by John Buchan
Peter put an arm round the old woman’s neck. “I will get no ague, mother of mine. But hearken to me, for a kingdom hangs on it. Get a message to Darking, who is somewhere in the Ramsden bracken. The forest is full of Naps’s folk, and any one of them will carry the word. Say to Darking that I am in Lovell’s castle with him he wots of, and that my men must meet me here an hour before dawn. Say, too, that there is no bridge left on Windrush, and that we must home by the road we came.”
The woman nodded.
“Your message will be carried, my son, though I should have to bunch my skirts and stir my own old bones. Solomon shall have it ere midnight.”
The King grumbled.
“I am no fox to kennel in a hole. Whence came those women? Have they no dwelling near where I may bed me?”
“A mile and more of rough ground distant. And miserable cabins at that, with a plague of rats and the stars shining through the thatch. You will be better in Lovell’s cell.”
“Let me lie by the fire.”
“It is already dying and there is no more fuel. There will be frost ere morning and you will get a chill at the heart.”
“But I will stick in that hole, and you who have dragged me from water may have no power to drag me from earth.”
“The place is wide enough. Two months back I made the passage with a brother of Oseney.”
“A holy man has entered it! That gives a flavour of grace to as graceless a spot as ever my eyes beheld. It looks like some werewolf’s lair. . . . But lead on, sir. Maybe you are right, and I shall be warmer if I have some yards of stone and earth for blanket.”
Peter led the way down the slimy steps and over the prostrate outer door. The first part of the passage was narrow, and in bending the King had some trouble with his leg. When he jarred it on a knuckle of stone he would bellow with pain, and Peter, turning the lantern, saw the great face flushed and furious. Then the roof rose, and Peter’s arm could give him support. At the subsidence it was hard to get the King through, and Peter had to clear away much rubble. Then came the sound of falling water.
“Have we escaped one flood to drown in another?” the King asked tartly.
The corridor broadened, and at last came the iron-bound door. It had been left unlocked on the last visit, and a pull set it creaking on its hinges. The little chamber smelt dry and fresh, and it had the chill neither of the water-logged outer air nor of the mildewed passage.
Peter set the lantern on the floor and dropped his burden.
“Behold your majesty’s lodging for the night,” he said, while Henry sat himself heavily in the chair which had once been Lovell’s.
Peter flung the rotting bedclothes from the pallet, and laid on it Mother Sweetbread’s blankets. He helped the King to strip off his soaked doublet and hose — a task of delicacy owing to the ulcer on his leg, and wrapped his great body in one of the deerskin cloaks.
“Get you among the blankets, sire,” he said, “and I will serve your supper.”
He fed him with Mother Sweetbread’s provender, and he gave him to drink of Mother Sweetbread’s sloeberry cordial. The King made an ample meal and the strong liquor warmed his blood. “Ha!” he cried, “I begin to thaw, and the ice has gone from my belly. This is a rough inn, but the entertainment might be worse. Give me another cup, and I will compose myself to sleep. What mountain is above me?”
“Lovell’s castle,” said Peter. “The abode of the last lord of that house.”
The King cried out and crossed himself.
“It has an ill name,” he murmured. “You say you came here with a brother of Oseney? Did the holy man lustrate this chamber, for wherever Lovell trod Sathanas walked in his tracks?”
“Set your mind at ease, sire. It was lustrated by prayer and tears, and the bones of Lovell were laid in hallowed earth.”
But the King was not at ease. Some notion had arisen to vex him. He watched Peter strip off his clothes, wrap himself in the other cloak and make a bed beside the door.
“Oseney,” he muttered, “what have I heard of a brother of Oseney?” and he raised himself on his elbow, and stared at his companion.
Peter, ever since he had dragged the King ashore, had had a mind empty of thought. He saw the clear hand of God, and let himself follow blindly as it guided. . . . There could be no failure now, for events had turned miraculously in his favour. Before dawn Darking and his men would be at Minster Lovell, and by noon the King would be safe at Avelard. The household at Woodstock would be hunting high and low for its lord and master, but here in this dungeon of Lovell’s he was hidden more securely than if he were in the heart of Wales with all Neville’s pickets to guard him. . . . He had not troubled to think of Henry. The man with his gross body and his ulcerated leg was no more to him than a derelict log plucked from the water.
“Compose yourself to sleep, sire,” he said; “on the morrow I can promise you better fare and a softer bed.”
He was himself very weary, but before he lay down he raised the lantern to see to the candle within. Then he set it and the tinder-box on the floor beside him, blew out the light, and turned to sleep.
But in the moment when his face had been clear in the lantern’s glow, Henry had seen in it something which made his cheek, now ruddy with the cordial, grow mottled and pale again. “By God, it is he,” he whispered. “The Oseney clerk! He is Buckingham’s get, for he has the Bohun lip. . . .” There was no drowsiness now for the King.
Peter slept lightly, as was his custom, for one trained in the Oseney services, which broke the night into short stages, was not likely to be a sluggard. He was awakened to sudden consciousness by the sound of a creaking pallet. The King was restless; nay, the King was rising.
He lay and listened. He heard Henry fumbling among his discarded clothes, and the clink of something hard — metal or stone. Then he heard the stealthy movements of the heavy body, which seemed to be coming towards him. He had that consciousness of imminence which comes neither from touch, nor sight, nor hearing, but from some subtler sense. He slipped from under his blanket, and rolled very softly a few feet to his left.
The King was approaching the bed. He was close on it, leaning above it. . . . And then there was a rapid movement, the sound of an arm descending, a sudden jar of metal driven through woollen on to stone.
Peter’s brain worked fast. The King had recognised him, had hoped to rid himself of a rival by the speediest way. Had he been sleeping heavily where he had laid himself down, the King’s hunting-knife would now be in his heart.
Wrath plucked him to his feet and hurled him on his enemy. He felt the kneeling King topple over under his impact, and found himself grappling with something as soft and unresisting as a bolster. He wrested the knife from his grasp and sent it spinning into a corner. His hands found the thick throat, but there was no need to choke it, for the man was without strength. . . . Instead he felt along the floor for the tinder-box and relit the lantern.
The King sprawled on his side, almost black in the face, his lips contorted with pain, while one hand groped at his leg. Peter dragged him back to his pallet, and set the lantern on the chair. In the struggle the deerskin had half fallen from Henry, and revealed his misshapen limbs and huge paunch and unwholesome elderly flesh. Peter looked down on him with a shiver of disgust. Then he filled a cup of cordial and put it to his lips, which greedily drained it. The King lay panting for a little while, while the darkness passed from his face, leaving it mottled and pale again. The pain in his leg seemed to have gone, for he opened his eyes, and they were bright and wary with fear.
“That was a foolish enterprise, sire,” said Peter. “We two are alone here in this cell. One is old and one is young, one is sick and one is hale. If two such contend there can be but the one issue. . . . He whom you would have slain has a few hours back saved you from death. . . . I would remind you likewise that murder is a deed on which Heaven frowns.”
The King had recovered his bodily ease, and with it his wits. He lay with the
blanket drawn up to his chin, and his little eyes as sharp as a bird’s. There was still panic in them, but also cunning.
“Peccavi,” he said. “‘Twas a sudden tempting of the Devil. May God and His saints have mercy on me! I ask your forgiveness, young sir — I, the King of England, abase myself before you.”
“You would have slain me. Why?”
“A sudden madness. I feared you. . . . I took you for one who was plotting my hurt.”
“Whom do I favour? I, a nameless man of the forest! What enemy of your majesty’s have I the ill fortune to recall?”
“None that lives,” said the King, “but one that died long ago.”
“Even so. It seems I bear on my face the proof of my begetting. Your majesty is right. I am the son of Edward of Buckingham.”
The King’s face did not change, but his lips moved.
“You have come into the west to seek me. I, too, sought you, and God has prepared a meeting. I deserve some favour at your majesty’s hands for this night’s work. First, I saved you from the floods, and second, when your majesty would have knifed me, I forbore to strike back.”
There was a new light in Henry’s eyes. His panic was now under command, and he was back in a world which he understood.
“You talk reason, my lord. I bear no ill will to your house — I have ever admitted its splendour. Your father stood in my way, and I had to thrust him aside, but I have no malice towards his son. You speak truth — I am most deeply beholden to you for what has befallen this night. . . . I will make you the second man in the kingdom. The lands and dukedom of Buckingham shall be yours again, and you shall ride by the King’s bridle and sit high in his Council.”
Henry’s eye was alert and watchful, but his smile was that grave and kindly smile that had often beguiled men’s hearts.
Peter lifted his hand.
“Let me tell you of this cell where we now lie,” he said. “Hither after Stoke battle came one who had been the second man in the kingdom, who had ridden by the King’s bridle, and had sat high in his Council. He was a fugitive, but in this place he was safe. Here he could lie till the hunt had passed, and he could get himself and his wealth abroad. But only one other knew the secret of the place, and that other fell sick and died. So the great lord Lovell was left to starve like a rat whose hole had been stopped. Two months back I entered this place, and stumbled over his bones. I came seeking treasure and I found it.”
The King pulled the blanket from his chin. “‘Fore God, I knew it,” he said. “‘Twas not Neville nor Avelard that paid for this mischief in the west. . . .”
“You mistake me. I said I found treasure, but it was not Lovell’s gold. I found the philosopher’s stone, the touch of which dissolves earth’s ambitions. I no longer seek what Lovell sought.”
The King sat up, and as he moved his leg he squealed with pain.
“That is an honest thought,” he cried. “You would go back to Holy Church? I commend you, my lord. I will rejoice to further your purpose. You may have the choice of any abbey in this land. Nay, you will be bishop as soon as I can make room for you. I . . .”
“Your majesty misreads me. I will never be clerk again. But I will not rest till there is a new England, for I am a fighter on God’s side. I would save my soul.”
“By the rood so would I!” The King’s face had a serious bewilderment. “I am the devoutest man that ever wore ermine. If I have broken with the Pope, I will defend the faith better than he. No heretic shall breathe freely in this land while I sit on the throne. I have confuted in argument Luterano and Sacramentary alike. My chief study in my closet is holy learning. Every day I serve the priest at mass, every Sunday I receive the holy bread, every Good Friday I creep on my knees to the Cross.”
There was a strong passion in the King’s voice. This man, who a little before had been a murderer in intent, believed devoutly that he was on the side of virtue.
“You would serve God by putting yourself in God’s place?” Peter said quietly.
The King looked puzzled.
“I am God’s vicegerent on earth,” he said, “therefore I sit in God’s place. But the creature abaseth itself before the Creator.”
“Is it God’s purpose that you burn honest folk for a little deviation of faith, and likewise send to death those who hold in trust God’s estates because they will not surrender them to your minions?”
The King’s face lit up. Here was ground with which he was familiar.
“Distinguo,” he cried. “No man suffers under me save for denying the catholic faith in which is alone found salvation. You are a strange clerk if you contemn that duty. I am the guardian under God of my people’s hopes of Heaven. I am determined to make this realm one in faith as it is one in law. If I have shouldered his Holiness of Rome from the headship of Christ’s Church in England, the more need that I perform the task in which his Holiness was somewhat negligent. Listen, my lord. Law is above all men, king and peasant alike. Of that law there are two branches, the law of God and the law of England, and both are in my care. The first is based upon God’s Word and that inherited practice of God’s Church which, being inspired by the Holy Ghost, is likewise canonical. I would make the Scriptures free to all in the vulgar tongue — you may have heard of my efforts thereto — but I would not permit ignorant men to interpret them as they please. The interpretation is laid down by Holy Church, and he who rebels against it will burn, be he bishop or noble, clerk or cotter.”
There was no fear now in the small bright eyes. Henry spoke with a fierce authority, and his broad low brow had set in weighty lines.
“As to the second law, the law of England, I am its most devout and humble servant. I have never acted save in obedience to that law. ‘Twas that law that shook off the Pope’s burden. ‘Tis under that law that I have taken order with certain religious houses. I have made it my care that the blessing of law shall be free to all, the poorest as well as the greatest, and that all shall stand equal before the royal tribunals. That law is not my private will, but the approved judgment of the wisest men. Maybe I have guided it into new channels, but the flow is that which came down through six centuries. I have sworn before God, that if any man, be he never so great, outrage that law I will make his head fly for it, and by God’s help I will keep that vow so long as there is breath in my nostrils.”
“Yet you have made an England,” said Peter, “which is in some sort a stye and in some sort a desert.”
“In what respect, sir?” the King asked sharply. “I have given it peace.”
“That peace which is a desert,” was the answer. “Your loans and benevolences have bled it white. There is as much suffering as in the days of the Black Death. The rich grow richer, and the poor die by thousands in the ditches.”
“Ay,” said the King. “No doubt there is much misery abroad. But mark you, young sir, ‘tis a shallow philosophy which judges on what exists but takes no account of what has been prevented. . . . I have had to steer a difficult course among the plots of the Emperor and the French King. Had I steered less skilfully a new Duke William might have landed on English earth. To defeat my enemies cost money, and that my people have cheerfully paid, for they knew it was for them that I fought. . . . For the rest, I say again that I have given them peace. But for my strong hand the nobles would have been at each other’s throats, and at mine, as in the old Wars of the Roses. I have shed blood, doubtless, but, had I been weak, every drop of that blood would have been a river. Quicquid delirant reges, says the poet, plectuntur Achivi. By curbing the madness of the kings I have saved the commons from stripes. Think you that is a small thing? By God, I am the man in all England best loved by the commonalty.”
“I read it otherwise. What know you of the true commonalty of England? Your counsellors are the new men who have risen to power by the oppression of the poor.”
To Peter’s surprise the King assented.
“I do not altogether deny that. Hark you, my lord. These be strange and perilo
us times in which we live. Men’s minds everywhere and in all things are in a confusion. Europe is a whirlpool because of the ambition of kings and the unsettlement of the Church. Here in England is the same strife in lesser degree. Not in things religious only, but in the things of Mammon, for it would appear that a new world is coming to birth. It is a hard world for many, a kind world to a few, but it needs must come as spring must follow winter. Everywhere in the land men are following new trades, and old customs are passing away. We grow rich, and in growing rich we doubtless grow hard, but that hardness is needful in the narrow portals of a new world. Had I been a slack-mouthed king, this England of mine would have been booty to the proud. Had I summoned to my councils only the ancient nobles, a promising growth would have been nipped in the bud. In a time of unsettlement one thing is needful above all others, and that is a strong hand and an iron law. That law I will give to England, though every shire be in flames against me!”
The man was great. It was borne in on Peter that this vast being, wallowing among Mother Sweetbread’s homespun blankets, had the greatness of some elemental force. He hated him, for he saw the cunning behind the frank smile, the ruthlessness in the small eyes; but he could not blind himself to his power. Power of Mammon, power of Antichrist, power of the Devil, maybe, but something born to work mightily in the world.
The King was speaking again.
“I will have no treason in this land,” he said, “for it is treason not against my person — which matters less — but against the realm of England. In Europe there is Cæsar who has empire over men’s bodies, and the Pope who has empire over men’s souls. I have sworn that I too shall be imperial, and England an empire. No foreign Cæsar or foreign Pope will issue edicts over this English soil. There will be one rule within these isles, not of Henry or Henry’s son, but of English law. The Church will acknowledge its headship. Even now I am bringing my turbulent kinsmen of Wales inside its pale. There is not a noble but will be made to bow his stiff neck to it. Before I die I hope with God’s help to make Scotland my vassal, so that the writ of England shall run from Thule and the Ebudes to the Narrow Seas. Only thus shall my people have peace, and as a peacemaker I shall be called the child of God.”