He must hurry to get away from Cornwall and Devonshire where he was known to so many. In Hampshire, he might be overlooked. Pray God, he groaned, that he were overlooked. Once within the sacred walls, even the king would have no power to take an abbot’s penitent away. There he would be safe and, should the abbot prove himself a kindly man, he might be left to live a quiet life until he died naturally; although he feared that would not be possible. Men in sanctuary, even more than men elsewhere, could be bought, and a pardon would be cheap payment for the head of the king’s chief enemy. Nay, Nay. Not even in sanctuary would he be safe. Never in all his life again would he be safe and able to mingle with his fellows without this continual horror that there was an enemy behind him, making him too afraid to turn his head and look lest a fiend be on his back.
Even terror, alas, could not drive away' memories of Katherine. Had it not been for her, he felt, he might almost have been glad that the foolish dream at last was over and he should be able to steal back unnoticed amongst his fellows. Until he had met her, the adventure had been little more than a frolic which he had never intended to continue to the death. Gaily had he accepted the offerings of chance, delighting in bright garments, rare foods and heady wines, while enjoying the many offerings of love-play gladly given a prince both by common wenches and great ladies … Then when the offer came — the suggestions made at first more by hints and looks than by plain words — amazed he had realized that King James was prepared to give him his own sibling in marriage, and for the moment he had drawn back, daunted by the realization that such a union would condemn him inescapably to the mummery of being Prince Richard. This Lady Katherine was no tirliry-pufkin to be swyved and afterwards forgotten in the dawn. She was the granddaughter of King James I of Scotland, and a very great, and a proud lady. Such an alliance raised him far above his fellows and it confirmed him in the belief that this was after all no mummery and that he was in very truth King Richard the Fourth. Ay, had he been an impostor, James would never have disparaged his sibling in such a union. After that, his own doubts were stilled, alas … Alas, had he not married that golden woman, he would never have risked this invasion of England; but feeling within himself that he was a cheat, a guilty man, a changeling in her august bed of beauty, he had had to prove to her that he was Richard of England.
And all the while, she had not been deceived even though often he had deceived himself. She had confessed the truth aboard the Cuckoo during the storm. All the while she had known that he was base-born Perkin Warbeck; yet she had allowed her coz, the king, to place him in her bed. The act, God’s curse on her, of a harlot indifferent to her partner? or of a woman so in love that she was reckless and contemptuous of her own greatness under the pull of desire? He did not know and it seemed now that he would never know. Never once had he surprised her into telling the truth about her feelings. Always when with her had he felt uncomfortable, inferior, a sense of guilt keeping him more or less tongue-tied with angry shame lest he had cozened her with a false name and had bought her body without her heart. Now, he would never learn her secret. Back to Scotland she would sail to divorce him and marry some man more fitted to her greatness; or Henry might keep her in England and wed her to some Englishman. Easily, could their marriage be set aside. Even if Tydder failed to make her a widow, the pope would not refuse a divorce to so great a lady. Then he would be forgotten and she would become the wife of an equal, if any man could be her equal.
Perhaps already he was forgotten; never at any time had he been more to her than a stranger whom she had graciously admitted to her chamber. A witch, mayhap, a Circe, and he no more to her than a creature she had raised with conjurations … For witches could build a lover out of air or earth when they desired one, uplifting the dead for lovers, bodies without souls, the active images of their own lusts. When she closed her eyes, he had been certain that he was forgotten; and often in the dawn had he opened the bed-curtains to stare at her when she did not know that she was watched. Then had she looked soft and helpless, like any woman, in the wealth of her golden hair; and her breathing would reassure him of her humanity, the pulse in her throat, the occasional sigh, and the wet of the pillow beside her mouth. But never once in that morning light had he dared to take her into his arms. He had not dared to kiss her even lightly. Carefully, timid of waking her, had he stolen out of bed.
With the opening of her eyes, the stranger had returned within the woman. Those large and expressionless eyes would then look at him with indifference, with no more interest than if he had been another woman. He should have beaten her, have kissed her until she had weakened and surrendered her defences and confessed her thoughts. But he had never had the courage. Again and again had he stridden to her chamber, determined to use the whip, if necessary; and then she had looked at him, large empty eyes of beauty, as though she were a tinted statue, inviolable and cold; and he had not spoken, he had become her slave again, grateful for the crust of a smile or a kindly word.
Through the night now she rode beside him. A witch — was not Scotland notorious for witches? — and he could feel her scorning him as a coward who fled in the dark. Ay, even should he reach her in time and smuggle her from Michael’s Mount, she would still despise him, as well she might, and would knock aside his hands. When he had been in that fortress he had heard of a nearby magic well — there was no well on the Mount, no water apart from what could be stored from rain — sacred to St. Keyne; and it was said that whoso drank of it, either husband or wife, he or she would ever afterwards have mastery in marriage. He had laughed when he heard the tale but now he wished that he had taken a sip or two. Sometimes was it foolish to scoff at old legends. And had he mastered Katherine he would have been the happiest man alive; but he had laughed at the magic well and was now the unhappiest of men.
Only to rest and bait their horses did they stop; and in silence then they stood, listening for pursuit and hearing only the thunder of their own hearts. There was nothing further for them to say to one another. Perkin — he could call himself the prince no longer — knew that Heron hated him and was furious at his refusal to continue the futile mummery unless they gathered well-armed troops; while Skelton was not so sunk in despair that he could not show his resentment at becoming so suddenly a fugitive. Only Ashley remained his friend; and Perkin could have wept with gratitude when the man pressed his arm or cheerfully gave encouragement and talked of the new life which they would begin together in Burgundy.
“It were best to travel there,” he said. “We can’t trust the Scots, the Irish or the French, while the duchess showed you love that was not feigned. Whatever the others might have thought, she knew you for her brother’s son.”
And that was extraordinary, thought Perkin in his new, grovelling humour. How could she, who should have been the first to detect a counterfeit, have accepted him immediately and without questioning? She had gripped his hands and had kissed him and had stared long into his eyes. Then she had turned to the Bishop of Cambrai who had been lounging at her side. “See, your grace,” she had cried, “he has his father’s eyes, were it not for the blindness in one; and there is much of his father in his walk. And his mother, too, is on his mouth and in the nostrils. There can be no question of his lineage. Here is a young Plantagenet.”
With not a twinkle of doubt, gravely had the bishop bowed, staring hard at him the while. “Ay, your grace,” he had said, “there is much of the mother in him; and of the father, too, me-thinks. His parentage is plain enough.”
She had not been lying, whatever the bishop, a courtier, might have thought in his heart. With the others, Charles VIII of France, Maximilian of Austria and his son, the Duke of Saxony and the Kings of Spain and Denmark, he had sensed under their flattering words a hint of mockery; but with the duchess, it had been different; and above all other princes, she was most likely to have read the truth and to have remembered her brother’s likeness. Once he reached Burgundy, under her protection he should be safe; but
first he had to wriggle out of England.
Endless seemed that night to him; the black trees, mauve fields and purplish sky were unreal, like a painting in a book, and only sound was alive. Heavy breathing, the clop of hoofs and the jingle of harness: that was all. Everything else was fantasy and he could not truly believe, even in his terror, that others were living on this earth, although at every moment his panic grew until when at last, exhausted, his horse staggering, he reached sanctuary and almost tumbled to the ground.
The porter did not ask his name. Before he spoke, he was known and he realized that news of his desertion had somehow ridden ahead of him; and that meant that King Henry must know of it and must know whither he had fled. In the monks’ surly faces he saw that he was not wanted, but they could not reject him. He came as a sinner claiming the protection of God; and grudgingly, crouching over a charcoal fire in a low brass dish, the abbot glared at him, pushing out his lower lip. The heavy-lidded reptilian eyes and the unshaven jowls gave the. man a lazy, debauched appearance; but when suddenly he smiled, showing strong yellow teeth, something vicious seemed to spring alive in him. A smug, conceited man, a dangerous man, pitiless to all save his own comfort, he drew back with distaste as though they stank when the four fugitives were shown into his chamber.
“I cannot have you here,” he cried in a thin, sharp voice. “Already, see! you break our laws, invading God’s refuge with carnal weapons. Know you not the prophet’s warning? Those who live by the sword shall perish by the sword.”
Perkin blinked at him, not having expected such harshness from a man he did not know; but before he could speak, Ashley spoke.
“My lord,” he said with a deep bow, “in our haste we have been forgetful, not acting, may it please you, with any thought of offence. Put aside your weapons, my friends.”
Of course! they were forbidden to carry weapons into the house of God. Ruefully, they unbuckled their belts and surrendered swords and knives to the clerks. Now they were helpless against their enemies, open to murder, and in that heated room they felt a chill as though with the surrender of those weapons they had stripped themselves naked.
“That is a little more Christian,” sniffed the abbot. “My holy office forbids the refusal of charity even to traitors; but all men cannot command the safety of our protective arm; and those to whom we grant it are expected to work in some fashion under my orders. You understand the rules?”
“Yea,” murmured the four weary men; and after the long ride of terror and his high hopes of a friendly refuge, Perkin felt sick and desperate before this man’s open enmity, and he no longer cared what they might do to him so long as he might sleep.
“Here,” continued the abbot, smiling to see their disappointment, “we accept only those offenders who, by mischance only, fall into an offence, ah offence mortal outside sanctuary; and those who, if truly repentant of their sins, confess themselves sorrowful and eager for penance. You, sirrahs, all four of you, have the hanging countenances of the damned; yea, very wicked countenances have you, and you look sorry for yourselves if not for your wickedness; but, tell me, do you repent in your hearts? Towards his grace the king, on whom God’s blessing, you have shown yourself traitors and mad dogs towards the commonweal. No lies now, as you love your souls! Do you repent that wickedness which is a kind of parricide, to rise against your king?”
Of course, they did not repent that rebellion, apart from its hiving failed. Given the smallest hope of success they would never have fled.
“I am waiting to hear your confessions,” smiled the abbot “Do you repent your parricidal sin, this filthy blasphemy against the Lord's anointed? I am waiting, sirrahs, and I am not a patient man with heretics.”
“My lord,” quavered Skelton, “I am but a worm beside your holiness, a poor crushed worm that has rotted his soul in over-indulgence in the flesh, for to me the sight of pretty women was very sweet and very dangerous. With all my heart, do I repent it.”
The abbot shrugged, wrinkling his nose, and he lifted the golden pomander holding a sponge soaked in vinegar that he might sniff away their sins and refresh himself. “Pish,” said he, “such are not sanctuary sins, the common foulness of men and women, and, like most priests, I am weary of listening to the boasting and the lies of what is done at night. I speak of rebellion against our lord the king. Do you repent that villainy?”
For a moment, Perkin believed that Skelton was going to act the hero. The man drew himself erect and opened wide his eyes and was about to speak; then suddenly his shoulders sagged and he groaned and whimpered: “With all my heart, your holiness; with body and heart and liver and reins do I regret my sin and beg for penance.”
“What of you other three?” asked the abbot.
As though he were half-strangled and the words difficult to drag through his throat, Heron muttered: “I repent, my lord, and pray forgiveness both from God and the king for my rebellion.”
“I, too,” said Ashley with a shrug. “The night, sir, is cold to a hunted man, and all my life have I been a fool, taking always the lost cause and loving the poor above the rich, the oppressed above the oppressors. Now I know that I have been mad through these years and, in the sight of God, my eyes are opened. I crave peace, my lord, God's peace and His forgiveness. Therefore from now I cast away all carnal ambitions that before have tempted me into sin. This lad feels as I feel.”
“Let him speak for himself,” growled the abbot. “Bring the light closer, Brother Anselm. Bring the candle near that I might see this knave and study ingratitude and wickedness in one so young … Pah! the likeness is small, like the blue sky reflected in a puddle. You are King Edward’s bastard, are you not, begotten on some she-dog while your father lay like poor Lot, too drunk to know into whose stinking clutch he had fallen? Tell me, who is your mother?”
“I — I do not know,” whispered Perkin.
“That is better. That is the truth. You do not know. Nor do you know your father, do you?”
“Nay,” stammered Perkin.
So close was the candle to his face that the flame singed his hair and he stepped back, and the candle, in a friar’s strong hand, went back with him, a drop of wax burning his cheek. The prior, the round pomander under his hairy nostrils, seemed to him like a tonsured devil about to gobble a soul; and these monks, he felt, were devil’s imps about him, grinning into his face.
“If you’ll play dumb with me, sirrah,” cried the abbot, face red with sudden fury, “by God’s nails, I’ll have you stripped and flogged and thrown to the pigs; I’ll have you out of sanctuary to be hanged by any loyal man who hates a traitor. For you are a traitor and deserve no mercy; but doubtless you have secrets in that wicked heart which his highness might like to rack out of you, the names of those who encouraged you in this wickedness; for example, the traitors who summoned you to disturb his realm … For that reason, I grant you the sanctuary you don’t deserve.”
“I thought, I thought,” stuttered Perkin, “I thought that any sinner who repented could claim protection here.”
“What, sirrah! do you think that the holy church would protect her own enemies like a fool who loves lice? For you are the enemy of the church in that you conspired against our anointed king and disturbed the realm. We admit no blasphemers here, none who think to cheat the church with false return of tithes, none who defame our office or make mock of holy things. You are an outlaw, a wolf’s head, whom true men might kill on sight as they would kill an adder in their homes. But I will show that even to the greatest of wrongdoers, even to Iscariots such as you, the church can show its mercy. You may remain here.”
Perkin could not speak. He swayed, everything becoming shadowy before him save for that one figure crouched over his pomander that was shaped like a pomegranate.
“Take them away,” said the abbot suddenly, and he spat, the gob sizzling on the charcoal that hissed as though with venom. “See that the rogues do not die of thirst, master cell
arer. You have by canonical law forty days and forty nights for prayer; forty days and forty nights in which to prepare yourself for meeting the king’s justice. May you enjoy them while you can … Take them away. Rho! they stink as though they were already worms’ meat. Their faces weary me. They reek of sweat and the oil of cowardice. Be off with them, yarely.”
Fastidiously, he turned back to the pomander while in silence the monks closed about the three exhausted men and edged them towards and out of the door. Bowed under fears, Perkin followed his friends, feeling stone-hearted, being certain that he walked to an imminent and terrible death at the hands of torturer and hangman.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SANCTUARY
THIS Cistercian Abbey of Beaulieu, they found, was to them a prison and no sanctuary. The abbot had not dared refuse their demand for protection lest he bring disrepute on the church. But after the traditional forty days and forty nights had passed they would be surrendered to the king. Nor were they treated like sanctuary-men who had entire freedom within the bounds, able to trade and to visit taverns and cook-shops. They were guarded and locked into one small stone chamber with a barred window. To escape would have been impossible. The sanctuary had been ringed by Tydder’s men under Daubeney; and the lay-brothers who came with food and watery ale delighted in telling them tales of cruelty enacted by the king.
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