Wonders Will Never Cease

by Robert Irwin

  Before Bran offered his head to be cut off, he asked that it should be taken to London and buried at Tower Hill with his face turned towards France. Though the seven did as he had asked, they did not hurry about it for they spent seven years feasting in Harlech as the Assembly of the Wondrous Head. The three birds of Rhiannon, that have the power to wake the dead and lull the living to sleep, sang to them from far over the sea, so that they forgot all about the bloody and ill-fated war in Ireland. The seven companions of Bran were fine as long as none of them opened a certain door. Don’t open that door! But of course that door was opened by one of the feasting warriors who was bolder and more curious than the rest. Otherwise this story would still be going on today. So he opened the forbidden door and looked out on the Bristol Channel. No sooner had he done so, than all the sadness of life came flooding back and their revels were concluded. So then they went to London where they buried Bran’s head under the Tower and it is one of the three fantastic concealments of Britain. And with that Jacquetta’s story is concluded.

  The real world is a poor thing compared with the world of stories. Anthony wishes that he could re-enter the story of Bran and Branwen, for in it he knew that Matholwch was his enemy and that man was easy to fight against, but now that he finds himself back in the chill of the White Tower’s upper chamber he knows that he has other enemies to face in the coming months and years. He can only guess at some of their names. The Earl of Warwick certainly and the redheaded man and whoever sent the redheaded man. And he senses that Ripley, for all his smiles, may be dangerous and, again, though Tiptoft seems well-disposed to Anthony, God help him if that should change.

  But Elizabeth seems relieved that the story is over. ‘When did all this happen?’ she wants to know.

  ‘Perhaps it has yet to happen,’ Jacquetta replied.

  ‘Oh, I hope not. I am afraid of things that may yet happen.’

  ‘None of you have anything to fear as long as I am alive,’ said Jacquetta.

  But Anthony slept little that night.

  The Tower is a deathly place and had been ever since Julius Caesar ordered its building. Anthony had been at the siege of Alnwick when the Lancastrian plotters Aubrey de Vere, Sir Thomas Tuddenham, Tyrrel and Montgomery had been taken on sledges to the Tower and there beheaded and then a few days later, Aubrey’s father the Earl of Oxford followed his son to the same scaffold and his head joined his son’s on one of the spikes above the gate of London Bridge. Tiptoft, who as Constable of England had presided over their executions, wrote to Anthony about it. He described the drum roll used to muffle the last words of the condemned men and how the headsman made two or three passing swipes over the men’s necks so as to find the range and how the headsman needed a second or even a third stroke to sever the head from the body. The cleaving of a man’s head from his neck is not a simple matter for there is flesh, muscle, sinew and bone to hack through. But at least the headsman who dealt with Sir Aubrey de Vere and his fellows was an expert. As Tiptoft recalled, when during the Peasants’ Revolt in the previous century, the rebels forced their way into the Tower and there had Simon Sudbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury beheaded, it had taken eight strokes of the axe to do so.

  A little later, when Anthony was back in London, he sat with Tiptoft at the Court of Chivalry when John de Vere came up for trial. Treasonable letters were produced and there was no question of the man’s guilt. He was dragged to the scaffold where his stomach was slit open, his entrails were pulled out and he was castrated, and these bloody pieces were cast into the fire. De Vere was still breathing as he looked down on his evisceration. Then he was dragged to the block and his head cut off. As was the custom when the head was off, the headsman seized it by the hair and presented it to the severed body, so that he who had just been decapitated, even if he was still conscious, could see that he was truly finished and know that his last sight of the world was a horrible one. The headsman displayed the head to the crowd, and Anthony was astonished to see the condemned man’s lips and eyes move. Afterwards a skilled butcher flayed what was left of the body which was quartered, and finally the head was taken inside to be parboiled in salt water and cumin seeds, so that its flesh would not be consumed by birds when it was impaled upon London Bridge.

  De Vere’s execution had attracted a good crowd, for it is natural for a man or a woman to watch someone die and by this take joy in the fact that they who watch are still alive and unharmed. Also Tiptoft piously declares that the common folk should indeed delight in seeing great ones brought low, for these executions are sermons delivered in blood from which the people may learn of the inconstancy of men’s fortune as decreed by God’s providence. Tiptoft has instituted a museum of severed heads within the Tower.

  Anthony should not be thinking of such gory things now, for it is a bright afternoon and he is walking with Elizabeth out of the Tower to find the horses that are ready for them just beyond the Bywater Gate and from there they will ride with a stately retinue to Westminster where Elizabeth is to be crowned. Elizabeth who walks beside him is very pale and she no longer chatters about her fine robes. Instead she turns to Anthony, ‘Doubtless you thought it a very foolish story that our mother told us last night. I am sure that you judged it to be the sort of nonsense that old women tell to small children.’

  And without allowing Anthony to reply, she continued, ‘But that was my story. I saw the things that happened for I was in the story. You only listened to a story but I found myself inside it and I saw terrible things. I was the most important part of the story, for it was me who was betrothed to Mathowlch. I stood beside Bran’s throne when news came of the horrid things done in the horse park. Later I ruled in Ireland and for a while thought myself beloved by my new subjects, though things soon changed and I was sent to the kitchen, where I washed dishes and performed other menial tasks. Every morning the butcher would come with his meat and every morning he would deliver a blow to my face that would send me reeling against the table or crashing to the floor. I felt those blows and I can exactly describe what the butcher looked like, with his blotchy face and hairy nostrils, and I knew the smell of stale food and damp cellars. Worst of all I was held to watch as Evnissyen forced my beautiful child into the fire and held him there until his screaming stopped and he was dead. And brother Anthony, it was so horrible… I thought of all the evil wrought by Evnissyen who was my brother.’

  Now she looks anxiously to Anthony. Yet he is silent, for he can think of nothing good to say to her. Despite his being in the story too, he has not understood it at all, but he fears that he will not like its message when he does seize upon it.

  Fortunately they have now passed through the Byward Gate and he is spared from having to reply to his sister as she is helped into her litter. This is an elaborate business as her dress of white cloth of gold has a long train which must be folded in behind her. Anthony mounts Black Saladin, now fully recovered, and he rides directly behind the litter. When Anthony was young, he used to give Elizabeth piggyback rides.

  Now he senses that his sister has been carrying him to greatness on her back and he is embarassed.

  They proceed through the cheering crowds that line Cheapside. There are more crowds thronging Westminster Hall and its enclosure, but the Duke of Clarence, the Earl of Arundel and the Duke of Norfolk, all three of them riding on horses trapped with cloth of gold, clear a space for Elizabeth and the Woodvilles to process. Now she walks barefoot on a long carpet of ray cloth from Westminster Hall to the Abbey. At the door of the Abbey she is robed in a purple mantle, there is a coronal on her head and she carries two sceptres, one in each hand as she advances under a canopy born by the barons of the Cinque Ports. The Archbishop of Canterbury and other clergy walk with her. The noble ladies, headed by Jacquetta, wear red velvet and ermine. Edward is not present since it is the custom that the King should not attend his wife’s coronation.

  Inside the Abbey Elizabeth processes to the high altar and kneels there a while, and when she rise
s the Archbishop crowns and anoints her before conducting her to the throne. Though the King is not present in the Abbey, his white rose and the badge of the falcon appears on pennants and shields all the way along the nave. Once more the fierce menagerie of lions, wyverns, griffins, unicorns, bulls and eagles is on display in the Abbey just as they had been at the Battle of Palm Sunday. Anthony can read the room, for there he sees the chequer of Clifford, there the portcullis and chains of Somerset, and behind those blazons he can see Montagu’s chevrons and the rampant lions of William Herbert Earl of Pembroke. One beast is absent from the heraldic menagerie; the bear with its ragged staff is nowhere to be seen, for the Earl of Warwick is abroad on another diplomatic mission to France – a mission that Warwick claimed was necessary for the future security of the kingdom, though the truth is that he could not have borne to stay in England and be forced to witness the triumphal crowning of the upstart Woodville woman. Though there is no sign of the bear, yet its very absence is menacing.

  Anthony gazes on a coloured riot of or, argent, gules, azure, sable, vert and purpure. Even so he perceives that the colours in the Abbey today are not as bright as they were in the days of King Bran and King Matholwch, for as the world ages, its colours fade and its outlines become less distinct. Also, as the world ages, each generation is more stupid than the one before and men, women, beasts, winds and tides move ever more slowly. Anthony sees things differently now, since in the course of the last night he has spent seven years in the Island of the Mighty as it was when Bran ruled it. In human time he is twenty-six years old, but yet he has now lived for thirty-three years. Of course, there will be a price to be paid for the gift of those years. There is always a price to be paid when one has entered those realms.

  Boredom is an essential part of ceremony and ritual. If the ceremony is not boring, then it is not a ceremony. Neither laughter nor tears have any part in such an event. Royal power exerts itself and enforces on its subjects long hours of waiting and standing. The nobility of England have been commanded to stand in serried rows so as to display their wealth and rank. They pretend to themselves that they are proud to be doing so; the truth is that they are humiliated. Anthony finds himself wishing that he was Evnissyen again so that he could make something happen. The wearisomeness does not end with the crowning of Elizabeth, for it is followed by the coronation feast which consists of seventeen courses. Elizabeth dines in great state, for the Countesses of Shrewsbury and of Kent kneel on either side of her and every time Elizabeth takes a mouthful from one of the seventeen courses, she takes off her crown and the Countesses raise a veil to conceal her mouth. Then when she has finished chewing, the veil comes down and she resumes her crown.

  At length it is over and the sun is setting as Anthony comes out of Westminster Palace. He finds himself walking beside Sir Thomas Malory in the direction of the Abbey. Malory looks anxiously at Anthony, but feeling in some way guilty for all this pomp that had been staged for his sister’s coronation, turns to Sir Thomas and says, ‘That was a wearisome business.’

  ‘Yes. To speak truly, I found myself thinking of the white hart, the bratchet and the black running hounds, though this was not to be,’ says Malory.

  Then seeing the expression on Anthony’s face, Malory explains and this is the story he tells:

  In the early days of King Arthur’s reign, he fell in love with Guinevere, the daughter of King Leodegraunce and determined to marry her. But when he told Merlin of his decision, the aged wizard and counsellor sought to dissuade him.

  ‘She is among the most beautiful women in the kingdom, yet I would you loved someone else, for Guinevere’s very beauty will lead to the ruin of the Kingdom of Logres and bring to shame its knights.’

  But Arthur could only think of her sparkling eyes and her hair which was like spun gold.

  So a high feast was made ready and the King married Guinevere in the church of Saint Stephen’s in Camelot. And at the feast each knight was seated according to his rank at the Round Table or at lesser boards. They thought it should have been a stately and solemn feast. Whereupon Merlin warned them all that they were about to see something strange and marvellous. Before anyone had tasted a mouthful of what was before them, a white hart came running into the hall and skittered among the tables and close behind came a bratchet and after her followed some thirty black running hounds. The bratchet caught up with the hart and bit a chunk of its flank and the white hart leapt up in a panic and knocked over a table where a knight was seated and then made its escape out of the hall. Meanwhile the knight seized the bratchet and hurried out with her, and having found his horse rode off with the dog. Everything was still in turmoil when a lady riding on a white palfrey entered the hall and demanded of Arthur that the bratchet be returned to her since the dog was hers and no sooner had she finished speaking than another knight came after her, seized her by force and carried her away.

  ‘I was praying for something like that to happen today,’ says Malory. ‘Yet it seems that high adventure is difficult to find in our own time.’

  ‘What happened next?’ Anthony asks. They pace around the Abbey’s cloister as Malory continues with his story.

  ‘Since the lady had been very noisy with her weeping and complaints, Arthur was pleased to see her gone, but Merlin said that the King could not leave the matter there, for that would bring dishonour to his Kingdom. Rather, he must send out three knights on a quest. Sir Gawain was enjoined to bring back the white hart, Sir Tor was sent after the knight with the bratchet and King Pellinore was to return with the doleful lady. Sir Gawain set out with a heavy…’

  But Anthony learns nothing now about Sir Gawain’s quest, for at this point he sees that his father, who is standing at the other side of the cloister, is urgently summoning him over. So Anthony makes his excuses to Malory and hurries to join Earl Rivers.

  ‘What is the matter? What do you need me for?’

  ‘I need you not to be seen talking to Sir Thomas,’ his father replies. ‘That man is dangerous. You know that.’

  ‘I was hearing a most interesting story about a white hart, some dogs and two disorderly knights. What was the harm in that? Why should I not have been suffered to hear the end of it? There is no danger in listening to a story.’

  ‘ “Refuse profane and old wives’ fables and exercise thyself rather unto godliness”, so the Bible tells us,’ says Rivers. ‘And you get enough of such faery nonsense from your mother. Besides it is dangerous to be seen close to Sir Thomas. At present he is allowed his liberty, since the Earl of Warwick watches over him and he also has a friendly kinsman, Robert Malory who is the Lieutenant of the Tower. Besides the King and Ripley are eager to promote a revival of legends about Arthur and Camelot as serving the interest of the state. Yet Sir Thomas is known to remain loyal to the house of Lancaster and it seems to me that, though King Edward, egged on by that fraudulent alchemist of his, likes to pose as a reborn King Arthur, the same stories could just as well serve the cause of our former King, Henry.’

  Though Anthony nods to his father, he tells himself that he has no reason to fear Malory, for he will be on his guard against any treachery and he will certainly not borrow any books from that man. Yet he likes to listen to the stories. He does not see Malory again until, some two months later, on the day the captive King Henry is paraded through the streets of London. It is then by chance that Anthony finds himself at Westcheap standing shoulder to shoulder with Malory in the midst of a jeering crowd.

  Indeed, Henry cuts a sorry figure. He had spent months hiding in the Lake District until in July Yorkist officers caught up with him at the village of Bungerly Hippingstones. Then he was sent south and the Earl of Warwick, who was back from his French mission, rode out to meet the captive King at the little village of Islington before escorting him to London.

  The Earl rides at the head of the procession and Henry follows. His feet are tied by leather thongs to the stirrups of his horse. Though it is raining his head is uncovered. His hair is stra
ggly, his beard unkempt and his cloak is patched. Yet he is seen to be smiling peacefully as he is paraded through the mostly hostile streets. Perhaps he is glad to be done with running and hiding. The crowd thins as the King has passed on towards the Tower where he will be lodged and Anthony turns to Malory and says, ‘I am pleased that we are met for I should like to hear how the adventure of the hart, the bratchet and the running hounds ended.’

  But Malory replies, ‘No, brother murderer, this is not the place or the moment for such a story. I have not the heart for it.’ And indeed he looks tired and sad. But after a little while he continues, ‘Yet, I will tell you another tale, which shall be one that is more fitting to this day and your condition. I know a tavern not far away, and if you follow me, I will tell the story there, if you are sure that you must have a story.’

  Anthony would have preferred to hear the continuation of the story of the bratchet, the hind and the screeching lady. Nevertheless he is still curious to understand this sinister storyteller better. It is not as if he will be in any danger as he has his sword and his bodyguards. Thus he is content to go along with Malory. Amyas and Hugh follow them at a distance. The tavern turns out not to be so very close and they pick their way along a bewildering succession of muddy alleys under boards and banners displaying the ignoble heraldry of trade: the tailor’s scissors, the farrier’s horseshoe, the taverner’s bush, the grocer’s apple, the doctor’s or apothecary’s pestle, the scribe’s book. Malory is not very familiar with London and they are soon lost. They might have found their destination sooner if Malory had not begun on a most curious speech. Looking hard at Anthony, this is what he says, ‘I find your hunger for tales like that of the hind, the bratchet and the running dogs surprising. You are yourself at the centre of so many stories that I should not have thought that you needed to be entertained by any more of them, for people are talking about you and how you wear a hair shirt under that handsomely blazoned surcoat of yours and that you spend your nights scourging yourself. It is said that you wear a talisman that protects you from mortal injury. It is even said that you were slain at the Battle of Palm Sunday but that you rose from the dead. You fought off four assassins with only a broken sword for your defence. You are said to have conjured up the walking dead and so driven your wife mad. It is said that you are descended from a dragon. In a tavern in Southwark you killed a man with a single blow to the throat. You are said to possess a sword which, once drawn from its scabbard, infallibly finds a victim and that you parleyed with a draug to secure it. You are said to have seen the Holy Grail, something which no other man has witnessed for centuries.’ During this tirade the pitch of Malory’s voice has been rising and it ends with a final sneer: ‘In sum, you are unbelievable. You are not a man at all and I swear I do not believe that you exist.’