by Robert Irwin
‘But none of this is the truth!’Anthony protests.
‘No,’ agrees Ripley. ‘But it improves upon the truth. I wonder if Arthur really did pull a sword from a stone. Is it possible to do such a thing? Or did Merlin put it about that the sword had been so extracted? Since the world of the ordinary is shaded in such dull colours, we must… we must paint it brighter. Now that Edward is on the throne, the people expect great things and it is my task, our task, to see that they are not disappointed. So far you have had little to say for yourself, for there is indeed, as yet, little about you. This shall change and we must give you a story that people will want to listen to.’
Anthony shakes his head, ‘Thank you, but I shall make my own way in the world.’
‘No, you need me, as you will hear. First I have a question for you and then some news you will not like. The question is who rules England?’
‘Edward. Henry’s rule is finished.’
‘You fool. Edward sits on the throne, but anyone can see that Warwick rules the Kingdom. He has the men, the ships, the great estates, the money and the energy. When he wants Edward to do something, he tells him what to do and Edward obeys. People call Warwick the “Kingmaker”. It is only a matter of time before he makes himself King, since Edward is only keeping the throne warm for him. Now for what you will not like. Warwick has instructed Edward to dismiss your father from the office of High Constable and send him away from Westminster. He will be replaced in that office by the Earl of Worcester, John Tiptoft, who has just returned from his studies in Italy. Tiptoft is of the old nobility and that is in his favour. As for you, you will be sent north to assist in the sieges of those border fortresses still held by the Lancastrians. You will be closely watched for there you will be under Warwick’s command and Warwick has already warned the King that you and your father are not to be trusted.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I have my intelligencers. Smile, my lord. Smile. It is good to have enemies. A man can be judged by the quality of his enemies and Warwick is a redoubtable enemy, an enemy to treasure. He hates your father and Lord Hastings. Warwick claims that they give the King evil counsel, to his own dishonour and the destruction of the Holy Church and of all his people. You, your father and others now at court are new men, jumped-up men, frivolous, cynical and greedy, who, trading on their wits and handsome faces, hope to push the old nobility aside. Do not pull that face! I am only telling you what Warwick believes. Warwick is for the old blood who have provided the Kings of England with generations of service and achievement. Wise counsellors should only be drawn from the ranks of the old nobility, for they have the best interests of the kingdom at heart. I should tell you that your father and you yourself are his chosen enemies, since Warwick also hates sorcery and he hates Jacquetta de St Pol. The odd thing is that he does not believe in sorcery and yet he does fear it, and he maintains that English politics is being poisoned by sorcery, or at least the pretence of sorcery – amulets, poisons, lures of enchantment, alchemical compounds, curses of sterility, demonic prophecies. There are many who think like him. He is to be admired and I confess I do admire his belief in himself and his ruthlessness. Accidents can happen during sieges. You should be very careful since he now wishes he had killed you and your father at Calais.’
Ripley smiles and continues. ‘But be of good cheer, my lord. I am on your side. Let us hope that you have some luck in the north. Certain things bring luck, such as seeing two crows together, stroking the hump of a hunchback, pictures of elephants and having sex in a church – though, now I think of it, I suppose that having sex anywhere could be thought to be lucky. Now go with God, for in His will is our peace.’
Chapter Five: Alnwick
On their way back to Norfolk, Anthony and Beth dedicate more nights to vigils in churches. Once in Norfolk Anthony is busy on the lengthy business of assembling musters for the coming campaign. His parting from Beth is melancholy and then the soldiers’ march to the north is slow, tedious and hard, but without peril or any other notable event. England sleeps under a mantle of snow.
Northumberland is Percy territory and the Percy Dukes of Northumberland have always been supporters of Lancaster. Now forces loyal to Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrian cause hold the Border castles of Bamburgh, Dunstanburgh and Alnwick. Anthony and his men have been assigned to the siege of Alnwick in which campaign he is the deputy of the Earl of Warwick’s uncle, Thomas Neville, the Bastard of Fauconberg. Fauconberg is a grizzled old campaigner who has little need of Anthony’s assistance or advice and no liking for him. Ralph Grey oversees the siege at Dunstanburgh until the new High Constable, John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester arrives to take command, while Lord Montagu and the Bastard Ogle are outside Bamburgh. The Earl of Warwick, who has overall charge of the northern campaign, has his headquarters three miles from Alnwick at Warkworth and he rides out daily from there to see what progress the sieges are making, which is very little.
Their meeting outside the walls of Alnwick had been an awkward one. Warwick frowned at Anthony before his face cleared.
‘My Lord Scales, we meet again!’ and Warwick spread his palms out in supplication. ‘Our first meeting was not a happy one (at Calais, was it not?), but let bygones be bygones. Time changes everything. Now that we fight for the same King, I am happy to bid you a most hearty welcome, for we need all the good men we can get. I am sure that we shall be friends. Come let us embrace.’
They exchanged a formal kiss of peace and Warwick continued, ‘That churchman in London, George Ripley speaks highly of you. I confess that I find him a strange man, somewhat given to unwarrantable fantasies, but I respect his intelligence. He does the most remarkable things with gunpowder.’
Warwick was all bluffness and energy and Anthony, despite himself admired this. Now Warwick had to see to how the investing of Alnwick was being conducted. Having inspected the three trebuchets that are in daily operation against the walls of Alnwick, Warwick strokes his stubbled jaw. He could not conceal his contempt, ‘All this might have done very well at the siege of Jericho or perhaps that of Troy, but, by God, we are now in the fifteenth century! Our sieges move too slowly. We must give them a push. Chivalry is a thing to be mocked at if it does not dispose of the latest machinery of war.’
He has had six great iron bombards brought up by ships from Newcastle, together with more manageable culverins, roughly hewn stone balls and casks of gunpowder and he supervises their unloading. Once the bombards are on land, he goes over to them and strokes them as if they were dogs, or even perhaps women. He has a name for each of them and he is particularly fond of Katy Bombartel and he kisses her barrel.
‘These pieces are my lucky charms,’ he says and then he plunges his fist into one of the casks to bring out a handful of gunpowder. ‘I see in this handful of dust the future of our kingdom!’
Then turning to Anthony, he says, ‘Ripley has greatly improved the composition of our powder. So now it is four fifths saltpetre, one tenth charcoal and one tenth sulphur and thus its force is greatly increased… Now I think of it, Ripley told me that you wear a hair shirt. Tell me, how do you get to sleep in a hair shirt?’
But Warwick, who was by then already in the saddle, did not stay for an answer and it was evident that he has no intention of sleeping in a hair shirt. Everybody is in awe of him. He has already done so many great things. Then he was off at a gallop. Fauconberg and Anthony agree that, for fear of the damp getting to the powder, they will wait for a dry day before deploying the new artillery, but mostly it rains. Alnwick’s castle is strongly garrisoned by the French and Scots under the command of the Duke of Somerset. The castle has a strong curtain-wall and powerful wall-towers, together with an impregnable barbican. Stone warriors stand on the battlements and in the grey winter mists it is often difficult to distinguish these statues from the living Scotsmen who move silently behind them. Apart from the punishment of those of his men who have attempted to desert, Anthony has almost no responsibilitie
s and he frets at the inaction. In the mornings he rides Black Saladin at a gallop along the beaches. It is so cold that the edge of the sea is sometimes frozen. On sandbanks a little way out the seals, resembling recumbent women in shrouds, sing to him and his horse as if they were mourning this exile in the north.
Later each day Anthony exercises with the long-sword against John Paston or one or other of the enthusiastic young men. Now he begins to master skills that he knew nothing of when he trained in the tiltyard below Charing Cross. He is learning when to use the true edge of the sword and when the false. He now steps into the cut in order to deliver the full weight of the sword and, if he can, he will go over the enemy’s hilt rather than under it. Much more important, it is not enough, it is never enough merely to parry one’s opponent’s cut or thrust, for the way in which one parries the attack should at the same time be the way one counterattacks. His steps are as if he is showing off a dance. He masters the iron gate defence, the squinting guard, the murder stroke, the thunderclap stroke and the downward diagonal of the thrust of wrath. He can swiftly shift his blade to the left hand and then use it to trap his opponent’s blade against the side of his body. It is all like a very fast moving game of chess in which he successively inhabits each of his pieces as they move. God help all averagely competent swordsmen, should they ever come up against Anthony Lord Scales. In talk and boast of reputation, character or wit there can always be doubt and debate, but in the display of sword technique, it is never a matter of opinion – only the brute fact of victory for one and defeat for the other. For the first time Anthony knows his worth and takes pride in it.
But otherwise there is little to do. Letters are slow to arrive. The first to do so comes from his father:
‘Son, I recommend me to you. Your mother and I now rest at our manor at Grafton and your sister Elizabeth is also here, for since her husband’s death in the fighting at St Albans and the forfeiture of his estates, his mother Lady Ferrers contends for the three remaining estates that are rightfully Elizabeth’s, these estates having been settled upon her by her late husband, but Lady Ferrers’ men have driven Elizabeth and her sons out of her properties. I do not know how this may be amended, nor the loss of my former high office, but your mother swears that all shall be well, for she has caused two more lead figurines to be cast. For my part, I believe that Elizabeth should make suit to Lord Hastings to gain the King’s favour and the return of her manors. We must seek out a new husband for Elizabeth and a father for her children, though without her estates, I fear that she will be no great catch. The planting and the sowing have begun here, though we still fear the frosts, and after the high winds, the roof of the barn must be repaired. There is little other news, except that we hear that some weeks ago the jester Scoggin was set upon by stout fellows armed with cudgels and he lost some teeth before he was thrown into the Thames. In this manner he may learn that some rivers indeed run deep and are dangerous. Also I have heard rumours that the King will soon be found a bride in Burgundy, for this is what Warwick prefers. I pray that you are well and safe and that we may soon see you again. These are hurling times. I pray that you will send me a letter about how you do and what tidings you have, for we have had no word from you until now.’
The next letter comes from the Chronicler of Crowland who begs that Anthony will send him intelligence of the campaigning in the north. In a long and rambling letter the Chronicler reveals that the Abbot has discovered a serious discrepancy in their calculations for the universal chronology. It now seems that there are too many centuries to fit their estimation of the age of the earth. However, after much thought and the consultation of old chronicles, the Abbot has succeeded in conclusively demonstrating that most of the centuries between 600 Anno Domini and 900 Anno Domini have been invented by a tenth-century Chronicler working for the German Emperor Otto III. These centuries were conjured up by him so that, when the year 1000 began, Otto could be hailed as the apocalyptic Emperor of the Millennium. It has struck the Abbot and the Chronicler of Crowland that it was most suspicious how very little happens in those phantom centuries and, once they have been done away with, the Abbot’s chronology works perfectly.
Anthony, reading this, is doubtful, but when he tries to think of anything that happened in those three centuries, he cannot. He writes back to Crowland about the sieges and the fear that an army of French and Scots that is assembling in Scotland may move south to relieve the Border castles. But he is curious to know why the Chronicler troubles himself to write about battles, sieges and executions. Should he not confine himself to the record of holy matters?
Ripley’s letter to Anthony is very brief. He is praying for him. As soon as Anthony can, he must send him an account of the adventures that he fancies he has had, so that the seeds of his reputation as a knight errant and perfect paladin may be sown. And he is always to remember that it is love that moves the sun and the other stars.
Many weeks pass before the monotony of the siege is decisively broken up by the arrival of John Tiptoft in the North. He is a noisy man and his speech is like a pack of dogs barking, ‘On our way up here we were set upon by forty or more brigands, but we beat them off and our fight with them cheered me greatly and I will tell you why. I respected them for the attempt! They were poorly armed with bows and arrows and staffs, whereas I had trained soldiers in my retinue. When I travelled through France on my way back from the Holy Land, I saw that in France when a man has no work and no patrimony, he sits down and begs or starves. But in England a man without employment will take to the road with a cudgel or a knife and will steal to live. We hang more sturdy rogues in a year than France does in seven! I tell you, so long as England has such stout fellows ready for a fight, we have nothing to fear from our enemies.’
A pale yellow sun has emerged from the clouds and from all over the camp thin white vapours arise from the ramshackle erections of skins and sticks. Tiptoft struts among the rotting fabrics and skips over ropes. He is bald, his nose is hooked and his eyes glitter in a skull that is darkly tanned. He wears a vermillion doublet slashed in yellow and he is followed by a dwarf and by a squire who bears a parakeet upon his wrist. As soon as Tiptoft decently can, he shakes off Fauconberg and goes to sit with Anthony in his tent.
Anthony had expected to dislike the man who has replaced his father as High Constable. But he finds Tiptoft’s liveliness and intensity charming. The Earl talks at a rapid rate about his studies in Padua and Verona, his pilgrimage to Jerusalem, his work as Constable and his additional responsibilities as President of the Court of Chivalry and he finishes off by commending the good looks of the Woodville clan – of Anthony, his father, his mother and his sister. Then he takes hold of Anthony’s chin and turns his face so that he may study it more closely.
‘I love beauty and am not ashamed to confess it, but though I had much rather be beautiful than love beauty, yet one must make the best of what one has and is. I would be a sodomite if I could, only the Bible forbids it. So I am not.’
Then looking round the tent, Tiptoft asks, ‘Where do you keep your books?’
Anthony shrugs and confesses that he has brought none with him. In fact, he reads as little as possible, for he much prefers brightly coloured pictures and heraldic emblems to those little black squiggles that crawl across manuscript pages like malformed insects.
Tiptoft is not happy with Anthony’s reply and says, ‘People prate about how wonderful life is, but I swear to you that reading is better. Search how you may you will never find happy endings in life. It is only there in books. Our Christian faith is based upon a book and our salvation depends upon a book which is the Bible. Books give us saints and heroes to emulate. Our lives are such paltry things that we must at least have the possibility of a dream of something grander. I see clearly that this world is a prison in which we are closely confined and, short of death, it is only books that can deliver us from this prison. For myself, I swear that books do most to mitigate the desperate melancholy and the weariness an
d the thoughts of self-harm that are my constant burdens. You must read many books and read them fast. There are so many books and you have so little time.’
Temporarily exhausted, Tiptoft falls silent.
Thinking to amuse him, Anthony tells Tiptoft about the Abbot of Crowland’s strange ideas about the southern continent and the lost centuries, but surprisingly Tiptoft does not find them strange at all.
‘The Abbot is right,’ he says. ‘It is just so in Dante’s Inferno;
‘E se’ or sotto l’emisperio giunto
Ch’è contraposto a quell che la gran secca
Coverchia, e sotto ’l cui colmo consunto
Fu l’uom che nacque e visse sanza pecca…’
Then, shocked to see that Anthony knows no Italian, Tiptoft translates:
‘And you are now come beneath the hemisphere opposite to that which canopies the great dry land and underneath whose zenith the Man was slain who was born and lived without sin.’
And Tiptoft explains that, having travelled through the circles of Hell, Virgil and Dante have come out in the southern hemisphere at a point directly opposite to the hill on which Jesus was crucified. In the next part of the Divina Commedia, Purgatorio, Dante will behold the great mountain of Purgatory rising high in the southern hemisphere in sunlit solitude in a region where ships have never penetrated.
As for the notion that three centuries have been invented, though this is new to Tiptoft, he is not hostile to it.
‘Of course, there is the problem of the ninth-century Emperor Charlemagne,’ he says. ‘We know a lot about Charlemagne, but I have long thought that we know too much about him. He fights too many battles, he builds too many churches and he commissions far too many manuscripts. He is wise, brave, learned, generous – he has all the perfections. Moreover his paladins, Roland and Oliver, perform impossibly heroic feats against incredible odds. His empire is too big. I have long thought that Charlemagne and his knights might be mythical figures… just like King Arthur.’