Within the Hollow Crown

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  For want of Love's wordes and his chere."

  Yes, by her kindness and humility Anne had saved Chaucer's life—saved him to write this delightful series of Canterbury tales he was giving to the world. If only she had been able to save Simon Burley too! Burley who would have said to him, "Be glad, my son, through all your suffering, that at least you are bearing it instead of her."

  With reverent fingers, Richard untied the ribbon and unrolled his letters. He sat down on Anne's dressing stool and read them through. He was glad of their tenderness. Fleetingly, he recaptured the feel of that lost thing—happiness. But when he could read no more because of the waning light, illusion lingered.

  He turned towards their shadowed bed. The familiar hangings were half drawn and, with the spell of the past hour upon him, he could almost believe that Anne lay there—just out of his sight, in the shadow of the rosy tapestry. That she would stir presently and call to him and stretch out warm arms. That the frozen bitterness holding him in thrall would be all broken up, and his heart warmed again with the love that other men enjoyed.

  But reality lay in wait and he could bear no more. With a strangled cry he tore aside the hangings and threw himself across the empty bed, his face breaking into unspeakable grief. "Anne! Anne, my beloved! Never, never will I hold another woman in my arms," he vowed. "Never will I love with my body some new queen whom my spirit rejects as wife. No matter how they badger me… Not even for England…"

  He lay there, where night after night they had lain together, sobbing against her pillow. The hard, rare sobs of manhood.

  "What does it matter about sons, if they be not ours? We were complete—too young and too desperately in love to care. How were we to know this would happen? Thank God, we didn't know…" he whispered brokenly. And then, when his sobbing had subsided, "I suppose, if you had left me a son, my heart's love—if he had looked like you and spoken with my voice—he might have done the things we dreamed of for my country. Unhampered from the start. Lifting her above the common, warmongering, unreasoning rut. Making her a pattern state for all Christendom."

  The dam of his restraint was broken. "Oh, Anne, my sweet, it is so long—so terribly long—since I saw you! Your dear kind hands, your funny little plucked brows and your smile. Dear Christ, do I have to go on living for years, bearing this daily desolation?"

  Presently, he raised himself on straightened arms, still talking softly as if Anne lay back on the pillows between them. "I know what I will do. So that they don't drive even this wedge of physical infidelity between us." At the thought of Gloucester and Arundel something of that closed, crafty manner came back to him. "Even in this I will outwit them, using their very importunities to further my own purposes. I will marry the French king's daughter." He sat up and laughed, a little wildly. "She is eight years old. I don't remember her name. It should cement the alliance so that there is peace with France so long as I live."

  He was surprised to see how dark it was. His sharp ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Someone knocked at the door. He passed a handkerchief over his face and pushed back his hair. When he strode to the door and threw it open, a loutish country servant stood there, bearing a torch.

  "Well?" demanded Richard, furious at the intrusion.

  "It be growin' mortal dark," the man mumbled.

  "It's been mortal dark for two years," retorted Richard.

  The old man stared, gap-toothed, at the King's disordered hair and ravaged face. "Oi thought maybe you'd be wantin' a light, sir."

  Richard banged the door in his face. What should he and Anne be wanting with lights—here, in this room, where they knew every stick of furniture. Where there had always been light to lighten their darkness. In this room where no lesser lovers must ever sleep.

  With a hand still on the bolt, a thought came to him. He changed his mind and opened the door again. "Here, bring back your torch," he called.

  Already the man had descended half a dozen stone steps. As he turned in surprise his shadow mimicked every clumsy movement on the wall behind him.

  "The torch, fool!" shouted Richard, stretching out an impatient hand. His voice echoed weirdly down the turret stair and he had no idea how crazed he looked in the shifting light.

  With maddening slowness, still staring uncomprehendingly, the old man clambered up again and gave it to him.

  "Go with the other servants to the gatehouse, and tell the grooms to loosen whatever horses you have left and turn them into the tilt yard," Richard ordered. "Go now, dolt, and do just as I say, or it may be too late."

  He heard the man fumbling his way down in the dark. Heard him say to someone at the bottom, "The King be crazed with grief. For the blessed Martyr's sake, bring me a stable lantern!" And then their confused footsteps dying away.

  Richard held the torch high above his head and hurled it into the middle of the great four-poster. The scorching smell reminded him momentarily of Wat Tyler's forge. Flames began to lick their way up a curtain to the embroidered tester where his leopards and Anne's ostrich were entwined. Soon sheets and pillows, love letters and poems—all would be consumed. He left door and windows wide. "Good-bye, my little love," he whispered through the drifting smoke. "Pray the compassionate Mother of God that we may find some more abiding trysting place!"

  He went slowly down the stairs and through the deserted hall where they had been wont to feast in the heyday of their lives, laughing at the wits of a cultured world and listening to the poets and musicians they had gathered into the most civilized court in Europe. Out in the cool of the garden Richard paused, contritely, to pluck a red rose from Anne's favourite bush. Once, he looked back. Smoke and flames belched from their windows into the sweet June night. Soon the whole conflagration would be reflected, blood red, in the river below. Soon, soon, the lovely palace of Sheen would be only a memory in men's minds.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Autumn lay like a russet carpet along the Rother valley, and inside Bodiam castle fires were lighted of an evening on hearth and brazier. All along the kitchen side of the open courtyard cooks and scullions bustled over the final supper dish, while pages scuttled back and forth through the serving screens bearing nuts from Spain and rare Venetian flagons of their master's choicest contraband wines. Never had these seafaring Sussex folk thought to serve such distinguished guests.

  Richard the Second had come unexpectedly. Moreover, he had brought with him a brace of dukes. Thomas Plantagenet of Gloucester and Thomas Mowbray of Norfolk; to say nothing of a tall witch of a woman who the royal squires said had been the King's nurse. Only a month ago a man had been snooping on behalf of the Clerk of the Works, whoever he might be. And Sir Edward had stopped work on the new harbour he was building between moat and river, and milady Lizbeth's temper had been sharper than ever. And now the King himself had come. It was all to do with Sir Edward building a brand new castle instead of fortifying his wife's old home, further inland, where the Rother was but an unnavigable stream. And people who built castles without a permit could be put in prison.

  So the plumpest pigeons must be brought from the dovecots over the well tower and the tenderest venison stuffed and spiced to placate King Richard. Or else, the steward had warned, they would lose their service with an open-handed master and all the fun of occasional raids, and get the castle pulled down again about their ears.

  As often as they dared, grooms and maidservants who were not privileged to wait upon the company would slip along the buttery passage to peep at this powerful king through the carved wood of the screens. But he was youngish and fair and easily the most attractive-looking man on the dais, the maids reported; and he didn't look at all angry. In fact, he had set his abashed host at ease and was laughing outright at Dalyngrigge's tales of nefarious adventure, and exchanging reminiscences with his hostess who, it seemed, had been in his mother's household. And Milady—proud piece as she was—seemed all bemused by him. And small wonder!

  Richard himself was perfectly aware of the
household anxiety, and was playing on it quite successfully to get his uncle quietly conveyed to Calais. Mowbray, as Governor of the place, would normally have crossed from Sandwich or Dover, of course. But Gloucester needed a little persuasion; and it would be as well, perhaps, if the two of them were not seen leaving England together.

  "Judging by Dalyngrigge's yarns and the taste of his Malvoisie, you should have plenty of sport with French ships in the Channel, Uncle Thomas," Richard said encouragingly. "It'll be quite like old times. Do you remember the French wine you and Arundel charmed the Londoners with when you wanted Simon and Michael out of the way?"

  Gloucester stirred uneasily in spite of the excellent wine. He never knew quite how to take Richard when he spoke in that silky sort of voice. It had all been so much easier when he used to rage and stammer.

  "Besides, a change of air will do you good," urged Mowbray.

  "Hasn't the poor Duke been well?" inquired Lizbeth, putting all her charm into playing the perfect hostess.

  "A little queasy, Lady Dalyngrigge," Richard explained, without giving Gloucester a chance to protest. "That's why I'm bothering your husband to take him abroad. Only last week Doctor Waldby—you remember old Waldby, my dear—remarked to me, 'The Duke looks rather like your poor half-brother, Thomas Holland, before he died.' But he's been grieving for Richard Arundel, no doubt. They were always such friends, you know." Presented with the cook's elaborate confection of sugared marzipan, he obligingly waved away the best portion to his uncle on the chivalric principle of feeding a condemned man well. "My kinsman of Norfolk, on the contrary, stands up very well to the execution of his father-in-law, don't you, Tom?"

  Richard folded back his gold-lined over-sleeve fastidiously so that it shouldn't get in the way of the sweet, and admired the chasing on the goblet set before him, which he strongly suspected had been stolen from some sacked Continental church. "Oh, and by the way, Tom," he ordered with his usual generosity. "Be sure to give Uncle Thomas my own apartments in the Citadelle. Very commodious I found them when I stayed there on my way to Paris last month. And such fine views over Calais harbour!"

  "Is it true that you are going to be married again, sir?" asked Lizbeth, greatly daring.

  "To the Princess Isabel of France. Hadn't you heard?" answered Richard affably. "But then, of course, you've been so long away from Court. Ten years, isn't it? And you look lovelier than ever!" He smiled at her devastatingly over the golden goblet, and raised it politely to his host. "Let me congratulate you, Dalyngrigge. A bewitching wife and a strongly embattled castle. Three portcullises and a barbican. Let me see, who did you say was your architect?"

  Richard was never drunk, but tonight he was scarcely sober. There was a pleasant haze over everything—candles and heaped dishes on the long table, Lizbeth's warm eyes, her husband's castle which was his for the taking, and the obvious discomfiture of Gloucester and Mowbray, the two red-clad knights whose fortunes he was playing with at the moment. Yes, clearly the white King was out of check and it was his move next. Mundina, sitting silently at the far end of the table, was aware of the undercurrent of excitement animating him into a sinister semblance of his former self. Tonight for him was evidently an occasion.

  Dalyngrigge, who had no wish to discuss architecture, rose hurriedly with some mumbled excuse about arranging accommodation amidships since at the last minute the King had asked him to take Mundina Danos. Already he had seaboots on his feet and an ugly looking mace hanging from his belt. "We must weigh anchor almost immediately, sir, or I shall miss the tide," he warned.

  "Then you and Gloucester will be wanting to get along, Tom." Richard leaned back comfortably in his chair and looked straight at Gloucester. "Don't let me detain you, dear Uncle, if you've any last-minute affairs to attend to. There's always so much to think of, isn't there, before one sets out on a long journey?"

  This time the inflexible note beneath the smoothness of Richard's voice frightened Gloucester. He sat for a moment or two, regarding him in a baffled sort of way from beneath bushy brows. Richard's beauty was untarnished, his manner self-assured; and Gloucester had an idea that this nephew whom he always hated was playing on his fears just as he himself had so often tortured a boy's sensitive nerves, by harping on the horrid motif of Berkeley castle. Gloucester was a Plantagenet and above the law, of course. But the sharp fate of Arundel had shaken him, warning him that it would be as well to be out of England for a while. And as Mowbray had been good enough to invite him…Besides, it was true—he had been feeling queasy of late. Even his brother Edmund had noticed it and started fussing and telling him he needed a change. And Edmund wouldn't be a party to any sort of plot…

  So Gloucester rose sulkily and went out, and Lizbeth, like a perfect chatelaine, excused herself and went with him to give orders for the comfort of her departing lord.

  "Should you say that Calais is particularly healthy?" asked Richard, detaining Mowbray and his host for a moment after the other two had gone.

  "It stinks," grinned Dalyngrigge, without euphemism.

  "Quite," agreed Richard. "And I suppose quite a lot of people die of fever there from time to time. There'd be nothing surprising about it, I mean?" He got up as the servants began to clear, and his manner became more informal. He picked up a handful of nuts from the littered table and began cracking them between excellent teeth. "Oh, and another thing, Tom," he went on, spitting out the shells. "Besides having a fine view, the royal apartments in the Citadelle have a backstair. Did you know? I noticed particularly. There was a time when I found it safer to notice that sort of thing whenever I stayed in strange houses. It appears to lead into a kind of closet behind the arras at the back of the bed. Very handy, I thought, for some of my disreputable ancestors' amours."

  Richard hadn't troubled to lower his voice and Mowbray glanced nervously at the place where Mundina was still sitting after the departure of the dais party. Dalyngrigge's mind was on more personal matters. "My castle and everything in it is at your disposal, sir," he said warily, preparing to depart.

  "Thank you. Everything except your wife, I take it?" smiled Richard. "But I shall be leaving early tomorrow morning."

  Dalyngrigge was painfully aware of just how much his castle was at the King's disposal. Too painfully aware to dissimulate. "And the—er—little matter of the surveyor you sent?" he stammered.

  The King stroked his pointed, golden beard. It was wonderful the power a good memory combined with de la Pole's advice gave one over people. "His report will probably come before me during the course of the next few weeks. And by that time, given fair wind and no contretemps, no doubt we shall all have something more important to think about," he prophesied cheerfully.

  The old campaigner's weatherbeaten face was almost comic in its expression of relief. He had put years into building Bodiam and knew it to be the last word in domesticated defence. He bent gratefully to kiss the King's hand.

  "Only remember, my dear Dalyngrigge," warned Richard, "there are some adventures it is wiser not to be amusing about—even at your own supper table!"

  Dalyngrigge had no illusions about the inflexibility beneath Richard's pleasant voice. A long time ago he had seen him tackle a dangerous mob single-handed, and he had been sorry when Gloucester and Arundel had cancelled out his courage afterwards. To his simple mind it seemed natural enough that the King should want to get his own back. They understand each other perfectly.

  When their host had gone Mundina, who had no unmethodical last-minute packing to do, went to warm herself at the logs burning in the centre of the hall, and Mowbray lingered to face Richard uneasily across the deserted supper table. "Are you sure you want this—murderous thing—done, Richard?" he asked, in a low voice.

  Richard knew that a man with such divided loyalties must want to regain his friendship or his favour very badly to allow himself to get mixed up in such a scheme at all. "Why not?" he asked lightly, letting his handful of empty shells cascade onto a silver platter.

  Physica
lly Mowbray was brave as a lion; but the instinct of a gambler was not in him. Even when staying loyal to the King might have turned the tide before Radcot Bridge, he hadn't relished taking the risk. As a youth he had been gullible, and always he had hated being on the losing side. "Mightn't it—I mean, with your uncle's blood on your hands—mightn't it come between you and her—God rest her sweet soul?" he stammered, crossing himself and venturing upon the only argument which he supposed would bear any weight at this eleventh hour.

  Only a slow thinker like Mowbray could fail to know that the question must have been in Richard's mind for months, or to deduce that otherwise Gloucester would long since have been dead. Richard didn't answer at once. One of his fine hands was playing absently with a knife lying on the laced napery. "God will understand," he murmured after a moment or two, as if trying to reassure himself. And then—perhaps because Tom Mowbray was like a bit left over out of his old life—he actually tried to explain, rather desperately. "He must know there are worse things than killing the body, Tom. Sudbury, Burley, Brembre—it's over for them now, and they're with her. But what have those two done to me?" He found himself looking at Mowbray almost appealingly. "You remember me, don't you, when I was eager, generous, full of fine enthusiasms? They thwarted me here and betrayed me there. They poisoned my people against me. Blurred my intelligence with cunning, and destroyed my soul. I tell you, if ever it were true what the Book says about its being better for a millstone to be hanged about a man's neck, it's true about them! In the sight of God they must be Evil incarnate."