Four horses were waiting there, held by a fourth man. One of the men with Arteys took a horse’s reins from him and mounted. The other two moved to help Arteys up behind him, one of them saying, “We didn’t think you’d be fit to ride alone. Can you hold on, though?”
‘Yes,“ Arteys croaked. ”Where am I going?“
‘Away from here.“
‘Whose men…“ are you? he wanted to ask but the words wouldn’t come from his aching throat.
The man answered anyway. “The duke of York’s.”
Chapter 27
Outside another long summer’s evening was gold behind London’s rooftops but the hour was past for guests to be received in St. Helen’s nunnery, Bishopsgate. Only because she was wife to the marquis of Suffolk had Alice been allowed in and Frevisse allowed to see her after Compline, but the parlor’s shutters were closed and barred and only by the light of the small-cupped oil lamp on the table beside them were they able to see each other’s faces.
With no one else to hear them and no need of other greeting between them, Frevisse asked, “He’s safe?”
‘He’s safe. York’s men had him away within minutes. He was at York’s house long enough to be fed and re-clothed and seen by a doctor. He’s said to be unharmed.“
Frevisse could only hope that was fully true; but there were harms that went beyond the body, harms that went deep into the heart and mind.
‘Yes,“ Alice agreed, though Frevisse had not said it. ”But bodily is something, considering.“
Frevisse granted that with a small gesture. “And then?”
‘By now he’s with a few of York’s household knights somewhere well away up the Thames in the duke’s own twelve-oared barge. They’ll take to horse at Abingdon or Oxford. Arteys will be in Wales within a week.“
And as safe as they could hope to have him.
‘And Joliffe?“ Frevisse asked.
‘Gone as soon as he brought me that word. I don’t know where.“
Yesterday, after Frevisse had agreed to the lies she was to tell, Alice had written a brief message to the duke of York, asking him to give heed to the bearer of it. That night, after Frevisse had won her ugly bargaining with Suffolk—promising that, in return for Arteys and the others being pardoned and set free, no one would ever see Gloucester’s will by her doing—Joliffe had gone with the message to the duke.
‘Tell him,“ Frevisse had said before he went, ”that the pardon won’t come until they’re on the scaffold. That’s what Suffolk swore. That he’d have that much out of it.“
Suffolk had sworn other things, too, mostly at her, and given his promise angrily, grudgingly, ungraciously. He had threatened her, too, although Frevisse told neither Alice nor Joliffe that. She did not tell them, either, how black-angry at him she had grown in return, so that at the end she had been viciously glad to drag the promise out of him and wished she could have rubbed his face with it afterward. He had attempted Gloucester’s murder, was attempting five more, and all he felt was anger at being thwarted of them. Nor was he ever likely, this side of his own death, to be called to account for any of it so long as he held the king’s favor.
She, on the other hand, had penance ahead of her, both for lying and her anger, but what had been worse burden then was having to go to bed not knowing how Joliffe had fared with York. Only in the morning had she been able to meet him briefly in the garden, with him saying without greeting, “York will do it.”
‘What did you say to move him to it?“
‘York knows Suffolk well enough he needed little convincing that even with the pardon Arteys won’t be safe, being Gloucester’s son.“
‘How did you explain the pardons?“
‘I said someone showed Suffolk he had more to lose by killing Gloucester’s men than letting them live.“
‘That was enough for York?“
Joliffe’s smile had been grimly humoured. “I told you—he knows Suffolk.”
She had given way then to another fear that had come to her and asked, “And you. What if Suffolk finds out your part in this?”
Joliffe’s smile had deepened. “I doubt I’ll wait around to find out if he finds out. When he has time to think all this over, he may come to be suspicious and especially suspicious if he learns by household spies that Master Noreys was in close talk with Lady Alice and her depraved cousin in the afternoon and at the duke of York’s at an odd hour of that night. I’ll stay until Arteys is safe. Then I’m gone.”
Because she might never have other chance to ask him, she had said, “Why are you risking all this? Arteys was no friend of yours before now, was he?”
‘At Bury he trusted me. Worse, without telling me, he left three rings that must have been his father’s hidden among my things. For safekeeping, I suppose, if anything happened to him. Which it did. I found them later and… I hate being trusted.“
He was so grim about it that Frevisse said, deliberately to irk him, “You know I trust you.”
He had given her a hard look and half a smile and said, “I know. I try not to hold it against you.” Then he had left.
Frevisse had wished she could leave, too, but until this was over she could not, the fear unspoken between her and Alice that Suffolk might be treacherous at the last. He had gone off the night before—to the king to get the pardons, he had said—and not returned. With no way to know his mind or how he meant to play the day, she and Alice had withdrawn to the walled garden to wait, no one with them but order given that any news about the executions should be brought immediately. For too long they sat, they paced, they hardly spoke, and heard the crowd on the road before a servant came running, excited with word the prisoners were being dragged past and could be seen from an upper window if Lady Alice hurried.
Alice had sent him away and they had sat side by side, silent, staring at the grass in front of them, listening, while the crowd passed; and when it was quiet again, Alice had whispered, “Tell me again that he promised.”
‘He promised,“ Frevisse had said back. But there had been no way to get word to Arteys of it. Which might be as well. If Suffolk went back on his promise, it would be more merciful that Arteys had not been betrayed into hope.
Alice had bowed her head into her hands and wept and it was forever until another servant brought word of how Suffolk had kept his promise. How he had been at Tyburn, waiting, when the prisoners were dragged up. How he had sat his horse at the rear edge of the crowd while they were made ready and brought to the scaffold. How he had waited while the nooses were put around their necks and the strangling began and how only then he had finally ridden forward into the crowd, holding up the pardons and calling out to let the prisoners down, they were freed by the king’s good mercy.
‘They’re alive?“ Alice had demanded at the man.
‘They’re alive, my lady. They’re free.“
Alice had waved him away. Not until he was gone did she say with the same cold rage that Frevisse felt, “Damn Suffolk. Damn him.”
Frevisse and Sister Amicia had left within the hour, removing to St. Helen’s nunnery because, Frevisse told her, they would be better out of the way with so much happening in Suffolk’s household. Sister Amicia had been enjoying all that was happening but been too happy at going into London to question it; but it meant Frevisse had had to leave without knowing whether Arteys was safely away to York or not, and so Alice was come this evening to tell her, it not being a message to trust to anyone else now Joliffe was gone.
Knowing all else was well, Frevisse asked, half wanting not to, “How is it with Suffolk?”
‘I saw him only briefly before he was away to Greenwich and the king. He looks to be keeping a good face to the world, but when there was only me to see it, he was raging.“
‘At you?“
‘No. At the crowd. At all of London. He actually thought…“ Alice faltered, then started over, holding out her right hand, palm upward. ”On the one hand, he really thought the crowd would believe Gloucester’s me
n were traitors and hate them for it.“ She held out her other hand, as if making the other side of a balance scale. ”On the other hand, he thought the crowd—stinking-bodied idiots, he calls them—would see him as a hero for bringing out the men’s pardons at the last possible of moments.“ She dropped her hands. ”He’s furious that London was on the men’s side instead of believing him. He’s furious at the men for being alive when he wanted them dead. He’s furious at the crowd for being mad at him for waiting so long to give the pardons. Everything wrong is everybody else’s fault.“
‘And mine,“ Frevisse said ruefully.
‘Oh, his fury at you is all but lost under his fury at everyone else. He doesn’t see what he tried to do was murder. He doesn’t see… anything.“ Even the soft glow of lamplight, kind with shadows, could not gentle the pain in Alice’s face. ”Frevisse, I swear he wasn’t like this when I married him. It’s a thing that’s grown on him with time. With the power that’s come to him. It’s as if what I best loved in him has shriveled while his ambition grew. It’s as if…“ Alice turned away, pressing her hands to the sides of her face as if to hold in the force of her grief. ”It’s as if his ambition is the most real thing in the world to him. Everything else barely matters, is hardly real.“ She turned around. ”Is that possible? Can it really be like that for him?“
Frevisse tried to find words that would not hurt. That she could not, could only shake her head in helpless silence, was answer enough.
Alice drew a deep breath, put her grief out of sight again, and said, “Well. Things are as they are and we must do what we must do, as Father used to say. Do you need anything? Will you want to go back to St. Frideswide’s soon?”
‘We’ll stay a few days. For Sister Amicia’s sake and while I purchase things from Domina Elisabeth’s list. Will his grace allow you to give us escort back when the time comes?“
‘I’ll pay for that out of my own accounts. If he even thinks of it, it’s not his concern. I’ll pay your guest gift to St. Helen’s, too, and something to St. Frideswide’s.“
Frevisse said quickly, “Alice, there’s no need. I came because I wanted to, needed to.”
‘But the need came because of my husband.“
And if he could neither see his fault nor make recompense for it, then Alice would, if only to mitigate her own pain, Frevisse saw, and she accepted all Alice wanted to give with a small bow of her head.
But, “There’s something else,” Alice said. “Suffolk has sworn you’re never to come near us or ours again. He’s ordered that I should never have aught to do with you anymore. I…” She gestured helplessly. “I don’t know what to do.”
Frevisse took hold of her hand. “Give him that much, for now at least. It doesn’t matter.”
‘It does matter. It—“
‘It’s no more, on your side and mine, than a well-timed retreat.“ Frevisse smiled. ”Like Joliffe’s.“
Half-unwillingly, Alice smiled back—a faint smile that faded as she said, “But the things you had to say. The lies about yourself. If anyone asks Suffolk for it, your reputation is gone.”
Frevisse, smiling more, said lightly, “Do you know, I find I don’t greatly care.”
Nor did she. Not so long as, in her mind’s eye, she could see Arteys riding away, alive and free under the summer sky.
Author’s Note
A Parliament and the downfall of Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, did take place in Bury St. Edmunds in February 1447. Contemporary chronicles have, as usual, slightly differing versions of the exact course of events, and choices between versions were sometimes necessary but nothing was altered for convenience’s sake. The Bastard’s Tale is built around what is known, rather than what is known being altered to fit the story.
At the time, those who had Gloucester under arrest claimed his death was from natural causes. That it was murder was the widespread belief among everyone else. Nothing can be proved at this remove in time but I wish to thank Dr. Carol Manning for her consideration of what few medical details are available.
Mention of Arteys, bastard son of the duke of Gloucester, is scant in the records. He steps into history only at his father’s death and disappears from it off the scaffold at Tyburn. As Kenneth H. Vickers says in the biography Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, “One wonders what was [his] subsequent life?” But as Rudyard Kipling might say, that’s another story. Recent historians sometimes corrupt his name to “Arthur” but he was condemned to death under the name “Arteys de Curteys” so Arteys he is in the story.
Events in London and at Tyburn, including the marquis (formerly earl, later duke) of Suffolk’s part in them, are taken directly from the chronicles. Tyburn, a place of executions for hundreds of years, isn’t to be found on a map of modern London, but Tyburn Way by Marble Arch is approximately there, though the plaque commemorating the site tends to move around the area.
Reynold Pecock, bishop of St. Asaph’s and later bishop of Chichester, is historical, as is his sermon at St. Paul’s that made him unavailable for the end of this story. It was only one of his many clashes with authority that eventually led to his trial for heresy. He was a profound scholar and prolific writer who believed it was better to convert heretics by reason rather than burning, and I owe great thanks to Stephen E. Lahey of LeMoyne College and Brent Moberley of Indiana University for rousing my interest in him, and to Dr. Lahey and Dr. Kate Forhan for the chance to present a paper on him at Siena College’s Convivium in October 2000. There are various scholarly studies of his life and work, and some of his writings in Middle English are available.
Of the great abbey at Bury St. Edmunds almost nothing remains, and of St. Saviour’s hospital even less, but there are numerous books and studies, and the town of Bury St. Edmunds and the lovely park around the broken remains of the abbey are well worth a visit. For more specific details about St. Saviour’s see “The Medieval Hospitals of Bury St. Edmunds,” by Joy Rowe, in Medical History, vol. 2 (1958).
The Play of Wisdom, edited by Milla Cozart Riggio, was my source of the elaborate play performed for the king, though what appears in the book should be considered an Ur-version of it, and the translations into modern English are my own. Particular admiration is due Gail McMurray Gibson, whose The Theater of Devotion and other work on East Anglian theater inspired me to create Master Wilde’s company. Master Wilde and his players are imagined, but about forty years earlier a Master Wilde and his company were active in the vicinity.
Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy was a best-seller throughout Christendom for over a thousand years and is still available in a number of translations. Geoffrey Chaucer’s Boece has not fared quite so well, popularly speaking. Again, the translations from it are mine.
Some apology is owed to scholars and fans of John Lydgate’s works. My opinion (and Frevisse’s) of his writings is purely personal. Most of his works are readily available in university libraries and his masque mentioned here was lately published as Lydgate’s Disguising at Hertford Castle in a translation and study by Derek Forbes.
And again, and inadequately, my great, great thanks and appreciation to Sarah J. Mason and Bill Welland for photos, footwork, books, and a grand friendship.
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