by Paul Doherty
Kathryn’s head whirled from one sight to another. She gave up her attempt to avoid the dirt and rested more firmly on Colum’s arm as the Irishman strode purposefully behind the archers, his free hand on his dagger. Colum carefully studied the crowds and tried to ignore Thomasina’s stream of questions as the nurse huffed and puffed behind him. Colum was pleased that Kathryn so firmly held his arm. The physician had wanted to come to London to buy spices and Colum had been delighted; he wanted to show her off at court, as well as demonstrate to Kathryn how closely he was trusted by the great Yorkist war-lords waiting for him at the Tower. Nevertheless, Colum was uneasy. Born in the wild, green glens of Ireland, he was used to stables, horses, open fields, and he disliked the narrow city lanes, the mass of unwashed bodies and the footpads who seemed to cluster like rats around a dunghill. He turned sideways; yes, there was someone following him, a small, bent man with straggling grey hair, furtive eyes and a long, pointed nose. Colum glared at the man; he knew a foist when he saw one. The rogue was apparently stalking either Colum’s party or those who stopped to watch this well-dressed couple being escorted through the streets by a small company of royal archers. However, the fellow posed no real threat, so Colum glanced away. He was not frightened of any London footpad, but the Hounds of Ulster were a different matter. They’d condemned Colum as a traitor and had sworn to take his head, and what better place than some crowded London street, where a crossbow bolt could be loosed or a knife quickly slipped between a man’s ribs?
‘Colum, what do you think the King wants with you?’
The Irishman pulled a face. ‘God knows, Mistress Kathryn. The letter was sent by his brother, Richard of Gloucester. I am to meet the King on the twenty-fifth of July, the feast of Saint James the Apostle, in the King’s own chapel at the Tower. More than that, God knows!’
Kathryn pressed his arm. ‘Are you nervous, Colum?’
‘In the midst of life we are in death,’ he quipped.
Now Kathryn pulled a face. Sometimes she regretted ever buying a copy of Chaucer’s work. The Irishman, an avid reader, was forever regaling her and Thomasina with extracts from Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.
‘From what story is that?’ she teased.
Colum held up a finger like a reproving schoolmaster.
‘No, most learned of physicians, not from Master Chaucer but from God’s own story, the Bible.’ He grinned. ‘Though yes, as Chaucer’s Pardoner says, “I search here for Death, all pale and withered is its face.”’
Kathryn’s smile faded. ‘Here!’ she hissed. ‘Here in London? Surrounded by royal archers?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Colum whispered back. ‘My comrades, the self-proclaimed Hounds of Ulster, are no respecters of persons. I am more at risk here than I would be on a deserted road.’
Further conversation was impossible. They had reached the riverside and went down the slippery steps into the waiting royal barge. It was broad and large, with comfortable seats for Kathryn, Colum and Thomasina under a leather awning. The archers clambered in. The captain rapped out orders, the four oarsmen pulled away from the steps and into midstream. Despite the tidal change, the barge seemed to skim above the water as it passed under the arches of London Bridge where the river frothed and roared like water in a cauldron. Kathryn, a little frightened by the speed and surge of the current, looked away. She closed her eyes in disgust at the huge poles stuck out over the bridge which bore the rotting heads of traitors. Colum, following her glance, tried to divert her by pointing out the different sights: the white stones of the palaces, the lofty spires of different churches, and the various ships – galleys from Venice; huge, fat-bottomed cogs from the Baltic; and the great two-masted warships of the King.
At last they reached the Tower. Despite the sun, the fortress was grim and sombre. They left the barge and walked along the shingle path towards the Lion Gate, heavily guarded by men-at-arms wearing the royal livery, the Red Boar of Gloucester or the Golden Bull of Clarence. Warrants were inspected and they were led up the narrow winding trackways. Kathryn peered apprehensively around. Wasn’t it here, she thought, just recently, when the Yorkist war-lords returned in glory after their victories at Barnet and Tewkesbury, that old King Henry, who some said was a saint and others a mad man, had been stabbed to death? They turned a corner and walked across the green towards the great white keep, passing soldiers sitting on the grass cleaning their hauberks with old rags and small dishes of dry sand. At the foot of the steps leading up to the keep, their escort took their leave. Once again the captain repeated his thanks, and before Colum could ask Kathryn what the fellow meant, a chamberlain appeared dressed in blue, red and gold, and pompously led them into the keep. They went up a further flight of stairs and into the chapel of Saint John. Two knights bannerets, their features hidden by heavy conical helmets with broad nose-guards, stood on guard at the chapel door, their swords drawn. Colum took off his belt, handed it to one of them and with Kathryn walked inside.
Kathryn immediately caught her breath at the sheer white dazzling beauty of the place. The columns were painted in brilliant colours. The floor was of polished stone, cloths of gold hung from the walls, but her attention was caught by the group at the far end seated before the altar. Whilst the chamberlain went forward, Colum lowered his head and whispered to Kathryn.
‘His Grace the King and his wife, the Lady Elizabeth. Behind them are His Grace’s brothers; the russet-haired one is Richard of Gloucester, the other George of Clarence. The King can be trusted, but watch the rest!’
Kathryn gazed down the chapel. The air smelt fragrant with incense and the candles on the altar were still smoking whilst a tonsured monk, dressed in alb and stole, cleared away the precious vessels after a late-morning Mass. Kathryn stared down at these figures talking in a huddle: the King resplendent in dark-blue satin, a silver chaplet round his golden hair. A giant of a man well over six feet, Edward was the greatest warrior of his age, and if scandal could be believed, dangerous with the ladies. His wife Elizabeth Woodville looked like a snow queen with her beautiful silver-white hair and a face that would have been strikingly lovely if it hadn’t been for her expression of disdain. The two princes were, as Colum had described, resolute warriors but dangerous. Richard of Gloucester, with his russet hair, white, pinched face and green eyes, reminded Kathryn of a cat her father had once owned. Gloucester turned away and whispered something to Clarence, who looked up. A handsome man, Kathryn thought – too handsome, almost woman-like with his golden curls and petulant mouth. The chamberlain waited until he caught the King’s eye, then sank to one knee and whispered, moving his head to indicate Colum and Kathryn. Edward drew himself up, straightened his crown and winked mischievously at Kathryn, gesturing with his hand for them to approach.
They did; Colum and Kathryn sank to one knee. The King made them stay there. He watched over his shoulder until both chamberlain and chaplain had left and indicated to Gloucester to ensure all doors were secure. Kathryn drew in her breath. She wished Thomasina had been allowed entrance but Colum had been most insistent: only those specifically invited entered the King’s presence, and Thomasina had not been named.
‘On your feet, Colum.’
The King’s voice was rich and mellow. He threw off his ermine-lined cloak, rose and came down proffering a large hand.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you are most welcome.’
Kathryn stared into the broad, tawny, handsome face. Edward looked every inch the king, with his slightly hooked nose, neatly clipped golden moustache and beard; his dark-blue eyes were both friendly and teasing. Kathryn recalled Colum’s words – how Edward could make even the poorest subject in his kingdom feel at ease.
‘Mistress Kathryn, you are most welcome,’ the King repeated. Kathryn blushed and stammered her thanks.
The King covered her hand with his.
‘You are right, Colum.’ He let Kathryn’s hand go and turned to clap the Irishman on the shoulder. ‘A beautiful, wise woman, a rare treasure.�
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Edward grinned mischievously at his queen, who forced a smile before glaring hot-eyed at Kathryn. Gloucester came round the side of the throne, followed by Clarence. They shook Colum’s hand and then courteously kissed hers. Sharp daggers in velvet sheaths, Kathryn thought. Gloucester seemed friendly enough with his lopsided smile, but Kathryn took an immediate dislike to Clarence, with his arrogant sneering looks and foppish ways. She was sure he was mocking her, so Kathryn deliberately let her own fixed smile fade. Over Clarence’s shoulder she caught Edward’s eye; he, too, was glaring sullenly at his brother.
‘Clarence is treacherous,’ Colum had declared on his way to London. ‘He fought with Warwick and the Lancastrians. He only changed sides before Barnet. One day, brother George will move too slowly and the King will have his head.’
Kathryn quickly glanced at these four powerful people who held the kingdom in their hands. She tried to hide her unease as she realised how silent the chapel had become. The King leaned forward, tapping one soft, bejewelled buskin on the floor as he pointed at Colum.
‘Well, Irishman, how are my stables at Kingsmead?’
‘The manor is being rebuilt, Your Grace, the paddocks prepared, and the stables, at least, are ready for your horses.’
The King drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘And Canterbury itself?’
‘Most loyal, Your Grace.’
Edward grimaced and his eyes slid away. ‘And the rebel, Nicholas Faunte?’
Colum shifted uneasily. He was not only the Master of the King’s stable at Kingsmead but Special Commissioner to Canterbury. The city had supported Warwick and the Lancastrians in the recent civil war under their mayor, Nicholas Faunte, now a fugitive traitor. Colum knew his royal master. Once Edward believed a man should die, be he prince or pauper, that man would go to the block; Edward had not forgotten how Faunte’s support of Lancaster had almost cost him control of the important routes to Dover.
‘So you have not captured him yet?’ Clarence spoke up, coming round the side of the throne, thumbs pushed into the beautiful embroidered belt round his waist.
‘I have not captured him,’ Colum replied, his eyes not leaving the King, ‘because I have been involved in other duties, my lord. As His Grace knows, treason is a weed with very deep roots.’
Clarence caught the hidden taunt and flushed. Gloucester bowed his head to hide his smirk but the King continued to stare at Colum.
‘Faunte will be captured,’ Edward replied slowly. ‘Master Murtagh has other matters on his mind.’ He darted a glance at Kathryn. ‘And you, Mistress Swinbrooke, you have taken this Irishman into your house?’
‘I gave him lodgings, Your Grace,’ Kathryn replied hotly. ‘I am an honourable widow. My father was a physician of Canterbury.’
‘And your late husband?’
Kathryn’s embarrassment deepened. She lowered her head.
‘Your husband,’ the King insisted, leaning forward. ‘Alexander Wyville, a spicer by trade who, I believe, joined Master Faunte’s forces.’
‘There are many who followed Lancaster.’ Colum spoke up sharply. ‘Your Grace, it is no crime of Mistress Swinbrooke!’
‘We did not say it was,’ the Queen intervened, her voice soft and cooing like a dove.
‘My husband,’ Kathryn said defiantly, ‘followed his heart.’
‘But is he dead?’ Clarence asked.
Kathryn shrugged. ‘To me he is, my lord. But only God knows whether he lives or dies.’ Kathryn threw all caution to the winds. She could hardly believe she had been summoned here to be interrogated about her private life. ‘Alexander Wyville may be with Faunte,’ she added. ‘He may be in France. He may be in heaven or hell. He may even, Your Grace, be in your household or your city. After all, there are many who supported Lancaster, as Master Murtagh has just said, who now sleep serenely between silken sheets.’
Colum moved his elbow slightly to give Kathryn a warning nudge. The King glared down at her, then suddenly clapped his hands and threw himself back, laughing over his shoulder at his brother Richard.
‘I have won my wager!’ he roared, clapping his hands. He smiled at Kathryn. ‘When we saw you at the back of the church, I accepted my brother’s wager. I said that no woman who was wise would keep a still tongue in her head.’
‘I am always prepared to tell the truth,’ Kathryn snapped back, angry that her presence had been the cause of a wager.
Edward’s grin widened. Even the Queen relaxed slightly. Richard bit his lip, wagging a finger at Colum. Only Clarence stared sullenly at the Irishman. Edward clapped his hands again.
‘Enough! Enough! Master Murtagh, you are well?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Then let us get on with this business.’
The King took his circlet off his head and turned sideways in his chair, crossing his great legs as he played with a diamond ring on his finger.
‘Master Murtagh, you remember Barnet?’
‘Aye, Your Grace, a bloody fight.’
‘No, no.’ The King waved his hand. ‘When you took my defiance to Warwick before the battle began? You said the Earl was wearing a gold pendant containing a beautiful sapphire?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I saw it as clearly then as I see you now.’
‘And after the battle,’ Edward continued, ‘when you returned to see if Warwick had been spared?’
‘The pendant was gone.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ Clarence purred like a cat, one hand on the back of the King’s throne-like chair.
Colum caught the hidden accusation, his lip curled in contempt.
‘Remove your hand from my chair, brother,’ Edward said softly. ‘If the pendant was there, Colum would have had it.’
Rebuked, Clarence stepped back. Kathryn wondered why such a pendant was so valuable. Clarence’s interest was obvious. The Queen was sitting forward, hands clenched in her lap, listening intently. Gloucester stood legs apart, one shoulder slightly raised, eyes narrowed, his body taut and tense.
‘I want that pendant,’ Edward continued. ‘And you, Master Murtagh, shall find it. You owe it to me and my father.’
Edward gazed steadily at Colum, silently reminding the Irishman of how the King’s father, Richard of York, when he was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, had captured Colum and other rebels. He had shown mercy to Murtagh because he was only a boy. He had taken him into his own household to train as a squire, developing Colum’s special gift for working with horses.
‘God rest your father’s soul,’ Colum said.
‘Aye, God rest him,’ Edward replied, staring down the nave as if trying to summon up his father’s ghost. ‘You know how he died, Colum, trapped in the wild, snowy wastes outside Wakefield. The Lancastrians took him and my elder brother Edmund, he who should be sitting on this throne now. They cut their heads off and festooned them with paper crowns. They put them on spikes above Micklegate Bar in York, his own city, so the commoners might laugh and the crows could fill their bellies!’ Edward raised one clenched fist to his mouth; he bit his whitened knuckle, then blinked as if dismissing the ghosts. ‘Aye, they have all gone,’ Edward whispered. ‘And those who did it have gone into the darkness as well. Despatched just as violently as they did my father. Do you remember it, Colum?’
‘Aye, Your Grace, how can I forget? I, too, was captured at the same battle. My life was spared only because I was a commoner.’
‘Enough! Enough!’ Edward straightened in his chair. ‘Colum, my father brought from Ireland a beautiful pendant of solid gold and, in the centre, a sapphire which shines so brilliantly they call it the Eye of God. My father always kept it about his person. He rarely wore it, for it made every man’s hand itch and could turn the most honest fellow into a rogue. Now, as you know, my father’s great friend and ally in those days was Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick. Golden days, Colum, before Warwick turned sour.’ The King grinned bleakly. ‘As they say, “Lilies that do fester smell rank and worse than weeds.” Now, bef
ore the fight at Wakefield’ – Edward wetted his lips – ‘my father and the Earl of Warwick swore the most solemn oaths to each other. My father gave the pendant to Warwick as a gift; a pledge of friendship. In his turn, Warwick swore that if he ever turned against the House of York, the rightful heirs of the crown, the pendant would be returned to my father or his descendants.’
‘Now it’s gone,’ Gloucester said and leaned forward, his hard, green eyes scarcely containing his fury. ‘At first His Grace and I thought it may have been taken in battle, filched by some petty soldier, some camp thief.’ Gloucester shook his head.
‘But we have searched high and low. Sent special surveyors and spies into the markets. Even alerted envoys at foreign courts, but the Eye of God has not been seen.’