Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Ludovic paused a moment, allowing the heavy rain to find its path down the back of his neck. “I am not my brother,” he said quietly.

  “Which is a shame,” said Will, “since I admire him and would not object to another the same. But he speaks well of you.”

  Ludovic did not smile. “Which brother?” he asked.

  Chapter Ten

  His majesty was not a handsome man, nor even a noteworthy one. But even to those who did not know him and had never before seen him, it was immediately apparent who he was. Only the king sat.

  Yet at some distance across the great hall stood a far younger and smaller man, sweet faced, too pretty for an experienced courtier, too gentle and too quiet, but who seemed to attract as much notice as the Tudor king, and possibly more. A young woman of great beauty stood close at his side, yet they seemed somehow incongruous as a pair for she was dressed in luxury and great fashion in a gown of saffron silk, fox trimmed with draped sleeves of green sarsenet, their fur linings sweeping the boards, while the man at whom she looked so lovingly was attired in plain wool doublet and a short coat of dark worsted. He looked more like a servant yet fulfilled no obvious duties, and was greeted and addressed with curiosity by many, with mockery by some, and with courtesy and respect by most.

  “We call him Piers, Perkin or Peter Warbeck,” said a voice at Ludovic’s shoulder. “We are ordered to use that name and no other, though the young man will not acknowledge it.”

  Ludovic turned slowly. “And if permitted,” he asked, “what name would you prefer to use?”

  “That is a dangerous question to ask,” smiled William of Berkhamstead. “But since it is your brother Gerald whom I consider my closest friend and confidant, you might guess the answer, and not choose it to be spoken aloud.”

  “And the lady?”

  “His wife, Katherine.” William smiled. “She clearly loves her husband, but they are forced apart and forbidden to share their quarters, day or night. The Lady Katherine is Scottish nobility and now waits upon her majesty the queen. She sleeps in state, whereas he, poor young man, is constantly watched and sleeps tight squashed between two minders within the chambers of the king’s Wardrobe. Yet her majesty, perhaps not to the king’s liking, releases the lady Katherine each day to be at her husband’s side. Who knows what is reported each evening on the lady’s return to her mistress.”

  “If this pretender’s claims are correct,” said Ludovic, watching the presumed servant smile, and bow, and display his courtly manners, “he would be full brother to the queen.”

  “Indeed,” smiled William. “Absurd is it not? But even during the Christmas celebrations, her majesty and this young man are carefully kept apart. The queen arrived yesterday but has not yet entered the great hall, and will not be permitted I am sure while he is present.”

  “Even more absurd,” said Ludovic, impatient. “The queen kept from her own palace because of a servant who might be recognised as something more? Why is he not kept away, which would be simpler?”

  “This is a king who does not know how to do the simple thing,” murmured William. “He is a man of machinations and manipulations, and has always been this since he was a pretender in exile himself. Now for ten long years he has chased this – claimant to the throne. The rumours have long haunted him and although in public he has dismissed the affair as laughable and too clearly false to merit serious action, in private he has been constantly terrified and taken every action possible.’

  Beneath the clamour, laughter and the music, they kept their voices low. Ludovic said, “I am little more than a country bumpkin, my lord. Beyond the relentless gossip and my brother’s tales, I know little of the facts.”

  “The rumours first arose in Portugal in ‘87, and suddenly his majesty, with never a thought for Portugal before, sent every courtier he could spare to Lisbon, spies one after the other and then spies paid to spy upon the spies. It cost our thrifty Tudor king a fortune and he has been paying ever since, while worrying himself into decrepitude. They say he has been so ill at times the royal doctors have feared for his life. This – Peter Warbeck – may be the death of him yet, without the need to wage any war. But now at last the king has captured him. So he must be shown off. He must be humiliated and paraded as proof of Tudor’s mercy and further proof of this fraudulent pretender’s falsity. In comparison to the king displaying his ultimate success after ten ruinous years of panic and dread, her majesty the queen is of small significance indeed.” The young man smiled. “Indeed, her majesty has always been that, while overshadowed by the king’s mother, and kept away from matters of state.”

  Ludovic sighed, looking across the heads of the crowd to the mismatched pair, bored and uncomfortable and glued to their places, politely acknowledging the interminable platitudes. “As I have said before,” Ludovic answered carefully, “my brother is free to make his own judgements, but my father is loyal to the crown. And I am his majesty’s guest.”

  “Ah yes, your noble father.” William of Berkhamstead smiled widely. “And a summons to court after so long an absence. Royal favour at last perhaps? Or perhaps because your father, in his youth I believe, was a regular at the Plantagenet court during the late King Edward’s reign, and was, I am told, acquainted with his younger son, the Duke of York.”

  Ludovic raised an eyebrow. “Which is relevant because?”

  “Because, dear Gerald’s brother,” Will continued to smile, “all those who can corroborate, most wisely and diplomatically, that this young man Warbeck bears no resemblance to that Duke of York, are now suddenly being encouraged to attend at court. They are being encouraged to speak loudly – as long as they say exactly what the king wishes – declaring that this Flemish impostor carries no likeness whatsoever to the old King Edward’s sons. They must bear witness that this common prisoner, so well treated by the king’s merciful grace, is clearly a fraud perpetrated by the Duchess Margaret of Burgundy. In other words, your father is here to play his part.”

  “He has not mentioned it to me,” said Ludovic.

  “But he will know,” William said. “I promise, he will know.”

  Aimlessly treading the hall’s outskirts, Ludovic eventually joined his mother at her request and was quickly introduced to a hundred noble mothers of unmarried daughters. Discovering excuses, he escaped for fresh air. The air was not noticeably fresh, but it cleared the senses and the candle smoke from his eyes. Outside the palace, interrupted by the intermittent boom of the church bells, the rain had ceased but the gardens remained empty. The paths were still wet and the frigid cold bit hard. Eight of the clock, the evening moon was already bright in an uncluttered sky and the adjacent music of the Thames, now tamed by an ebbing tide, was gentle and pleasant. Ludovic leaned against the low hedge and contemplated the dangers of ambition, being the driving force, both plough and thresher, of the court. He had escaped the sweated heat, the unsubtle intentions of his mother and the spite of gossip and persistent slander, though Ludovic was sure William of Berkhamstead would find him soon, to utilise the advantages of rare privacy. But someone else found him first.

  The small boy was running hard and already out of breath. About seven years of age, clearly well fed and well bolstered against the dangers of the weather, he appeared almost round in layers of rose pink silk and cerise velvet, far better dressed than most aristocratic sons his age. His face, from exertion, matched his clothes. He skidded, soft shoes wet, and landed almost at Ludovic’s feet. Ludovic picked him up.

  “Don’t,” yelled the child in fury. “Get out of my way.” Ludovic promptly let him go, and the child tumbled again. Ludovic smiled and helped him brush the mud from his knees. “Are they following?” insisted the child. “Can you see them?”

  Ludovic could not. “I imagine you are evading your nurses,” he said, regarding the angrily bobbing head at his waist. “Isn’t it rather cold for night time escapades?”

  The tousled curls shook. “Of course not. I’m sick of those stupid women. I won
’t be told what to do and it’s Christmas and I’ll go to bed when I want.”

  “I can remember thinking something similar at your age,” said Ludovic. “But I never achieved it. It never worked.”

  “What I want has to work.” The boy stamped his foot and the mud squelched. “And if they don’t obey, I shall tell Papa and he’ll cut all their heads off.”

  “Ah.” Ludovic smiled faintly. “Then I have an idea who you must be.”

  “I’m a prince,” said the prince. “I’m Harry and this is my palace and I’ll do what I want.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” said Ludovic. “And I wish you luck with getting your own way. It never worked with me, but no doubt it will with you.”

  “You’re supposed to call me your highness, and bow very low,” the prince informed him.

  “It’s much too cold for that,” Ludovic said. “Let’s walk down by the river. Your nurses are less likely to find you and it’s also too cold for standing still.”

  The king’s youngest son grinned. “All right. And then you’ll get the blame if anyone sees me.”

  The royal gardens sloped directly to the floating piers where gilded barges were tied beneath their bright heraldic awnings. The king’s personal yeomen of the guard patrolled the paths, but no one stopped the two quiet figures strolling in the shadows, the man and the boy. Then, standing close in the clarity of the moonlight, the boy lifted his face, and Ludovic suddenly realised the remarkable similarity of the pretty child to the unfortunate young man he had watched being paraded within the hall. For one moment, Ludovic held his breath.

  The man was perhaps twenty four years of age, the young prince was seven. But the resemblance was unmistakable. Piers Warbeck, son of an obscure Flanders boat builder, adventurer and vile impostor, illiterate peasant and dupe of the power-hungry, looked near close as a brother to Prince Henry of England, grandson of the late King Edward IV. But if Piers Warbeck was after all who he said he was, then he was actually the son of King Edward IV, and uncle to this prancing prince. Now both called themselves Duke of York, which was impossible, but who had the greater right was no longer so clear.

  Prince Harry said, “You’re not talking. You should entertain me.”

  Ludovic laughed. “I was thinking. About you, as it happens. I hear they say you’re the image of your grandfather.”

  The boy nodded eagerly. “He was a king. My mother’s father. She was a princess and now she’s a queen. And I’ve got a brother. He’s a prince too. We’re all extremely important.”

  “I am naturally impressed,” said Ludovic. “But you have not mentioned your father.”

  “Well, you must be stupid,” said the prince. “Everyone knows he’s the king. But actually I don’t see him very often. Anyway, his father wasn’t a king. I don’t think his father was anyone at all, but he’s dead so it doesn’t matter.”

  “Dead ancestors are the most convenient,” agreed Ludovic. “Most of my ancestors are safely dead, which I consider thoughtful of them. But I was particularly interested in your maternal grandfather, also dead of course, but who you are said to resemble most closely.”

  The boy nodded vigorously again. “They all say it. Though my hair is red. I like being red. They say it’s fiery. I’ve got a fiery temper too. Sometimes they say that’s good and sometimes they say that’s bad, but I like it.” He paused momentarily. “You’ve got fair hair too. But it’s yellow, not red.”

  “Indeed.” Ludovic, having retreated from the confines of the palace, wore no hat.

  “And my mother says I have a mouth like a little pink rosebud,” the prince announced with pride. “She says her papa had a mouth like a rosebud too. I like my mother best out of everybody. Besides, she’s the queen.”

  “An advantage,” admitted Ludovic. He had noticed movement behind him and the bustle of servants hurrying the paths and peering over the low clipped hedges. “But I think,” he said, “you are about to be recaptured.”

  “Oh well.” The prince opened his pink rosebud lips and managed to smile. “I don’t care anymore. At least I got away and made them hunt everywhere. I expect they’re really worried and frightened and they’ll get really told off for losing me. They might even get beaten. So I don’t mind going back now. Besides, it’s horribly cold by the river. That’s your fault. You said to come down here.”

  “It is undoubtedly my fault, and I apologise.” Ludovic had signalled to the first of the scurrying nurses, who was running over. “But our conversation was – particularly interesting.”

  “That’s because I’m a prince,” insisted the child as he was swept up into a tall woman’s arms. He called back over her shoulder. “And I won’t tell them it was your idea to walk in the cold and I’ll tell Papa not to cut your head off.”

  “I’m much obliged to you,” murmured Ludovic, already out of earshot. “Who knows? It seems one day I might need salvation after all.”

  It was not the prince who heard, but someone else. The Earl of Berkhamstead smiled. “I see you’ve met our royal brat. They call him the Duke of York, having been so titled by his father. Not admitting at the time that the existent Duke of York is still very much alive. I gather you noted the likeness.”

  “It could hardly be missed.”

  “Then perhaps I shall now call you friend with more justification.”

  Ludovic smiled. “The resemblance might simply mean the Burgundian duchess has chosen well.”

  “To discover such a mirror image amongst the foul slums of Tournai? I doubt any wise man could believe in such a chance. Could you?”

  “I imagine it would be wise not to believe anything else.”

  “But I have told you already,” nodded William, “I do not choose to be wise.” He reached out, taking Ludovic’s elbow. “Will you walk with me along the river side? I can at least tell you something more of what I know. It is not treachery just to listen.”

  “On the contrary,” Ludovic said. “I imagine it is. But I will certainly listen, for all that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The calls of fire came bursting like the flames themselves through the corridors. It was the feast of St. Thomas and the supper tables had been well laden, three full courses of twelve dishes each, and twelve roast swan set with steel wire to curve their white re-feathered necks, mimicking the living birds. It was an evening feast rather than midday dinner, but in spite of the traditional alms giving and the feeding of the beggars entitling the charitable to good fortune and the Lord’s blessings, the night was lit not with heaven’s stars but with flames.

  It started in the rambling chambers of the king’s Wardrobe.

  The elegant young captive known as Peter Warbeck did not attend feasts or sit amongst the nobles. This night he had been instructed to present the gilded wine cup to his majesty, kneeling to serve him personally. The king was gracious, thanking his servant before dismissing him, but the intended humiliation was clearly apparent. Nor did the Lady Katherine his wife sit at supper, for she was closeted with the queen in her own quarters. Master Warbeck was therefore back in bed and tucked tight when the fire started at around nine of the clock.

  No one knew how it had started, but the first frantic orders were not to douse the flames, but to ensure the continued safe custody of the prisoner.

  A multitude of candles, dripping chandeliers, huge open fires and the proximity of torches flaring amongst the drying greenery of the Christmas decorations, constituted a thousand daily opportunities for fire. Guards were alert to the constant danger and small ignitions were common enough. Yet this was a virulent blaze, and its specific beginning was lost in smoke. Alarm spread, guards and servants running, the squealing of the ladies clutching their trains and the sudden hurtle of the hounds rushing from the smell of danger. After three long expensive hours it was finally doused, though the stench lingered, drifting in sooty fingers to the high beams, while many of his majesty’s most precious possessions, housed within those cramped and cluttered chambers,
were burned and lost.

  Excuses were demanded, and given. The stewards and assistant stewards offered reassurance, and apologies. “But it is thoroughly extinguished, my lords. There is no danger, I assure you. We are accustomed to such problems. Such matters are always efficiently and speedily dealt with.”

  But some members of the court, disturbed from their beds, were not easily appeased. “Not so speedily this time, it seems. Evidently this was far larger than usual. And started in the vicinity of the royal Wardrobes, I hear?”

  “True, my lord. But is of no significance, except that naturally the stacks of thick hangings and closets of materials led to the more rapid spreading of the fire.”

  “Unless it began in that young man’s chamber. You know who I mean. That’s where he sleeps, isn’t it? Perhaps he started it himself. As a diversion. An attempt at escape.”

  “I am assured not, my lord. There can be no question of such a thing. I beg you will not consider it. This was an accident and no malice. There is no need for distress.”

  “I’m not in the least distressed, my good man. But don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, for I won’t believe it.”

  Few believed it. Gossip and rumour spread as fast as the flames. Ludovic immediately looked to hear William of Berkhamstead’s opinion, but the young earl had remained inexplicably absent for the entire evening, even at supper before the fire started, when Ludovic sat alone and wondering.

  It was late. No curfew was kept at Sheen and in any case, the fire naturally disrupted all quiet dispersal of courtly merrymaking and the usual retirement of noblemen with their own, or someone else’s wife, strolling to their chambers for the further pleasures of bed. Ludovic avoided the still clamorous fire fighters and aimed for the quiet shadows of more deserted corridors leading to the chapel and the inner, private courtyards. Even here the smutty smells of burning velvets and singed tapestries lingered, carried by the tongues of draught through the stairways and beneath the doors. Ludovic, with no clear idea where he headed, kept walking.