The Bastard's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  But to find those things out, Arteys had to reach there, and remembering Joliffe’s order not to skulk, he walked openly out of the wellyard, across the stableyard, and into the wider yard beyond it. No one was anywhere. A few torches were burning, fretful in the wind, but such people as might usually have been out and about were away to the hall, he guessed, just as Joliffe had said. What had seemed possible when talked of in Bishop Pecock’s chamber began to seem truly probable.

  His first pause came at the gate into the warden’s small yard. Keeping to a patch of shadow, he stood still, listening for any sound of someone on guard at the stairs. The red glow of a firepot was reflected on the courtyard’s far wall, telling somebody was or had been there, and he watched for a shadow of a pacing guard across it because the pot’s small charcoal-warmth was enough to keep a man from freezing but not enough to keep him warm. Anyone there would surely, sooner or later, move, shuffle, shift, or pace; but save for an outbreak of large laughter from the hall that told him the players were at work, Arteys heard nothing and slowly he edged his head around the gateway’s corner.

  No one was there. He gave himself no time to think about it but rapidly crossed the yard to the stairs, into the darkness under their penticed roof meant to keep rain and snow off them but making welcome shadow tonight as he went up them to the door at the top. They were of wood but gave no betraying creak and at the top the wooden walls that porched the door on two sides to shield against wind gave him more hiding and would serve to keep any light from shining out like a beacon into the night when—if—he opened the door.

  Safe from being seen but hardly feeling safe, Arteys leaned his head against the door’s thick planks, listening while he opened his belt pouch and took out the key. He heard neither voices nor movement but that was assurance of nothing. Besides the door being thick, someone there might be simply quiet. With nothing for it but to be ready to run if need be, he slipped the key into the lock, turned it. The grate of metal on metal would alert anyone who was there, and with nothing to gain by waiting, Arteys pushed the door barely open, slid in, and closed it behind him all in one quick movement.

  Nothing happened.

  No surprised or angry voice demanded what he was doing. No guard rushed him.

  Nothing.

  There was laughter again from the great hall, and in the quiet after it he was aware of the fire talking to itself among the remains of logs on the hearth and that there was no sound or movement from the shadows beyond the curtains half-drawn around the bed across the room.

  He had had two almost-equal fears. One was of being seen and caught. The other was that his father was already dead. The first had not yet happened and in suddenly desperate need to know the other he took the four needed strides to the bed and pulled back the nearer curtain. From the pillows Gloucester looked back at him with narrowed eyes and one hand raised, holding a book as if ready to throw it.

  Fear flowed out of Arteys on a gasp. “My lord father!” he exclaimed in a whisper weak with relief and sat down °n the bed’s edge without being given leave.

  Gloucester dropped the book, whispering gladly back, “Arteys!” and reached with both hands to grab his. “Saint Alban be praised.”

  Arteys clasped his hands in return, meeting him smile for smile but noting with worry his face’s pale-clay color and shrunken look as, still holding tightly to him, Gloucester sagged into his pillows, saying, “I thought you were someone come to kill me.”

  Despite it had been a shadow-fear behind his others, Arteys protested, “They’d not dare!”

  Familiar anger, good to see, flared in Gloucester. “Who would have thought they’d dare this much, damn them.” But then he squeezed his eyes suddenly shut, let go one hand from Arteys, and pressed it against the side of his head as if to dig his fingers into his skull, holding his breath in open pain.

  Arteys tightened his hold, frightened. “Sir?” he asked, and when Gloucester did not answer, said, more frightened, “What is it? What’s been done to you?”

  Gloucester’s hand fell loosely to his chest and he began to breathe again, in quick, shallow breaths now, his eyes still shut as he whispered, “I was in such a… rage… at Beaumont. At Buckingham. I was arguing and something… It felt like something broke. My head. It hurts and it won’t stop.”

  ‘Won’t they let you have a doctor? Let him give you something for the pain?“

  ‘There’s been a doctor. One of St. Saviour’s. He gave me something. It made no difference.“

  He stirred under the blankets, restless with pain, and Arteys let go a hope he had barely had—that he might get Gloucester out and away from Bury and escape to Wales where there were places no one would easily lay hands on him again. Watching his pain, Arteys knew that wasn’t going to happen and said, “You need a different doctor then. You—”

  ‘There won’t be any other. I won’t have someone from outside. Not someone of Suffolk’s choosing, the treacherous ape. I’m not dying by poison. Not in that kind of pain.“

  ‘Someone else then from here. They have to do that much for you.“

  Gloucester gave a dog grin, all teeth and no laughter. “They don’t ‘have to’ do anything. ‘In the king’s name’ and ‘we have our orders.’ That’s the most I get out of them. Sir Roger argued with Beaumont over it and that’s the last I saw of him.”

  ‘He was arrested,“ Arteys whispered.

  Gloucester’s face tightened with a different kind of hurt. “I was afraid he was. Anyone else?”

  ‘Sir Richard, Sir John, Sir Robert, Master Needham.“

  Frowning, Gloucester spread one hand over his forehead, thumb digging into one side of his temples, fingers into the other. “That’s bad. What about the duke of York?”

  ‘York?“ Arteys echoed, not following the shift of thought.

  ‘Is he still free? Suffolk hasn’t found a way at him yet?“

  ‘No one has said anything about York.“

  ‘He’d better be damned careful.“ Gloucester moved his head from side to side, seeking a way away from the pain. ”He’d better damn well watch his back. Tell him that if you see him. If Suffolk gets away with this, there’ll be no stopping him and York is next.“

  ‘Suffolk won’t get away with this,“ Arteys said fiercely. As if at that, laughter came loudly from the hall. In the cautious back of his mind Arteys was keeping ear to the laughter. It was his safeguard. While there was laughter, no one was likely to bother with Gloucester, and past the laughter he insisted, ”When people have had time to think, he won’t dare go on.“

  ‘No,“ Gloucester agreed grimly. ”He won’t. And sooner or later he’ll have to bring me to trial. We’ll see what happens then to Suffolk and his treason charges.“ He opened his eyes, still frowning, and added, quarrelous with the pain, Arteys thought, ”That’s why I’m risking no more doctors, no more medicines. I’m not going to die by poison for them.“

  ‘They wouldn’t dare that,“ Arteys said past the fear lumped in him that, yes, they would.

  ‘Wouldn’t they?“ Gloucester bitterly echoed his thought. ”Everything would be simpler for them if I was simply dead. I don’t know whose guards are outside for the world to see, but it’s only Suffolk’s men ever come in here, and if I die, who’s to say I didn’t die of natural causes if that’s what they say?“

  ‘People would know.“

  ‘What people know and what they can do about it are two different things. As I’ve found out over the years.“ Gloucester shifted with pain and tightened his hold on Arteys’ hand where it lay on the bedclothes. He smiled. ”But you. You got clean away, didn’t you?“

  ‘I shouldn’t have.“ Arteys’ shame and confusion soured in his voice. ”I should have stayed.“

  Gloucester lightly shook his hand. “No, you should not have. Better that you’re free. Better you’re clean away from these bastards.” His face twisted with distress momentarily more of the mind than body. “When I’d won back Henry’s favor, I was going to a
sk him to legitimate you. Like the Beauforts were. I meant to settle lands on you then, see to it you had something of your own to live on. An income of some kind. Fool that I’ve always been, I’ve waited too long. I’m sorry, Arteys. I’m sorry, sorry…”

  It was as much pain as anything talking in him and to quiet him Arteys said quickly, “It’s no matter.”

  Gloucester let go his hand, fumbled at one of the three great rings he always wore, slipped off and held out his signet ring, massive and gold and used to seal in wax his documents and letters. “Here. Take this.”

  Arteys drew back. “I can’t.”

  ‘Take it. Better it isn’t here anyway, for them to use against me. Um.“ He flinched his head aside from pain, and held the ring out more insistently. ”If I live, give it back to me. If I die, melt it down for the gold. Either way, they won’t have it to use for any lies they want to.“ As Arteys took the signet ring, Gloucester said, ”And here,“ pulled at a smaller ring, gold, too, but set with a rough diamond, until it came off, kissed it and clenched it tightly in his fist, saying, ”My Lady Eleanor gave me this after we’d first pledged our love. If ever you see her—“ his voice broke on unshed tears—”give it to her from me.“ He thrust it at Arteys. ”Otherwise, keep it for pledge of my love for you.“

  ‘Father…“

  But Gloucester was taking off his last ring, thick gold again and set with a garnet. “And this one. I won’t have—”

  Arteys shook his head, completely refusing it. “Not that one.”

  Gloucester pulled at it. “I won’t have Suffolk… I won’t have any of those mongrels… so much as… touch it.” He forced it past his knuckle and held it out.

  ‘You can’t,“ Arteys said despairingly.

  And for a moment it seemed Gloucester truly could not. With eyes shut and tears slipping from beneath his eyelids, he pressed his hand and the ring against his heart. “Thirty-four years ago,” he whispered. “Thirty-tour years ago. Hal saved my life at Agincourt. There in the middle of the battle. And that night, afterwards, he gave me this. Spoil from some French lord. He gave it to me and said ‘remember’ and I always have. By God and all the saints, I swear I’ve never forgotten.” Gloucester opened his eyes, unashamed of the freely flowing tears, grasped Arteys’ wrist, drew his hand forward, and forced the ring into it. “You remember, too. I’ve told you all this enough times. Swear to me you’ll remember.”

  ‘I’ll remember.“ Arteys choked on his own tears. ”I swear I’ll remember.“

  Pain twisted Gloucester’s face again and he let go of Arteys to take hold on his head again but forcing out, with eyes shut and breath short, “I swear it to the hosts of heaven I’ve never been anything but loyal to him. To my lord the king. To King Henry the Fifth.” He put the lost sound of long-silenced trumpets into his brother’s name. “And to his son.” With a silent heave of his chest he began to cry openly—tears of pain and grief and weariness. “This thing is Suffolk’s doing. God help me, I’ve failed Hal, I’ve failed his son, I’ve—”

  ‘No!“ Arteys thrust the rings into his belt pouch, forgetting them even as he did it. He grasped his father’s hands and held them tightly. ”You haven’t failed. This isn’t done.“

  Gloucester seemed past hearing him. “And you. I’ve failed you. I’m sorry, sorry.”

  Beyond the room’s inner door there was the creak of someone heavy-footed crossing the room there.

  Gloucester and Arteys both froze. Then Gloucester shoved Arteys away, ordering with a harsh whisper, “Leave. Get out.”

  ‘Father—“

  ‘Let me have the pleasure of seeing you away. Go.

  Arteys went, crossed the room and eased out the way he had come, into the dark and cold, pulling the door shut after him as he heard a key turn in the lock of the door across the room; but there he stopped. He needed to lock the door behind him and dared not turn the key until whoever was come in had gone again, and he leaned there, his ear to the small gap he had left, listening, wondering who it was. There was still laughter from the hall, louder than ever. Who had left it and why?

  The bedchamber door closed. He listened to someone’s heavy footfall across the room, heard Gloucester start to say something, then heard…

  He did not know what. Something. A muffled struggle. A thudding…

  He flung open the door and himself into the room. A thick-shouldered man was leaning over the bed, pressing a pillow down onto Gloucester’s face, with Gloucester’s body heaving under the blankets, his legs somehow thrashed free and beating at the mattress.

  Arteys was across the room, his dagger out, almost before the man knew he was there, before he could more than straighten and start to turn from Gloucester. But only started, because Arteys drove the dagger into him with the full force of his own body behind it.

  The man grunted, staggered back a step, grabbed hold on him. Arteys with his free hand grabbed him in return and shoved the dagger deeper, as far as it would go, saw the man’s eyes darken with beginning anger, then go abruptly puzzled, then blank, and his legs gave way. Falling, he almost dragged the dagger from Arteys’ grip hut Arteys wrenched it up and out, stepping back with the force of his effort, leaving the man to slump sideways, sprawl fully down, and roll onto his face.

  Not caring, Arteys spun away to the bed, reaching desperately to shove the pillow from Gloucester’s face, crying out, “Father!” Only to freeze at sight of Gloucester’s slacked-open mouth and eyes rolled up white in his head. But he was breathing—a harsh, shallow rasping from high in his lungs—and Arteys slid the uncleaned dagger back into its sheath, closed the eyelids with gentle fingers, then still gently and all the while watching him breathe, afraid he would stop, straightened his sprawled legs and smoothed the blankets and bedcover over them; smoothed the bedcovers over his chest and tucked them close around him; lifted his arms from where they had fallen wide to his sides and folded them so his hands lay beside each other on his chest.

  That done, he laid a hand over Gloucester’s and whispered, hoping, “Father?”

  Only Gloucester’s breathing answered him, loud in the quiet room. The far too quiet room, where nothing moved but the last, dying flames in the fireplace and their low shadows flickering across the floor. A room with no sound but Gloucester’s harsh breathing and the drub of Arteys’ heart hitting against his ribs. A room where a dead man’s blood was soaking into the carpet under him and laughter burst up from the hall below.

  Arteys kept from looking at the dead man, did not need to make certain he was dead. He had seen the life go out of his eyes while the dagger was still in him. He had never, until now, seen a man die because he had killed him and he never wanted to see it again. Or, ever again, the man to whom he had done it.

  Gloucester’s harsh breathing went on. From the hall there was a louder roar of laughter and then clapping that told Arteys the play was done and he had no more time to be here. That had been his father’s last order to him—to get out and away—and feeling frozen to the heart, Arteys obeyed, slipped out into the night again and this time locked the door, no worry now about the rasp of metal on metal as he turned the key. There was no one in the room to hear it.

  Chapter 16

  The day after Gloucester’s arrest went not so badly for Frevisse as she had feared it might. All the talk at night and in the morning in the guesthall dorter had been of the arrest, with Prime giving respite but afterward had come breakfast and more talk, some people dark with worry about what might come of it, others head-shaking and tut-tutting, others merely excited by the scandal of it; but to Frevisse’s surprise, there was very little malice toward Gloucester. She was reminded of fish in a well-stocked fish pond when food was thrown to them—the food hit the water and the fish surfaced in a swirling mass, seething around each other as they gobbled with staring eyes and gaping mouths. At present, the duke of Gloucester was food and the gaping, gobbling, and staring were all around her when she parted from Dame Perpetua after Mass.

 
Despite it was Sunday, Dame Perpetua was bound for the library, kept open for monks who wished to spend their day of somewhat rest in reading. Frevisse, less happily, went on her way to Alice. The man on duty at the head of the stairs told her before she even thought to ask that my lord of Suffolk was already gone to the king. Frevisse thanked him without showing how very thankful she was for that and went in, passing through the two outer rooms with her eyes lowered, catching a little of the talk among the few men there but hearing nothing new, only gaining the thought that, to judge by their open, exceeding glee against Gloucester, not even a battle victory over the king of France could have set them higher. She wished she had ignorance enough to be simply pleased at Gloucester’s trouble or—better still—to have no other than pious regret for his fall. But to want ignorance, and for no better reason than her own comfort, was wrong and she breathed a brief prayer as she knocked at the bedchamber door.

  Admitted, she found Alice about to go out, surrounded by a flustering of her women putting things away in the long traveling chest and John sitting on the bed end, drumming his heels.