The Scandal of the Skulls

by Cassandra Clark

  She was brought abruptly out of her reverie by the steward announcing, ‘Master Thomas Favent!’

  A stout young man entered. He went straight to the countess. Somewhat ink-stained around the cuffs, he took her by the fingers of one hand and bowed lingeringly over them. ‘Your grace, it is an honour to return to this bower of beauty. Every day away from your presence is like a year in the wilderness.’ He made another elaborate bow and, smiling with satisfaction, took the seat she indicated by her side.

  ‘And your news, dear boy. Tell us the latest from Westminster,’ she demanded in her gravelly voice. ‘We are immured in this moated grange and positively thirst to hear of the outside world and its scandals.’

  ‘I shall tell all, your grace. There is more since I was last here,’ he began. ‘I shall tell it exactly as I have heard it and, better than that, I have written everything down in order to give a true and permanent account of what has happened that it may never be forgotten. I dedicate my poor account of things to you, your grace.’

  ‘I am flattered, sir.’

  He made a great show of pulling a scroll from his bag. ‘In London public readings are quite the thing,’ he commented, as he reverently unrolled it, ‘that mountebank Geoffrey Chaucer is continually commanded to read his seditious scribblings to the King and his court of mindless pleasure-seekers – ’

  ‘Has the King asked you?’

  ‘Not yet, your grace.’ He scowled.

  ‘Then you will honour us with your reading and forget about Master Chaucer. If you will, dear Favent, proceed. We are entirely in your hands.’

  And so began Favent and his account of the Merciless Parliament.

  In fact, he started from the parliament before that, the one known as Miraculous because it managed to impose a commission with powers over the king’s household that would have irritated the poorest housewife in the land: for a year and day all King Richard’s financial affairs were to be in the hands of a group of his elders. His Chancellor, De la Pole, was dismissed. The royal signet which confirmed King Richard’s orders was taken from him, and it was then, Hildegard guessed, that Medford as Head of the signet Office was hauled into the Tower to face judgement along with the others.

  Favent read this account with relish. ‘It was,’ he declared, ‘the first major public victory of his grace, the duke of Gloucester, over his peace-mongering nephew King Richard.’

  Here it was again. That vile fellow Woodstock, the so-called duke of Gloucester was behind it all. Hildegard gave a shudder of revulsion.

  Favent continued to read with undisguised relish.

  A penalty for breaking the ordinances of the commission had been newly imposed, he told them.

  ‘What does that mean then, in practical terms?’ asked one of the guests.

  Favent told them. It meant loss of goods and chattels. That meant you were reduced to being a pauper. ‘If this isn’t enough to deter King Richard’s friends, any further support given to the young king will result in the loss of a limb.’ Favent glared round when someone made a ribald comment. ‘After that loss,’ he added viciously, ‘you will suffer the ultimate loss: your life.’

  ‘That might deter some,’ observed a knight in a dry tone further down the table.

  Said Favent with glee, ‘It puts an end to this stupid madness of the king doing what he wants and favouring his own followers.’

  He sat back and looked round at his audience with a smug smile. ‘I take it we all applaud the justice of such measures?’

  ‘I thought kings were supposed to show favour to those who helped them further the interests of the realm?’ murmured the incautious knight. ‘A just reward, and all that.’

  Favent gave him a sidelong scowl that made everybody fall silent.

  It was quickly ended by the dowager countess. ‘I am sure none of my guests would wish the king’s peace to be broken by rebellion against the Council and its leader’

  Murmurs of agreement arose but Favent was far from interested in the views of an audience so distant from the seat of power.

  He leaned forward, barely able to contain himself. ‘That was only the beginning, my friends. This present parliament, convened in February, goes even further.’ He tapped his scroll for emphasis. ‘Every last supporter of our foolish king has been condemned.’

  ‘Explain what you mean.’ demanded the countess.

  ‘With the greatest pleasure, madam.’ Favent puffed out his chest and took a gulp of wine from his mazer. ‘Everyone suspected of aiding the king in his idle cavortings on his pleasure isle of La Neyt and down at his palace of delight at Eltham are, even as we speak, paying the full price for their idle ways. It’s a heavy price, friends, you’ll be pleased to note.’

  ‘Advise us, then, of the price, if you will be so kind as to share your intimate knowledge of the royal court and its alleged gallimaufreys.’ It was the same knight as before. The hint of irony in his voice went undetected by one as full of himself as Favent.

  ‘Indeed I will, sir knight,’ he replied, ‘and be assured there is no-one better informed than I.’ Clearly delighted at having an audience hanging on every word, he then proceeded to tell them with much gloating and slapping of hands on the table for emphasis, how the price was paid, one by one, by the men working closest to King Richard.

  It was just as Hildegard had already heard from the ale-wife at Lepe and from her own daughter not two hours since he repeated what had happened, was still, indeed still happening, to the King’s closest advisors. He told them how the goods and lands of the accused were distrained and given to the followers of Gloucester, Arundel and Warwick. Then, ruined, along with their descendants, the accused were hanged or beheaded according to their status. Those who escaped with their lives fled from London to a safer place or went into exile overseas. Hildegard thought of Richard Medford and his flight to Salisbury and wondered if it was far enough.

  ‘Support the king and lose everything, including your intestines and your head! That’s the choice they made. You can’t help wondering what made them choose a course that could have only one end.’

  For a long moment his cackling laughter was the only sound heard. Then someone passed a jug of wine down the table. The scrape of a finger nail on the pottery was loud as it was passed it on. The servants moved silently as if in church. Ysabella, noted Hildegard, stood blank-faced beside the countess’s chair. She showed no flicker of emotion.

  Hildegard was close to tears. Favent was passing a second sentence by his vilification of these men. Fidelity to King Richard should have been a cause for praise, not this brutal joy in their downfall.

  Favent excused the purge of so many from the royal court on the grounds that they had given the young king bad advice. They had persuaded him that peace was better than war. ‘Not, of course, that he needed much persuading on that score! Worse,’ he sniggered, ‘these court toadies actually advised the king to sue for peace with the French king. To sign a peace treaty with him! With our enemy! Their advice was to end the war started by his grandfather, King Edward III! Can you believe it?’ He lowered his voice, ‘I’m told King Richard even planned to use French militia against his own countrymen!’

  Murmurs of astonishemt - or was it disbelief? – arose on all sides.

  No-one knew whether Favent spoke the truth or not. His words were intended to bolster the opinion that the King’s advisors deserved all they got. It was exactly as the ale-wife at Lepe had told them. It was why there had been riots in Kent and other places.

  ‘What’s wrong with peace?’ somebody ventured to ask. ‘I’m a merchant. Peace is good for trade. God knows, we need to improve our trade and bring the realm back into prosperity.’

  ‘I’d like to know where’s the evidence for the King’s alleged plans?’

  Favent laughed. ‘Some folk are claiming that there is no evidence. And if there is it was given with no intention to misguide young Richard or accroach his power. But I say, as does the duke of Gloucester, that there’s
no smoke without fire.’

  ‘So who exactly are these traitors, in your honoured estimation?’ asked the ironic knight. ‘Do we have their names?’

  Favent began to list those accused. Most had already received the full and horrifying punishment for their alleged crimes. ‘They got the mayor of London, Nick Brembre. He was the only one of the inner circle who refused to run. He actually threw down his gauntlet when he was accused but they refused to let him take up the challenge. Instead he was drawn and quartered. Then there’s Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, Robert Bealknap, and his fellow justices, John Holt, Roger Fulthorp and William Burgh – ’

  ‘What? Executed?’ The countess stared.

  ‘Not yet. I’m told they’ll probably be sent into exile like the king’s confessor, Friar Rushook. There’s Thomas Usk of course, who you’ll know about, and John Blake, the two clerks who were misguided enough to draft the document that has brought their superiors to this pass. Both executed. No ‘Testament of Love’ for Thomas Usk there!’ He referred to a popular court piece Usk had written while in prison that had received instant acclaim.

  ‘Sadly for us,’ he glanced inclusively down the length of the table, ‘de Vere, Chancellor de la Pole and the Archbishop of York, Alexander Neville, have all fled to the continent and of that gaggle only Chief Justice Tresilian failed to escape and was dragged out of hiding to face his accusers. I’m told he wore a magic charm that he believed would save him from beheading. Sadly, its powers were not as strong as he believed. Then there are the chamber knights who attended the king.’ He named them with relish. ‘Beauchamp, Salisbury and Berners. All executed.’

  Their loyalty to King Richard had been bloodily rewarded. Hildegard sat in appalled silence while Favent described how, in the council chamber, with the doors barred and the King forced to attend, Gloucester and his allies had interrogated the so-called traitors and, whatever they said, charged them with accroaching the King’s royal power and then, allowing no appeal, passed sentence of death on them.

  ‘And so it went on,’ announced Favent with delight. ‘The great joy of it is this. The duke and his allies, the earls of Arundel and Warwick, had taken the step of sending spies throughout England to intercept and retain all royal letters and waylay their couriers. Instead of being delivered the communications of these traitors were sent to the Commission instead! This was done so secretly throughout the year that by the time parliament was called they had the names of everyone who had been imprudent enough to counsel the King in rebellion against his uncle Gloucester. Every traitorous proposal in their correspondence was revealed! Glory to God!’

  ‘But this isn’t the latest, I’ll warrant,’ exclaimed the countess. ‘These rumours we hear about Sir Simon Burley - has he been freed or is he still in the Tower?’

  ‘Burley still lives,’ remarked Favent with a sneer. ‘But believe me, my dear countess, it won’t be for long. How could it be? Burley tutored the King in the arts of war and has been by his side ever since his father died. No-one is closer to his royal majesty. It’s doubly treacherous that a knight such as he should council the King against continuing the war with France. He is a traitor double-dyed.’

  ‘A traitor to whom?’ interrupted the ironic knight with exaggerated puzzlement.

  ‘To whom? Why to the defenders of England!’ replied Favent, thumping his fist on the table.

  ‘But surely the King’s role is as defender of the realm?’ demurred the knight. ‘Richard is England, as I’m sure you all remember him saying when he was asked why he did not joust?’

  ‘What did he say?’ someone asked.

  ‘“If I fall - England falls!”’

  ‘Quite so,’ murmured the countess. ‘But pray tell us, Master Favent, what crime Sir Simon has committed against our royal defender?’

  ‘Treachery of the most heinous. He stands accused of lining his own pockets at Richard’s expense! Of abrogating power to himself! Of using the king’s signet to give himself honours and buying land at nought!’

  ‘A very courtier,’ the ironic knight murmured, to subdued and knowing chuckles from those sitting beside him.

  Hildegard seethed at Favent’s accusations against Sir Simon Burley, one of the King’s most faithful supporters. She abhorred his unjust account of King Richard’s other courtiers, too, men she knew were loyal to the Crown, loyal, now, unto death, as it was daily being proved. She knew by sight many of the men he was slandering and had met others at the autumn parliament over a year ago when Gloucester was beginning to reveal the extent of his ambition.

  She caught the glance of her daughter standing with every evidence of unhearing innocence beside the countess, and had to turn away so as not to reveal to any onlooker the depth of their shared horror should their eyes meet.

  Favent was a buffoon, Hildegard decided, as he babbled on. A nasty, vindictive, unimaginative, not to say callous, buffoon. His sheer unawareness of the depth of his depraved view of justice made him dangerous. It seemed he simply could not understand how his delight in what was happening in Westminster could appal anyone. Looking round the table at the silent guests it was obvious where their sympathies lay.

  Now Favent was laughing over the fate of the judges, men no worse than any others, men who had served the king well by attempting to work out a formula so that he could keep some control over his government and not have all royal power stripped from him by his ambitious uncle.

  If he was to be believed, the six judges Favent was vilifying could still face execution.

  According to Favent, Gloucester had now proclaimed that according to his own interpretation of the law it was unnecessary to declare separate crimes against them. All that was necessary was to show that they had offered the King bad advice and, having offered him no alternative, all six, as a group, were judged guilty. The fact that they had each signed a document defending the King’s royal prerogative suited Gloucester’s vile purpose down to the ground.

  ‘They cannot hang the judges, master Favent!’ the countess exclaimed as he brought his peroration to an end. ‘Whoever heard of such a thing?’

  He looked startled. ‘I see no reason against it, your grace. Should we allow every traitor who can read his freedom?’

  The countess gestured to a servant. ‘More wine. Fill master Favent’s mazer first. My dear boy,’ she turned to him, ‘I offer my gratitude for the latest news from Westminster but now to more cheerful matters. I have a most wonderful minstrel here. A trouvere from Provence. You simply must hear him. Shall we call him?’

  ‘Your pleasure is mine, my dear countess.’ He was almost purring at his favoured treatment.

  After setting in motion the entertainment by the minstrel and her own consort of viols, the countess withdrew to her private apartment. Ysabella started to follow with the countess’s ermine stole.

  When she passed close to her mother she whispered, ‘See, mother, was I not right? Isn’t he the most obnoxious man you have ever encountered?’

  ‘Certainly he would win a prize from the devil if there was one on offer.’ Hildegard held her sleeve and put her lips close to Ysabella’s ear. ‘Tread carefully, sweeting. No-one is safe. Not even your countess. Remember what Favent said about the duke’s spies.’

  ‘Mother - ’ Ysabella began but she fell silent as someone approached.

  Hildegard followed her glance. It was him. The man in grey. The stranger from the Cat tavern. He was smiling.

  ‘Mother?’ he asked, looking down at Hildegard with raised eyebrows on overhearing Ysabella speak.

  Hildegard quickly lowered her lids to hide the eyes he had made much of at the tavern, and murmured, ‘Holy mother, indeed, my lord.’ She indicated the cross she wore.

  Ysabella’s hand slipped from hers beneath the table. Hildegard turned to see her daughter following straight-backed in the wake of the countess’s entourage. She had the presence of mind not to look back.

  The stranger sat down adjacent to Hildegard. Underneath his grey cloak h
e was wearing an expensive linen undershirt with a robe of scarlet over it. There was a chain round his neck with an heraldic animal too small to make out dangling from it. He reached for the wine flagon.

  ‘A pretty young damozel, that one. The countess has an unending supply of maids whose father’s wish to better themselves. They assume that by placing their daughters in a powerful household they may achieve their aims with scant effort on their own behalf.’

  ‘Thus it ever was,’ replied Hildegard, her eyes still lowered as she pretended to inspect the platter a servant had placed between them. Without glancing at the stranger, she rose to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord.’

  With bent head she made her way unhurriedly from the chamber.

  The problem with Ysabella, perfect in many ways, was the unforgettable colour of her eyes.

  As soon as she left the Great Hall she hurried away down the passage in order to return to the safety of her guest chamber. When she turned the next corner, however, she realised she had taken a wrong turning. She swivelled, intending to retrace her steps and reached the main passage again just as the knight in the grey cloak appeared in the doorway of the Great Hall. He must have followed her out.

  To avoid him she turned and slipped back the way she had come and made for a door at the far end. She could hear the sound of the knight’s metal boots on the stone flags as he came after her. Alarmed, she ran on to the end of the passage and pushed open the farthest door.

  The stench of blood and raw flesh assailed her nostrils. A man with his back to her stood inside the chamber. He was wielding a hatchet. When he heard someone enter he turned. He was wearing a bloodied apron and his hands were red with gore.

  He smiled and came towards her. ‘Welcome, my lady.’