by Paul Doherty
Colum, Venables, and Kathryn were stopped virtually every twenty paces: war-belts were taken off them, they were searched for hidden weapons, and then only were they allowed through on the personal recommendation of the captain in charge.
‘The King is wary,’ Colum whispered. ‘The country is still unsettled. The House of Lancaster has many a madcap with assassination on his mind and murder in his soul. Edward’s particularly concerned about the Royal Children.’
Kathryn nodded. Colum often discussed the politics of Court and country. Edward of York had annihilated his enemies. The Lancastrian war captains had been executed barbarously in the market place of Tewkesbury and elsewhere, but the last Lancastrian claimant, Henry Tudor, still sheltered in foreign courts, together with his redoubtable war leader, de Vere, Earl of Oxford. Lancastrians who had escaped the bloodbath at Tewkesbury now hid out in wastelands or forests, whilst many of the great lords couldn’t be trusted to enjoy the peace.
‘They’d turn at the toss of a coin,’ Colum had confided. ‘But the wolf pack remains calm as long as the leader stays strong.’
‘And you, Colum?’ Kathryn asked.
The Irishman had grinned and quoted a proverb.
‘“When you lie down with wolves, if you wake, you always howl!”’
Kathryn recalled these words as they passed through the hallowed precincts. She rarely thought of war breaking out again, of Colum dressing in the harness of battle and being summoned to the Royal Standard. She had met the Royal Family before. Edward the King was magnificent, towering over everybody, with his cynical blue eyes and full lips, his easy, slouched walk, the knowing glance at any pretty face, the lazy charm which masked a will of steel and a heart of iron. Edward could be magnanimous, generous, and open-handed, but if trapped or threatened, he was the most blood-thirsty of them all. Clarence, Edward’s brother, had the sly, beautiful face of a woman; he would have been a truly handsome man if it wasn’t for his scowl and sneer. George of Clarence was as attracted to treachery as a cat to cream. Richard of Gloucester, smaller than his two brothers, with russet hair, dark features, and green eyes, was a prince with a reputation for being both a stalwart warrior and the best of friends and the worst of enemies. Kathryn had also met Edward’s Queen, Elizabeth Woodville, a truly remarkable woman and one of the comeliest Kathryn had ever seen, with her golden hair and strange, violet eyes. Some whispered that Elizabeth was a witch, skilled in the art of love. A widow, she had drawn Edward of York into her silken web and entangled him with her conniving, subtle games. Kathryn closed her eyes and hoped that this business would not bring someone like herself, one of the ‘little ones,’ to their attention.
They went down a pillared portico, flanked on either side by Royal Archers, arrows strung to bows, through another gateway guarded by the King’s own household Knights, their swords drawn, and into the Archbishop’s pleasaunce or garden. Kathryn gasped at the sheer beauty of it. It was a broad square of lawn, screened by trees and flowerbeds. Behind these hung gorgeous cloths of gold, pulled tight across poles, to create an impression of an outside dining hall. Each cloth bore the Royal Arms and the White Rose of Yorkshire and was of a different colour: blue, dark scarlet, green, gold, murrey, and burgundy. The cloths rose at least four yards high; on the top of each supporting pole a pennant, bearing the different arms of the Royal House, fluttered lazily in the breeze. Carpets covered parts of the grass. At the far end of the square, the Royal Table had been set up on a makeshift dais covered with gleaming cloths. Another table just beneath the dais ran down the middle of the lawn. Kathryn was aware of the noise and chatter of servants scurrying about. The tables were littered with silver and gold platters, jewelled goblets, forks, spoons, and ladles of precious metals. On the Royal Table a pure gold saltcellar, carved in the shape of a fairy castle, caught the sun and dazzled her eyes.
Kathryn was so surprised she had to shield her gaze as Colum pointed out the guests on the lower table, high-ranking courtiers and ecclesiastics. As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she made out, at the high table, the King, with his Queen on his right and his mother on his left. Clarence, already deep in his cups, lolled over the table arguing with his brother Richard. Edward himself sat under a silver, red-tasselled canopy; he slouched in his chair of state, a goblet in one hand whilst the other covered the hand of his wife. Even from where she stood, Kathryn could see that the King’s mind was elsewhere; he stared up at the sky, studying a swallow as if envious of its freedom. Behind the Royal Table ranged the heralds and knight bannerets. The air was sweet with cooking smells.
Kathryn looked for Bourchier and found him on the end of the table just under the Royal Dais. The Archbishop sat, eyes closed, hands joined as if in prayer. By the wine stains splashed along the ivory white cloth, it was obvious the banquet was coming to its end. Royal musicians behind the cloths of gold attempted to provide some music, but this was drowned by the clatter of plates and the comings and goings of servants, who moved amongst the guests with large jugs of wine.
‘They have eaten and drunk well,’ Venables whispered. ‘God and his saints only know the King’s mood.’
A chamberlain came and whispered to the King. Edward gestured for him to go away. Colum grabbed Kathryn’s sleeve.
‘Look at the man at the end of the Royal Table; he has just returned.’
Kathryn followed Colum’s direction. A small, portly man with bright red hair, dressed like a peacock in a dark-purple cote-hardie with a high, jewel-encrusted collar, had re-taken his seat. His wine-flushed face looked as bored as the King’s. He kept playing with a ring on his finger. Now and again he would turn to smile at a pretty serving girl holding a jug of water with which the guests could wash their hands. The King seemed interested in the man’s return: He leaned forward and shouted something down the table. The man picked up his goblet, bowed, and toasted the King.
‘The Vicomte de Sanglier,’ Colum whispered, ‘the envoy of Louis of France, come to bring the most loving messages, as well as the kiss of peace, for Louis’s gentle brother in Christ, Edward of England.’ Colum’s words were rich with sarcasm.
The King picked up his own goblet, toasted de Sanglier, and sat back; then he murmured something to his wife, who simpered and lowered her head. The chamberlain returned and whispered in the King’s ear. This time Edward agreed, languidly raising his hand. The heralds behind him flourished trumpets, and their harsh braying drowned the chatter. This was the signal for another chamberlain, resting stiffly on his staff of office, to come through one of the entrances between the screens. Behind him four cooks carried, on a broad silver platter, a beautiful white swan fashioned entirely out of sugared icing. The guests all clapped as the sweating cooks, holding onto the platter tightly, proceeded around the tables to where the King sat. Behind them walked pages carrying small bowls of sweetmeats. The chamberlain stood aside as the table was cleared and the swan was placed before the King. Again there was the flourish of trumpets, and the excited chatter and gossip died away. Edward lifted his goblet, his voice strong and carrying, though his words were slightly slurred.
‘My lords and ladies! We welcome from France, envoy of our beloved cousin Louis, the Vicomte de Sanglier, who has come to reaffirm the great peace which exists between our two kingdoms.’ The King sounded sincere, but his smile was a cynical one.
He lifted the goblet again and drank its contents in one gulp. The rest of the Court followed suit. The Vicomte made to rise, but Edward gestured for him to remain seated.
‘There is no need for speeches.’ The King beamed round. ‘We offer peace, friendship, and brotherly love. This swan is a token of our esteem.’
He turned to the chamberlain, who drew his knife and handed it to the King. Edward leaned over and, in one swift cut, opened the swan. Six pure white doves burst out. The doves, hungry and frightened by the light and noise, rose up in a flurry above the guests, who ‘Oohed’ and ‘Aahed’ and clapped their hands. The King rapped out an order. The doves were
breaking away when, from behind the silken tapestries, falconers released five of the Royal Hawks. These hunting birds, prepared and hungry, rose like black shadows against the sky. The exclamations of the guests died on their lips as they watched the hawks climb, pause for a fraction of a second, and then, wings back, plummet like stones on their chosen victims. One dove managed to escape, but the rest, frantic and terrified, were easy prey. One hawk took its quarry, seizing it in its cruel talons in a splutter of blood, some of which fell on the guests below. Similar killings took place under the blue sky with a slight patter of blood as each hawk, obedient to the whistle of its master, brought its quarry back. The guests clapped. Edward sat on his throne, smiling lazily down at them, amused by the occasional courtiers dabbing quickly at the specks of blood which stained their gorgeous apparel. Here and there the white tablecloths bore similar scarlet drops. De Sanglier was looking at the rings on his fingers as if unaware of what was happening. Kathryn turned away in disgust.
‘A cruel act, Colum,’ she whispered. ‘That wasn’t a hunt but a killing for the sake of it.’
‘Aye, that’s our noble prince,’ Colum replied. ‘He’s probably been waiting to do that all day. It’s a warning to de Sanglier. He can sup, and he can dine, he can watch the doves of peace be released, but if necessary, the hawks of war will constantly roam the skies.’
The King got to his feet. He clapped his hands as a sign that the ceremonies were over and, followed by his mother and brothers, left the Royal Enclosure; as he did so, he patted de Sanglier on the shoulder as a sign to follow. The rest of the guests relaxed, some getting up to join friends or calling for more food and wine.
‘And now?’ Kathryn asked.
Venables, who was standing on her left, gestured at them to follow.
They left the Royal Enclosure and crossed a cobbled yard into the Archbishop’s private garden, where a sumptuous Royal Pavilion had been set up. A guard at the entrance stopped them, but after a brief conversation with Venables, they were allowed through. Inside, the pavilion was sumptuous, the ground covered in carpets. Chairs and stools of state had been arranged in a horseshoe fashion with small oaken tables before them. The King and his family had already taken their seats, and white wine had been served. Kathryn noticed that Bourchier and Spineri had joined the Royal Party. The Cardinal looked half-asleep, listening heavy-eyed as Bourchier whispered in his ear. The King sat moodily, his mother on his left, Clarence, Gloucester, and the Vicomte on his right. Up close, the Frenchman, with his russet hair and bright, dark eyes, reminded Kathryn of a little fox she had once owned as a pet. He seemed unruffled by the cruel mummery Edward had played at the banquet but cradled his cup and jabbed a silver toothpick into his mouth, as if a trapped piece of meat was the most important thing in his life.
As Kathryn and the others came in, the King gestured at the three cushioned stools placed just within the entrance. Colum went forward to kiss his hand, but Edward leaned his head back and snapped his fingers. ‘I have had enough of ceremony, Irishman.’ He smiled lazily. ‘I remember you, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ His voice rose, not only in greeting, but as a sign for the rest to keep quiet.
Kathryn took her seat. She felt as if she was entering a dangerous game. Edward lolled there, eager to dispense with courtesy and protocol, yet still a prince vigilant about his rights. Beside him Duchess Cecily glowered at Kathryn; her strong, beautiful face, emphasised by the arched, plucked eyebrows, was lightly coated with white powder; her lips, wet with wine, were full and red. Kathryn could see that the so-called Rose of Raby was not pleased with her.
‘Well, well, well!’ Edward leaned forward. ‘My condolences, Murtagh, on the death of your friend and colleague Master Mafiach.’
The hushed silence became more intense.
‘Who is this?’ de Sanglier asked. He was now cleaning his mouth with his tongue, staring at Kathryn, then back at the King.
‘Who is what?’ Clarence drawled. ‘The young woman is a physician. Now, de Sanglier, would you like to be examined by her?’
George of Clarence laughed, a noisy sound, shoulders shaking.
‘Shut up, George!’ Edward smiled at Kathryn. ‘This, my Lord Vicomte, is Kathryn Swinbrooke. I am sure she already knows the Vicomte de Sanglier; your reputation always goes before you.’
The Frenchman bowed as if this was the most gracious compliment.
‘And this death?’ The Frenchman waved his hand. ‘I know Master Murtagh,’ he continued, ‘and Venables, but Mafiach? I have not heard his name before.’
Kathryn glanced at this Frenchman, staring in round-eyed innocence at the King.
‘Of course you wouldn’t have,’ Edward smiled. ‘He was a messenger, murdered at a tavern outside the city.’
The Frenchman pulled a face and sat back in his chair as if the matter were of no consequence. The King’s smile faded. ‘You should have been more careful, Master Murtagh!’
‘Your Grace,’ Venables interrupted, ‘Mafiach should have been more careful; he was unwary.’
‘True, true,’ Edward conceded, ‘but now his soul has gone to God.’
‘How was he murdered?’ De Sanglier refused to stay out of the game.
Edward’s gaze shifted. The King blinked. Kathryn glimpsed the fury boiling within him. ‘His brains were dashed out.’
‘I am sorry.’ De Sanglier lifted his cup in a toast of condolence. ‘They say, “In vino veritas”: Wine always brings the truth. I am truly sorry, Your Grace, that you have been distressed.’
Edward nodded, about to speak.
‘And you, Mistress Swinbrooke? This business at the Friary of the Sack? Our beloved mother’ – he grasped the Duchess’s wrist – ‘is deeply concerned. Should she be concerned? First, the Blessed Roger’s death, and now there has been another murder! Come, Mistress, speak!’
Kathryn gave a succinct description of what had happened, omitting any personal details. She mentioned the so-called miracles and Atworth’s corpse, but suppressed any reference to mystery or intrigue. As she talked, she glanced around. Colum remained silent. Venables sat staring at the Duchess as if communicating secret messages, nodding slightly in agreement with what Kathryn said. Spineri acted as if he was bored. Bourchier sat, his eyes half-closed, but Kathryn knew that he was listening intently, measuring her every word. The King just stared at her. Duchess Cecily glowered, whilst her two other sons seemed bored by the proceedings. The more she talked, the more certain Kathryn became that Edward of England was playing a game with everyone in the room. Spineri had to be there, as had the Archbishop, but there was some secret struggle between the King and the Vicomte. The French envoy must have had a hand in Mafiach’s death. He could act the innocent, but Kathryn suspected he knew as much about Atworth as she did. When she had finished, the King sat back in his chair, swirling the wine round his cup.
‘My Lord,’ he smiled at the Vicomte, ‘in your younger days you knew Master Atworth?’
‘I had the pleasure of his company, Your Grace.’
The King leaned his elbows on the arm of his chair and steepled his fingers.
‘If I listened to you correctly, Mistress, Atworth died a good death after a good life. You express doubts about the vision and the consequent miracles, but then again, you are the Advocatus Diaboli. His Eminence, the Cardinal, is ready to promulgate this matter in Rome. He has the ear of the Holy Father. He must faithfully report what he has found, which,’ Edward’s voice was tinged with sarcasm, ‘must be a great deal. He must also report your conclusions! Would you, Mistress Swinbrooke, on the evidence you have studied, do anything to hinder the beatification of the Blessed Roger?’
Duchess Cecily was staring at Kathryn; her face had softened. Was that a beseeching look? Kathryn recalled what she knew about Atworth, his cruelties as a soldier offset by a life of penance and prayer; the compassion he had shown to Mathilda Chandler.
‘No, Your Grace, I would not. True, there are mysteries here,’ Kathryn added quickly. ‘Atworth may
have been born a sinner and lived his life as one, but I think he died a saint.’
Duchess Cecily clapped her hands and beamed at Kathryn. The Vicomte muttered something in French and lifted his goblet to Kathryn.
‘And so the matter is ended?’
The King asked the question so quickly that instantly Kathryn knew why they were here. Edward of England didn’t give a fig about Atworth. If his mother wanted to sanctify a hawk in the Royal Mews, Edward would have agreed. Something else was going on, but what?
The Vicomte spoke. ‘May I say, Your Grace, that my noble master, Louis of France, will do everything in his power to promote this case before the Curia. You have my solemn word on that.’
Edward should have been pleased, but instead he stared long and hard at the French envoy.
‘Oh, I am sure he will, my lord.’
‘We will do everything in our power,’ the Vicomte reassured him. ‘My master has this matter close to his heart.’
‘Our thanks.’ Clarence stretched out his legs, stifling a yawn. ‘Our deepest thanks for all you have done, Mistress Swinbrooke. This cannot have been a pleasant experience.’ He pulled himself up in his chair, a lecherous smile on his face. ‘You must have been vulnerable, Mistress Swinbrooke?’