by Mike Voyce
Chapter 24 – Lincoln
It wasn’t Angharad’s fault I’d not quite got the heart for Edward. Debbie and I still called on her but now she put almost as much energy into encouraging me to revive my project as she did into channelling Edward. Angharad did her best but it took a trip into my boyhood to revive my spirits.
Work often takes me out of the office. It can be a great nuisance or a chance to escape. This day the affairs of a client took me to Lincoln.
Lincoln is an ancient city. It was there even before the Romans. I spent years of my childhood there, they were happy years and gave me such a sense of nostalgia as I drove past the familiar landmarks; places I’d not seen for thirty years. It was like coming home.
My business was at offices on the bank of Brayford Pool. Few people realise, looking out over the old Roman harbour basin, inland Lincoln was a thriving port till the Middle Ages, when the Black Death swept it away. Ever since, the lifeblood of its waterways has stagnated in silt, the only boats today are pleasure boats. Yet the glory of Lincoln still hangs in the air.
The city wrapped itself around me as if to heal the wound of Sarah and Edward with the balm of centuries. I drove ‘Up Hill’, above the Stone Bow to the cathedral, one of the grandest in Europe; before it lost its spire it was the tallest building in the World.
Wandering through the queer, crooked streets, between cathedral and castle you’re overwhelmed by history. It’s more than eight hundred years since the civil war between Empress Matilda and King Stephen: their soldiers faced each other here; one army camped in the castle, the other in the cathedral. A good arrow shot would almost carry between. Standing in those little streets you can almost hear their cries of battle and the clang of sword against stone.
King Stephen was the last of the Norman kings; his successor was Henry Plantagenet, the first Plantagenet king and maybe the greatest. Henry had that charisma of all the Plantagenets, it certainly impressed Stephen.
Between the castle and the cathedral is the White Hart Hotel. It was there, as a twelve year old boy, I was taken for dinner one January, when my mother and father decided to leave. I remember the gently falling snow flakes, as we came out into the dark of the night, giving everything a hushed magic. Everything was then right with the World and we set out from our brightly lit haven on a great adventure. I wonder how life would have gone but for that decision.
The hotel hasn’t changed, so little has in that part of the town.
When you go into the cathedral, you’re greeted by volunteer helpers, cadging money for the restoration fund. I fell into conversation with one of them, he loved the place. There was a whisper here of an alternative life, a wise and quiet orderliness. For the first time in weeks I relaxed, simply enjoying the beauty around me.
Maybe I could have got back to the office that day, if I rushed. Instead I left Lincoln as night fell. The time wasn’t wasted.
My car’s well-sprung luxury comforted me as the city had done. On the radio was a series of programmes, one I remember, was about forecasting the weather and the ‘Butterfly Effect’.
The programme and the warmth of the car merged into reverie.
I told you about the audience with the ‘Board’ and about the chairman’s reassurance. I still haven’t spoken to the Board again, but I did try something else, I divined with a pendulum.
One of the books I read after that first vision of Edward with the Sword was by J. Havelock Fiddler, an agricultural scientist more used to calculus than words. It had been a diversion to follow his explanation of resonances and how to use a pendulum.
Through that medium I got some sort of answer to the question of what blocked Sarah, the reason she withdrew.
Yet you remember my appeal to the Board. If I had won my case they should surely lift that block. But how soon? When I was told that everything would be put right but it would take a little time I thought the chairman meant days, he may have meant lifetimes.
Spirits have a different sense of Time from the living. Our sense follows Newton’s law of Entropy, if you had no material existence this sort of Time really wouldn’t matter to you. The sort of Time that would matter would be a measure of change of mind. How can I guess how much Sarah or I have changed since the chairman spoke to me?
Travelling back from Lincoln, listening to the radio, my mind turned over these thoughts.
The words that struck me, over and over, were,
“Have patience.”
Enter the ‘Butterfly Effect’.
The Butterfly Effect is the idea on the radio that a butterfly fluttering its wings somewhere on the Great Canadian Shield will have a tiny effect on the air around it. That effect may be so magnified by countless trivial factors, by the time the air reaches Europe it can disrupt major weather systems. It’s an accepted principle.
Here science breaks down. All the mathematician can say is, at some point, error factors become so great that long range forecasting becomes impossible.
What do any of us do but flutter our wings at the tide of history? That’s what Sarah and I were doing with our project.
Have patience.
But.
The many importuning questions that follow that word would not be silent.
If the butterfly’s wings were bigger would it have a greater effect?
No, unless it was already influencing something in the first place.
If the butterfly moved its wings more vigorously would it be more likely to have an effect?
Not unless it was causing an effect anyway, it would have to be in the right place.
If the butterfly moved around a lot wouldn’t it be more likely to be in the right place?
No, there are so many trillion places to be the chances are always random, what if the right place is the one the butterfly just left?
How does the butterfly affect the weather?
By being the right butterfly.
How can you be the right butterfly?
Have faith.
For some reason Malory’s book came into my mind, the ‘Nine Worthies’ I told you about. Did they change History? No, most people don’t make history, yet some of us do; the ‘Nine Worthies’ did. Were they the right butterflies, in the right place at the right time? Maybe Edward could have been one of the right butterflies.
That night images came afresh, I no longer had to struggle and tease out what my mind half caught. What I saw were Edward’s last days at Cambridge. They belong before the last scenes of the last chapter, yet I won’t take them back to put them earlier, there’s something of the peace of Lincoln that brought them to me.
(Past)
The time draws near when I may leave, thanks be to God. Further study should only lead me to ordination and the priesthood’s no more fit for a noble heir than is it suited to my inclinations.
There are many of my fellows will leave this term; there’s much banqueting and revelry and swearing of undying friendship. There is no place for me in this jollity and I shun it as much as duty lets.
Master Gibbons has given me little peace; as the study of my books falls away the study of court rolls begins. It started with the day Sir Reginald Bray summoned me to him, you may hear his words,
“I came into Lady Margaret’s service from Sir Henry Stafford’s house. I’ve held de Stafford estates these many years and there shall be no de Stafford go in ignorance of the truage he be owed.”
Between Sir Reginald and John Gunter I’ve had no peace from the care of rents and valores. Is it not enough to know true reckoning that I must be taught the arts of service as if I were some steward on my own lands?
Study the value of land to take ancient tenures and turn them into copyholds, to be let for fixed terms, to take fines on the entry of new tenants, again and again. Search out bondsmen that they pay for neglect of their feudal lord. All is clerkish care to take modern advancement from ancient right. What a tired World am I heir to where the commerce of trade takes the place of courage and chivalry?
It caused me to plead for military office that I might become a soldier.
With the term end, if I get no post of the King, it will be to the estates and the care of rents entirely.
I’d almost departed from my lodgings, Thomas left long ago and this very morning I made my farewell to the good servants Peter and Trim. This day shall be the last time I see Father Francis. If ever I loved anyone in Cambridge it’s these fellows in Father Francis’ school, I shall miss them. The bright sun in the sky and the scents of summer in the air lightens the whole World. It was with true gladness I came to our little lists.
The place was packed with a great press of people.
“Today is their last chance, Edward; they’ve come to see you.”
I looked abashed at the good father, should I be bated like some Roman gladiator?
“My boy, you may be better loved in this place than any other in Cambridge. Come, you must meet someone you already know.
It was a stripling boy, older than me and nearly as tall, but his height had out grown his strength and his arm bore little power. We’d met several times before and Father Francis and I did all we could to teach him but he never pressed any attack or put me in any danger. His name was Sir John Bradleigh and he was a gentleman of good family.
“Sir Edward, let me try once more, just one more chance to prove what you taught me.”
There was pleading in his voice.
I joined battle with reluctance; I hadn’t come to fight but to pay my respects to Father Francis. As for the crowd, I’d gladly disappoint their wishes, but not Father Francis, nor Sir John.
We met just with swords; wearing no more than light helms and leather jerkins, for the day was hot and work with the sword is warm. The crowd called in rude demand; they wanted us to use edged swords, not our blunt and safer tourney swords. It angered me. It seems they did want a Roman circus. Father Francis was all confusion, trying to still the crowd. My temper got the better of me, we would use edged swords, they were still hacked and blunt by the standards I remembered with Thomas. Sir John went white but my look of reassurance settled him, he must have known I wasn’t here to hurt him.
Sir John came at me again and again and I blocked him again and again. Today he defended my attacks with all the spirit in him; they only made him redouble his strokes. Something no one could tell before, he had excellent breathing. When most men would have tired he fought on as if he were still fresh. At the end I gave him such a buffet on the helm as to make his ears ring, just that I might catch my own breath.
He didn’t stagger away as I’d expected, he came on at me, yet that blow must have made him see the ground reel. He gave me such a swing past my raised sword as to slice through my jerkin. I felt the warmth of the blood running down my side. Sir John stepped back, ashamed at hurting me. Father Francis always forbade body blows with the edge; he would allow only the flat, for just this reason.
I looked down at my wound and at the silent people all around. It seemed everyone was waiting for me. I called for a cheer for Sir John.
“Never, since my tutor, has any man drawn blood on my body.”
And I held out my hand in a gesture of praise to Sir John.
The crowd cheered and stamped their boots on the wooden boards, it went on and on. They cheered for Sir John warmly, and they cheered for me too.
We went to sit on straw bales to watch others of the school but the show was over, people drifted away and many came to congratulate Sir John. Father Francis dressed my wound himself while a potboy brought us ale. I bid the Father be quick; I was already faint from the effort and loss of blood. That cut was two inches deep and eight inches long, all around my side.
“Do you know you fought upwards of half an hour? If I took payment like a theatre, or laid wagers like a nobleman, I’d be a rich man now.”
For all his words and his flushed face Father Francis’ hands worked with speed and skill, finally pulling shirt and doublet over my tightly bound middle.
All this while Sir John had been talking. There was a pride in his face as he made a confession he’d never have made but for that victory.
“My grandfather served the Duke of Buckingham: he was lieutenant under Duke Humphrey in Calais. My father is a soldier; ever since I came here I’ve wanted to tell him I’ve matched swords with you. Until now I’ve been too ashamed.”
“And right well you can fight as I know to my pain.”
I smiled, for all my side was hurting now, and I had to bite my lip to concentrate on courtesy.
I pictured Sir John, boasting of our meeting. He came to Cambridge pale from lack of sun and lack of spirit. His fellows mocked him. He dropped his sword from sheer fright at our first meeting. For all he had dogged diligence in practice, he was never bold. Yet, he’d shown more courage today than I ever saw in Cambridge. He’d earned his boast.
I thought of his father and his family. Now his father had a son to make him proud.
I thought of the Tower Room at Stafford and the trophies of Duke Humphrey I found there. The Duke, too, would be pleased.
We talked till it was time to go, though I still hadn’t paid my respects to Father Francis. He’d left us as soon as my wound was dressed, but at the end he came back, with a gift all wrapped up in a packet, and with the Prior of the College and with the Abbot of Crowland. I hadn’t known the Abbot was here.
Since taking my leave I couldn’t now be gated, but the Prior made no complaint at our fighting. The Abbot was kindness itself.
“You did well to give the fight to Sir John.”
There was a smile all over his face. I was even more surprised at what he said,
“Father Francis has persuaded me the College should support his lessons in chivalry. I’ve come to see for myself, it’s made me feel quite young again. But I’m glad I didn’t meet you, Sir Edward, when I was a young man with a sword in my hand.”
The Abbot made the rule for the College as the Prior gave it effect as our master. I was amazed they should take such interest in what I had done. The Abbot offered me his carriage and the Prior’s Lodging till I should be well enough to ride. It was a true relief, for I did not care to leave on a litter and Father Francis forbade me, at risk of my life, to mount a horse.
The Father gave me his gift and a speech, before all the people there; I had to make a reply and receive a cheer and nothing ever moved me so much in all my days in Cambridge. It was then I took my leave, in the Abbot’s carriage. I walked to it as firmly as I could for by now my legs were weak and my side was stiff.
I begged to be let out in the fields behind the town, to hide the tears that threatened to come rolling down my cheeks. Somehow I stumbled onto the meadow land at ‘the Backs’, it’s little used pasture behind the colleges, where the long grass was thick with poppies and daisies and the butterflies spent their lives. There amongst the shade of the trees I opened the packet Father Francis gave me. Inside were a cross and a letter.
The cross was simple and exquisite, carved in wood and beautifully polished. It glowed with inner warmth as I turned it in my hand. The letter was also warm, with praise and thanks for my time spent with Father Francis’ school. It ended with words I kept in my heart.
“..When you are rich and powerful remember your days with us in this little place. Remember our good fellowship and kindnesses are worth ten times those riches. If you will use the World as you’ve used our fellows I shall go with pride to my grave.
Remember me, Sir Edward, as I shall remember you in my
Prayers, and I shall commend you to God for you will hold more than most men the happiness of the World in your hands.”
The letter went into my pocket and I paced up and down as much as the ache in my side would let me. The letter affected me in ways I cannot describe. My tears could no longer be hid and I cried openly now and all I could do to ease the ache in my heart was to take my sword and fall to beheading the poppies.
When I came to leave it was a relief
to find the coach where I’d left it. My side was once more sticky with blood and I was put into bed as soon as I was brought in doors.
The Prior’s physician would not let me stir from my bed for five days. Yet the salving of my cut, by Father Francis as well as the physician was good and I took no fever. It was a vexing time and a maid was stationed at my door, to stop me moving as much as to wait on my needs. I was permitted nothing other than rest and reading and I bore it with such grace as I could. Yet finally, when I had the liberty of my feet but not yet the freedom of my horse, I still did not know what to do with the hours.
I would sit in the garden, soaking up the warmth of the sun and the scent of the flowers. I thought over my life here and my terrible loneliness without Eadie. When frustration got the better of me I would walk up and down, supporting my weak side with a stick. Sometimes the fellows of the College and others, even the Prior, would come and sit with me; sharing my sorrows and flattering me with their company.
It was more than another three weeks before my condition was declared safe enough for me to ride and I was free to make plans to go. By now I’d fallen into talking with the Prior as I’d never done as a student. It helped me to see Cambridge through the eyes of the men of learning and the men of God through whose hands I’d passed these years. I found there were chances I should have taken and duties I’d left undone. It made me wonder if I’d been as unkind to Cambridge as it to me.
The Prior hinted at the policy of the Abbot and the monks of Crowland, cautiously guarding the tradition of centuries. They need not be unfriendly to the Stafford heir, though they had learnt to be wise to royal wishes.
Was there some apology in this, for all the years I’d been alone, without my Eadie? There was a time I should have seized on those words, as I might have seized on another man’s neck. But the Prior was all conciliation and sympathy and I could find no fault in him. He had many laudable plans for the College and I even began to wonder, what might I do as its patron?
The night before I was to leave a banquet was held for me. I was honoured by half the learned men of Cambridge. Father Francis and Sir John Bradleigh were there and many of my fellow students who’d been cool in their friendship for so very long. It surprised me and I gave as much flattery as they gave me. After all the painful days and hopeless nights at last, on my leaving, I came to hold warmer thoughts than ever I had before. It was strange that it should take the hurt given by Sir John to make this night of fellowship.
Just an after word on the fight with Sir John; ever since seeing this duel, the pain I sometimes get in my side has completely gone away. I wonder if there is any connection.
***
Lincoln Cathedral