A Princely Knave

by Philip Lindsay

  Tapping his long fingers on the arm of his chair, the king stared at him with his hooded eyes. “But you are not alone,” he said. “Have you forgotten that you are a married man? Does your wife mean nothing, eh?”

  As. the king was swift to notice, Perkin flushed at the threat, and his glance wavered. “The Lady Katherine,” he said, “was my wife at the command of her king. She never did believe I was Prince Richard.”

  “She is a handsome lady,” murmured the king, and slowly smiled, “and very much admired. I warrant she’ll not stay long a widow … Sirrah, would you’ like to bid her farewell, because you’ll have no chance of meeting after today? Shall she be summoned here?”

  “No,” cried Perkin.

  “I thought you said that you were no longer afraid? You can push out your chest against your king yet you whimper at the name of your wife. I think that you should see her.”

  “No,” cried Perkin again, and he began to sweat. Never again did he want to see that woman, particularly not now while he was giddy with this revelation. Love would only weaken him and he feared Katherine’s magic. With her always had he felt subservient, like a child with his mother.

  “She is a woman of good sense,” smiled the king. “Her nation is reputed to be often wise, if savage, and she would soon tell you, my lad, that all your hopes rest in my hands. But doubtless a meeting would distress you and I am not an unkind man. Even the stoutest heart must quail under the burden of new-found parents and, on top of that, a returning wife. The wife, I think, can wait … Well,” he said, after a long pause, “are both of you dumb? The bishop can be loquacious enough in a pulpit, no doubt, pointing out other people’s sins for damnation; and I don’t doubt that his bastard can talk like a loose stone in an ewer when he’s given the chance. Yet now you gape at one another like men on a woman, afraid to speak lest she pull your nose. Surely, in your long and energetic life, he is not your only child, my lord bishop?”

  “Have it as you will,” said the bishop. “Jest and mock at us, your grace, but I am grateful to you for this meeting. When first I met the lad I thought him heedless, reckless, a fool thinking only of self-enjoyings. Now I see that he has become a man, and were it not for a lady’s good fame, I’d not be slow to acknowledge him. He is the kind of son I always wanted and I am certain that he can be trusted with our secret.”

  “Let them cut me into pieces,” cried Perkin, “I’ll not say one word.”

  “God’s peace be with you,” said the bishop, and stretched out his hand for him to kiss.

  On his knees, Perkin took that delicate yet strong hand and kissed the ring, blinking away his tears; and he heard his father speaking softly, repeating some Latin benediction.

  “Truly,” chuckled the king, “a most affecting scene — the forsaken bastard on his knees to his celibate father who indenized him in somebody else’s wife — or was she then newly widowed, holy father? and were you consoling the good lady after the Swiss had so expertly gutted that rash bull of a husband of hers? One can scarcely blame the lady for looking elsewhere. Such a bristling beast of a husband was that Charles that he would justify occasional priestly consolations, no doubt. But I’ve not the time to listen to your bawdy past and how the child was smuggled to foster-parents in Tournai and kept secret there until the time came to use him. You have excellent parents, sir bastard, but it seems, they thought little of you.”

  Gently, the bishop withdrew his hand from Perkin’s and raised him to his feet and kissed his cheeks.

  “I will tell her,” he said, “how bravely you bear yourself in this misfortune and that her honour is safe in your keeping.”

  “She may rest assured of that, my lord,” said Perkin. “With God’s grace, I shall show myself no unworthy son. Now can I die content.”

  “A very Christian Christian,” sneered the king, “to forgive those who did evil unto you, abandoning you at your birth and letting you now rot in prison to be tortured later, not caring so long as their fair fame was safe. You are as unnatural a son, my lad, as they are unnatural parents, and I can understand why the Lady Katherine makes merry now that you are away, and I’ll see to her divorce should she want it. It would be a waste of honest gold, I told her, when soon she’ll be a widow.”

  Abruptly he stood to his feet, a small bell in his hand.

  “At the moment you are out of your wits,” he said, “and it would be unjust to have you decide aught at such a time. Think well on what’s been said. You can have life and freedom, ay, and your wife, too, should you want her, if you’ll declare in public what in private you know to be the truth, that you are the Duchess of Burgundy’s bastard disguised by her to deceive my people.”

  “Time is not needed,” said Perkin. “I’ll never alter.”

  Almost gaily, he smiled at his father, so proud he felt; and when the gentleman-usher entered at the king’s ringing of his bell, he bowed while the bishop, his father, blessed him and the king nestled back into his chair, watching them narrowly.

  Chin up, Perkin walked from the palace, out-staring all who thought to out-stare him, and his walk was jaunty. Even weariness and weakness had been subdued by the triumph of this moment when he found that the dream, after all, was no he. He might not be King Edward’s son, but Edward’s sister’s son, and in him flowed the same ancestral blood of royalty setting him apart from and above these courtiers. Like a king he walked amongst them and out of the palace into the sunlit garden and towards the wharf where the barge waited to row him back to the Tower. If not the White Rose itself, at least he was a petal from that rose, may God be thanked.

  As though this were his dominion and these jailers his pages, he settled into the stem of the boat to watch with a proprietorial affection the great city slip past on his left hand, a confusion of tiled roofs clustering up to St. Paul’s with its crooked steeple, golden cross atop, shining into the blue of heaven. His city. For all England should have been his, his blood being purer, despite the bâton sinister, than this damned Tudor king’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE DREAMER AND THE MAN

  WHEN Astwood came again to urge escape he found a different prisoner. No longer languid and melancholy, but bright-eyed, swift in thought, gay of mood and nimble of movement, Perkin listened to his arguments, hope hot within him. Not for himself alone did he wish to escape. Now that he knew the truth of his birth, all desire to impersonate Prince Richard was. gone; but a gnawing hatred of King Henry, the murderer of his race, kept him furious for action. At last was he able to understand the apparently unreasoning anger in Astwood, and of men like Heron and Skelton, which drove them on, careless of any danger, supported by a passion as insatiable as a drunkard’s thirst and as all-consuming as the lover’s need for his beloved. The damned usurper must be overthrown. Beyond that determination he refused to think. Always his thoughts returned to it and he became impatient when distracted on to other subjects. This was a sacred mission bequeathed him by his mother to avenge her brother’s and her nephew’s deaths and to rescue England from a tyrant. All previous conspiracies had been ill-planned or unfortunate. His might have won had not the people risen too soon before his landing. The next venture, he swore, would not fail and he would lead it.

  How? From behind the great walls of this fortress? Somehow he must burrow free and be able to encourage and inspire his friends. Throughout England, followers of the White Rose were waiting with their hands on their swords for his call. Until now they had not been organized. Isolated groups, timid of uniting in dread of treachery and of baits laid by Tydder’s spies, they had remained apart, nobles and merchants, yeomen and labourers. This time all must move together, rising united at a word, to toss the Tudor incubus from their backs. Unlike most rebels, they need fear no intervention from abroad. In all the world there was no king or queen who liked or trusted the dog. Inside his steel wall, his private army, he ruled, dealing out injustice within the secrecy of his own invented Star Ch
amber where laws could be twisted or remade to his pleasure while honest enemies were shut out.

  When he recalled the many opportunities he had had at Sheen when he could have easily killed the man, Perkin felt like battering his head against the wall which was carved with the badges or initials of men who had been locked in there before him. Again and again could he have killed the rogue, and he had not thought of it. Weakling, fool, uncertain of the future and his past, he had been wandering in limbo. Now was he free and restless for action. Yet they had to go carefully, very carefully …

  Astwood had friends both in London and the Tower whom he was sounding and he was sending messages to all those whom he thought might help. Dangerous as yet to approach the mayor and aldermen. Although they made no secret of their dread and loathing of Tydder, they would fear to step into the open until the final blow had been struck. Being wealthy, they were particularly vulnerable and the king, with his advisers, Cardinal Morton, and the two lawyers, Dudley and Empson, was ingenious in seeking ways to fine the rich. Useless to argue or to plead with him. The cardinal had devised a crafty trick which they called Morton’s Fork. Should you plead poverty, he would say that those who live frugally must have saved much; while should you plead the expensive state that you were forced to keep, he would answer that those who spent much must have made much. Impaled on this fork, the victims might squirm but they could not escape; and Dudley and Empson, crows in peacock-gear, flaunting their wealth and power, were even more hated than king or cardinal. By God, had Dudley once said at the Guildhall, he’d see that the aldermen wore coats of russet and not scarlet: he’d drag down their pride, he had said.

  Ay, everywhere in England friends were waiting for the call. Had he realized this earlier he’d not have landed in Cornwall with so hazy a plan; although for that his advisers could not be wholly blamed, not having expected the premature rising of Audley and Flamank and the panic following their defeat. This time he would not act until the right moment offered. Suddenly then would he strike and armed men would spring up beside him, while in every county his followers would tear off the red rose badge to take up the white again. And he wanted no help from Scotland or from any other foreigners. As he had tried to argue with James, such an alliance could only lose him friends; but James, smelling booty, had laughed aside his protests and had charged down to meet a hostile people. No. This must be a war of Englishmen against Englishmen; and once the trumpets sounded, few would be those Englishmen to stand at Tydder’s side. Then, when the throne was won back for the house of York, he would set on it young Warwick, son of the Duke of Clarence, rescued from the Tower, for none could dispute his claim, despite his father’s treason.

  “He has wellnigh lost his wits through the lonely years,” groaned Astwood. “Since Bosworth, he’s scarce ever seen the sun and has talked to few men and never a woman, poor lad. As with you, my lord, Tydder wishes him dead yet fears to strike. But rumours about the murdered princes are so stinking he dare not add to them by killing you, your grace.”

  “I have told you before,” said Perkin haughtily, “that I am not Prince Richard although a Plantagenet. The secret of my birth is in my heart, and proud of it though I be, I cannot speak of it. When we have slain Tydder, my cousin of Warwick must be made King Edward, his claim being excellent.”

  “His claim may be excellent,” grumbled Astwood, “but his wits, I tell you, are as scattered as a Tom o’Bedlam, with thinking on his woes.”

  “They will come back to him when he is free. We want no dissensions, no more rebellions in England, and were I crowned there would be many to dispute my right. But the world knows that Warwick is the Duke of Clarence’s son, true nephew to King Edward and King Richard. He must be made our king.”

  “I care not a blackbeetle who is king,” said Astwood, “so long as bloody Tydder’s head’s on London Bridge.”

  That was the mood of most people, it seemed. They cared not who might rule them so long as they could be rid of this miser driving them to poverty. Hatred of Henry was far greater even than love of the Plantagenets.

  “A friend,” said Astwood, “a cordwainer in yon city, has a. son of most impetuous courage. And this son has a friend, an Augustinian friar named Patrick, who is a familiar at his elbow. This youth, his name is Ralph Wilford — did I tell you, the son of a cordwainer in London? — and this friar, they swear that they will tarry no longer and will have bold Ralph proclaim himself as Warwick.”

  “They must be stopped. There’s no need for a lie when we have the true Warwick with us.”

  “So have I told them and, though they chafed under my finger, they have promised to bide a while. Master Ralph is lusty and the friar like a wild boar at the name of Tydder. We must move quickly or they’ll strike before us.”

  “As soon as we are ready. Nay, friend,” cried Perkin, “I also chafe at delay, but you have seen how every revolt as yet has been easily crushed because it moved too quickly and without plans. There is much yet to be done, more friends to sound.”

  “Ay,” growled Astwood, “but every minute that passes is like a flea at my blood and I am skipping mad to cut some throats.”

  To remain in semi-darkness, unwashed, wearing damp clothing which was never changed, while he could picture sunlight beyond the walls, was torment also to Perkin. The discovery of his parents had stung him out of the slough of self-pity and despair into which he had sunk; and while he dreamed and plotted, always he thought of the duchess and of how she would be proud of him. It was always to her, as though she were his wife or mistress and not his mother, that he saw himself returning in triumph, the crown of England his to be given to whom she chose. Obedient son, he would enact the vengeance of her desire, repaying the blood of her brother and nephews with the head of their murderer. Ay, he would prove to her he was a true Plantagenet.

  Let Katherine mock, scorning him as base-born. By God, when he was master of England, she would have a different man to face and one to whom she could not lie. But he would be magnanimous. Generously would he treat her, never upbraiding her, merely mildly rebuking her treachery and, mayhap, sending her to live in some nunnery after the pope had granted him his divorce. Imagining her amazement and horror when she discovered how foolishly she had acted, he smiled in the dark, savouring that sweet revenge and seeing her as clearly as though she stood beside him in her wealth of yellow hair. Let her weep, let her clamour, let her kiss his hands and implore his pity, never again would he accept her as his wife. She had failed him, cozened him, and had then betrayed him. His love for her lay dead, God be thanked …

  Yet when one day she entered his cell, his heart began to pound so fast that it giddied him and he could not speak. Unannounced had she entered in the care of smirking Cleymound.

  “Your own lady, my lord,” said Cleymound, “has by gracious permission of his highness been permitted to visit you. I’ll not return without knocking, my lord.”

  On the table he set the rush-light caught in iron claws rising from an iron base, and withdrew, closing the door softly after him. And. in that flickering, hissing light, Perkin looked up — for he was lying on his bed — and stared at her as at a ghost, unable to speak. She was more lovely than he had realized. Hatred had smeared her memory, but now when she drew back the blue hood and the shadows moved from her face and he saw again that milky skin and the great blue eyes and the long throat and the high breasts, he shivered as though she were some goddess.

  In silence, they looked on one another, and there were tears in Katherine’s eyes when she saw how thin he had become and how he was unwashed, unshaven, and in rags. Seeing those tears glint in the taper-light, Perkin set his teeth, remembering that this was a subtle enemy with whom he must be careful what he said.

  “Lady,” he growled at last, rolling off the bed and giving her an exaggerated bow, “welcome to my chamber. I hope its luxuries content you. There stands my bed, no risk of it tumbling down although it looks rickety, so f
irm the wood and strong the ropes criss-crossing it. Only the mattress, mayhap, is a little hard and somewhat prickly, being stuffed with straw and a hive of fleas, and there is only that one small stool on which you can rest your pampered body. Unfortunately, I am not master here, but only a guest and can command no luxuries for your refreshment.”

  Astonished, he saw that those tears were real and that they over-swelled the lids and trickled down her cheeks, and he heard her sobs. Tears! genuine tears! or was she so skilled a cheat that she could turn them on as though she had a cock in her skull? He’d not be bubbled by them, he swore.

  “My lord,” she whispered, “I did not know that you lived … like this.”

  “Lady, you mistake me if you believe that I complain,” he laughed with forced gaiety. “For a prisoner, a dangerous enemy of his highness, I am treated liberally. From what my jailers say, I am one of the most fortunate men alive, and certainly the most fortunate in the Tower, as yet. Some there are who are chained here day and night, some chained down for the rats to nibble, and some are racked and beaten. Not I, forsooth! I must be a favourite of his gentle highness. Else how could my loving wife have been granted permission to visit me?”

  “I — I pleaded for it,” she said, and cleared the huskiness from her throat that she might speak steadily. “I had been told you blamed me for your capture and I could not bear to have you think so ill of me.”

  “I think of you as you deserve,” he said.

  “I couldn’t reach you that night at Sheen. They knew all about our plotting. God knows how the king knew but know he did. As I was about to go to meet you, he sought out the queen and stayed in her company many hours, bidding me remain with them. Before God, that is the truth, my lord.”

  He shrugged and did not answer, smiling into her face.