about her family; she had no brothers or sisters, she wouldn’t speak of her father and her mother, the lady Aletia, was a woman of mystery. Aletia was companion to Lady Margaret and seemed to be in charge of the main household. Edward wasn’t quite sure.

  These scenes went on and on. I couldn’t describe them all. Let me tell you just a few, where Time in my own life, as if to make way for them, stood still. Sometimes they made me smile. I was really getting to know Edward.

  (Past)

  The house was big; there was an enormous hall on the first floor, not the great hall, which was elsewhere, this room was never much used. On this particular day only Edward and Eadie were there. A grand staircase led up out of it with an equally imposing banister. The children formed a great then a greater pile of cushions and pillows at the foot of the stairs. Then they slid down the banister again and again with ever more daring and speed, landing with shrieks of laughter in the cushions. The game became more and more frenetic. It was Eadie’s idea in the first place but it was finally Edward who went down with such force as to burst a cushion. It didn’t so much burst; it exploded, covering half the room in feathers.

  It was at this moment Aletia walked in. Aletia carried herself and looked and spoke like a lady but without the titles and fuss made of the wives of great men. She was tall and calm and capable. She was firm but gentle and kind; she was Eadie’s mother. There was no scolding when she saw what they’d done, only laughter. Yes, there was love in Lady Margaret’s household and at the King’s house of Sheen, there and at other houses, too; Life could still be happy.

  It all came at me so quickly, as if nothing should break Edward’s progress. I remember an afternoon in the office, the phones always rang in the afternoon; not this day. A hush descended as images of Edward came to greet me. Afterwards I took paper and pencil, scribbling furiously, fearful I might forget. Not till I’d finished did my secretary come in. Even then nothing had happened, though half the afternoon was gone.

  One thing puzzled me. Little Eadie reminded me so much of Sarah. It was strange; there could be no connection, yet it just wouldn’t leave my head.

  (Past)

  Lady Margaret delayed the day when Katherine should visit Sheen. There was as long a time as Tudor wit could contrive between Edward’s leaving home and when he next saw his mother, more than long enough for him to feel abandoned. It wasn’t, in fact, till he ‘settled down’ that Katherine was allowed to come. The next image was the first time they met in a royal palace; it was an unfortunate occasion.

  It was a day of much celebration, formality and Tudor self-congratulation. Lady Katherine had finally consented to marry the King’s uncle, Jasper Tudor. It was one more link binding de Stafford loyalty and Katherine must have been under great pressure. Jasper wasn’t a young man, he’d known the last days of the Hundred Years War, but he was clever and experienced and had known power and those who exercised power for many years. Katherine and Jasper were betrothed. Edward was not pleased.

  Edward was so displeased, so terribly hurt, he didn’t want to meet his mother. When they did meet he was surly and sullen. Poor Katherine was at her wits’ end, especially amid the preparations for the King’s visit and the celebrations. Edward just wanted to run away and hide. He could hardly rebuke his mother, though he would have if he could.

  The other children, Brother Henry and his sisters, Elizabeth and Anne, felt no such problem. Jasper won them with stories of gallantry and court and war. Edward, on the other hand, knew no one could replace Papa. Edward still loved his father, as he, in turn, was loved in Lady Margaret’s household, in particular by the many other children. They came to the opinion they wouldn’t like it either if someone replaced their fathers. The result was a sharp division between the children at the celebration, the Staffords on the one hand and Edward and the rest on the other. Edward himself was discovered standing behind a curtain.

  The King arrived from London with Jasper, riding on horseback; there was no entourage but for a pack of hounds. There were great comings and goings at their arrival, half the assembled company went out to meet them, it was Edward’s chance to step behind the curtain. When everyone returned indoors Jasper, striking as ever, dressed all in black satin and gold, immediately paid his courtly attentions to Lady Katherine. The King had Edward brought out from hiding and would have scolded him but for the good humour of this great day.

  The frost between the two groups of children was as great as between any pair of warring factions dragged to a parley. Katherine’s acceptance of Jasper was an insult to Duke Henry’s memory and Edward left the room as soon as the King’s back was turned. Eadie followed, bidding him go with her.

  There was real pain at this breach with his mother but there was duty too, and the need for some defiance of these Tudors. Edward would so like to have eased that pain with almost any compromise but what could he do? He was not yet a man. He was distracted by Eadie; it was her intention. There were no words to explain to her and soon he left off trying. Soon they ran through the house together, playing hide and seek. What cared they for grownups, there was laughter between them at least. When there were sounds of Edward being sent for they made a great joke of finding the remotest bedchamber in that great house and hiding under the bed; Eadie, her finger to her lips, trying to be solemn, couldn’t stop giggling.

  There were comings and goings of searchers for Edward for a long time before the stern and shouted authority of the King brought him out of hiding. He’d made his point. Dutifully, resignedly, Edward obeyed his king, as he was taught all subjects should do. The Tudors’ hold was thus made the tighter. Katherine hid her tears.

  I was getting more fluent now, more competent. Not only could I pick up these visions, I could even interpret them! I was getting a feel for it and I was really getting rather smug. But oh for the great deal I missed.

  It worried me I should connect the image of Eadie with Sarah, and I couldn’t shrug it off. All the time I’d spent trying to get her to work in an academic way her personality had dominated, now it was even tingeing these images of Edward. Yet of the real Sarah there was neither sight nor sound, since prompting that first vision on the road she had comprehensively disappeared.

  It was on Thursday evening; again sitting in my armchair
, back in the silence of my flat, the strongest images of that strange week came to me.

  (Past)

  There is (or was) a large well-lighted landing with light shafting across the broad, oak staircase from hundreds of small panes set in stone casements. The landing is tiled diagonally in a black and white chequer board. The oak balustrade and banister are beautifully carved in patterns well known to the children’s fingers.

  Off the landing are heavy panelled doors in carved oak frames. The total space is maybe forty feet by ten feet; quite enough for the children to play in. One of these rooms belongs to Eadie, or Edward, it isn’t clear which. They are often together making the whole house ring with their laughter. When you’re only nine or ten and the house is full of people, mostly servants, whom you can wrap around your finger and who seem to like you, life is fun.

  There is one aloof and distant figure. Not bad or scary, just important. You don’t run or shout when she’s around, you say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘yes Lady Margaret’. Everybody does, even Thomas and Aletia, maybe it’s because it’s her house.

  She has a library - downstairs I think - with hundreds of books in it. This must mean she’s very important. Thomas can read most of them. He says he doesn’t like some of them which he says are ‘Greek’ but he says he can even read these if he has to.

  Thomas has to teach Edward his letters and figures. Thomas says it’s his job. He always says,

  “One day young master you will understand. One day you will need all this and much more”. Or,

  “You had better learn well. If you ever want to claim your inheritance, learn well.”

  One day Thomas is going to teach Edward to use a proper sword like his own. Thomas seems to know everything.

  He also teaches Eadie but not so much. It is Edward who has to read to Lady Margaret when she sits in her high chair in the great hall - he’s always nervous in case he gets it wrong. Eadie would like to read all those books but not to Lady Margaret. It’s alright about Thomas teaching Edward more than Eadie. Edward is older; besides, Eadie sees Thomas when he’s with Aletia, which is quite a lot. He calls Eadie ‘my own girl’. Aletia says he shouldn’t treat Eadie like a daughter so openly but he does anyway. It makes Eadie feel very special and she boasts about it. That makes Edward sad; he wishes he had a father still. Sometimes he has nightmares about Papa being dragged away and what it’s like to have your head cut off.

  Lady Margaret won’t speak about Papa; the others get uncomfortable and look away. They all say, “Duke Henry was a brave man, you should be proud of him” or “you should try to live up to him, Edward.” But they never say any more.

  One day, in the library, that special quiet place, Edward asked Thomas,

  “My father was a duke wasn’t he? Does that mean I’ll be a duke?”

  Thomas looked down, shuffling papers with his hands,

  “I don’t know, that’s up to the King.”

  “The King loved my father, didn’t he? Everybody says so.”

  “If the King had no sons and no daughters neither and if the King were dead you’d be a prince. But he has, he isn’t and you’re not.”

  With that Thomas put his work down and left the room. It puzzled young Edward for some minutes but Eadie was calling from the garden and he soon forgot.

  If being a duke or a prince or a king gets you dead no wonder people don’t want to talk about it. No wonder important people like Lady Margaret are unhappy. Eadie was laughing at Aletia who was making a daisy chain for her. It kept coming apart and Aletia’s vexed frowns and sighs made Edward’s sides hurt with laughing, till finally she got it right.

  “There, child!”

  How strange how my mind had run on! What was the meaning of the landing and the bedroom? I was physically tired from all this channelling. These images trembled in my mind, all pointing back to the landing and a bedroom I wouldn’t enter. I was really too tired to get up from my chair, I mused on.

  Really the whole house was happy, even the places associated with Lady Margaret. It seemed to be a game to be in awe of her, she had a kind smile and was gentle; she only seemed aloof because she didn’t join in the games. I guessed she had arthritis; I’ve no recollection of her bending down, not even in the presence of the King. She only knelt to pray, which she did often; looking back it caused her great pain.

  Practically everyone else joined in the children’s games, on one occasion the King himself, when he came to see Lady Margaret. It had been a game of balls and skittles along the floorboards. It was in the same, upstairs room, where the children slid on cushions. The King laughed with the children and played with them for a long time before packing them off to bed.

  Most of the games with balls were played on the landing. Small balls, some made of wood by a joiner (Edward watched them being made) some were very special; there were glass ones, large marbles and a really large ball made of leather. They used to have a problem with balls, and sometimes other things, falling down the stairs. This was usually Edward’s fault and sometimes Eadie would cry. Then they hit on the idea of tricking or trapping or blackmailing or bullying a kitchen maid into guarding the stairs. This made it much more exciting and everyone enjoyed it. Soon it wasn’t necessary to bully the maids. Only Aletia objected, she was in charge of the whole house and all the female servants. Aletia refused to join in but even she couldn’t frown on the children for long.

 

  Eventually I dozed off and when I woke up again it was three o’clock in the morning, the flat was cold and my side hurt. Enough for one night. I went to bed, still pondering why my mind pulled away from the landing. I fell asleep.

  Why should I dream of such child’s toys? Somewhere, in the back of my head, was an echoing sense of importance, but I just couldn’t catch it. There were other images emerging to hold my attention. It became quite an occupation, a preoccupation. I was really getting quite involved, maybe too involved.

  There were so many scenes and faces rushing by, no one could hold them for long. There’s so much I’d like to tell you, so much I’d like to remember for myself.

  Edward didn’t live in just one house. As well as all the de Stafford houses, they hardly ever went to any of these, there were Beaufort houses, for Lady Margaret was a great Lady in her own right. On top of these her husband, Thomas Lord Stanley, was himself a great lord, with his own estates. Beyond these, they often spent time in royal palaces like Sheen, Lady Margaret thinking it a needless expense to maintain a separate household at court. Yet, even in London she owned a great house. It made for much moving around but Edward accepted it, to him it was normal.

  Where had all these scenes taken place? I’m sure the staircase and the cushions were at the palace of Sheen; other scenes were at the houses of Woking and Knowsley. But the first name to come to me, the house of the landing, where Edward first met Eadie, was ‘Coldharbour.’ The King had given his mother that grand house on the banks of the Thames, as a place to keep the sons of several noble families, for there were other royal wards apart from Edward. What a strange, allegorical name to give to such a place.

  There were always many, many people both children and grownups. They changed from place to place and Edward really only knew the travelling household, its family and servants. Lady Margaret had no children except the King but, in charity, she took in people of every age and degree, not just royal wards paid for out of great estates. She treated everyone alike with formal, distant, kindness.

  There could be any number of people in the house, from under a hundred to more than twice that, Edward never tried to count nor did they stay the same for long enough. Besides the many children and wards like Edward, there were always clerks and lawyers, churchmen and noblemen, scholars and diplomats: beggars of every class, all of them dependent on Lady Margaret and her son, the King.

  There was such richness and variety. Clothes were of every imaginable colour and style. They showed taste as well as rank; the character, not just of the y
oung but of every age, every man trying to outdo every other in sartorial display. The strange, soft-soled shoes, the long, slashed sleeves, the hats wrapped round the necks of many of the men, as well as the livery of the servants. All flitted through my head, too quick to catch.

  So many people carried weapons, not just gentlemen; even the children had knives, even the grey and white figures of the priests who should only have carried their bibles. Everywhere was vigorous life.

  It was an age of plenty, at least in a household like Lady Margaret’s, but even her hospitality was little to the lavishness of court. The King would feed any who came, on such a sumptuous scale as to draw half the capital. For all the richness of the food there were no vegetables, though many types of fruit, the centre of the feast was meat, except on Fridays, for religious rules were obeyed strictly. Tables groaned not with slices of meat but with whole animals. There was every kind of fish, fowl, pastry, bread, fruit and even comfits, though rare delicacies like marzipan were kept from the public. It would all have appalled a modern dietician.

  These images were almost beyond control. It was all so bewildering. All that saved me from utter confusion was seeing it through Edward’s eyes, even as he saw it. To him it was all normal, everyday life. Nevertheless, I was exhausted. I should be pleased to go back to Stafford and pause from my channelling.

  This life of visions developed its own force and power and my ordinary life came tottering on behind. It was almost frightening; if I lost control over Edward would I lose control over my own mind?

  It was during this week I went rummaging through a spare room, looking for a book from my childhood to bring back for my daughter. I came across something else, a book I’d not read in years. It was a strange volume, written by Wilson van Dusen, a clinical psychologist; it was called “The Presence of Other Worlds”. That book couldn’t have been further from my mind but as I saw it, memory came back and I picked it up, surprised.

  Van Dusen told the story of Emanuel Swedenborg, the great eighteenth century mystic. He gave a good explanation of Swedenborg’s life and works, his claims to have visited Heaven and Hell and to talk to spirits, claims supported by impeccable contemporary evidence. But what made this book special was not that Swedenborg channelled, perhaps much as I was doing, what mattered was the man who wrote it. Van Dusen specialised in treating schizophrenics, who heard voices and saw visions. When he compared Swedenborg’s observations with the experiences of his own patients van Dusen concluded that those “delusional” experiences might actually be real. The difference between Swedenborg and the patients was that Swedenborg never lost touch with reality, whereas the patients were all too often taken over by their visions. For me it was frightening. After all, I was seeing visions and hearing voices. Did seeing Edward mean I was mad? Ridiculous, of course it didn’t mean that; but if I lost control, like van Dusen’s patients?

  There’s no denying Swedenborg was one of the greatest men of his day. He was a man of great education, coming from the top of Society, his father was an Archbishop, and he was, himself, a consultant to the king of Sweden, having written several definitive scientific texts. No one could doubt his powerful mind; no one would dare call him mad.

  Like many other men of his day, and since, he wanted to find the seat of the human soul. His search lead him through a study of dreams to meditation and channelling, all this at a time when nothing beyond the visions of the saints was known in the West. His own very lengthy books describe how he learnt to talk to spirits and finally how he came to be able to wander through other worlds. Swedenborg warned against the very great dangers of doing what he had done. Wasn’t he warning against what I was doing?

  He had come carefully and skilfully to the study of spirits, after a long preparation. I was rushing in, after coming to it by accident. Yes, I was scared.

  ***

  Lady Margaret Beaufort, from N.P.G.