A Princely Knave

by Philip Lindsay

  He groaned and rubbed his velvet sleeve across his eyes, then blinked at Katherine where she swayed in her crouching posture, her back unbalanced on her heel and her bent toes burning. A mocking smile edged up his thin lips at the corners when he noted her trembling shoulders and saw how she swayed. Long he watched her, speculating when she would flounder over on to her side, and idly wondering whether he would be vouchsafed a glimpse of her legs and what shape they were and what might be the colour of her hose and garters. He was not a lecherous man, yet he liked women and it amused him to catch them unawares in moments of embarrassment. Should her legs prove to be thin or the calves muscular or the ankles fat he would have been delighted, for when he was worried, as now, he found a certain relief of tension in worrying others. This woman was broiling on a grid of fear. She did not know whether her husband had been taken in the conspiracy and what would be his doom. And her agony of spirit weakened her who was usually imperious until, he calculated, it would not be long before she swooned, the blood cramped in her limbs.

  She lurched, then sat back on her heel, then lurched again and put out a hand to hold herself from the floor while her head in the cloth-of-gold headdress dipped forward; and he heard her heavy breathing broken by a sob.

  “You may get up,” he said.

  He would not permit her to be seated. He saved her from the swoon but he kept her on her feet that he might stare into her face. She had been weeping, her red eyes showed it, her fingers twitched when they grasped her golden girdle, and her convulsive breathing showed the full weight of her bosom under the skin-tight green cloth.

  “You called for me, your grace,” she whispered at last, unable any longer to bear that oppressive silence.

  “Ay, so I did, so I did,” he muttered, lids lowered until his eyes became slits. “Why should I have called you? what do I want of you? A Scottish woman, ay, I have no need to fear your countrymen any longer now that my daughter is their queen, a rose in the thistle’s bed to bring forth unity in a son, I pray, as I in my marriage wedded York to Lancaster …” He winced and tapped on the table, perhaps recalling how that marriage had failed in much of its purpose, the country remaining unappeased. “Ay,” he said, “but you are also the bastard’s lady. Should traitors live, think you?”

  She licked her lips before she could speak and her voice was very low when she said: “All are not alike, your grace, some are but innocent weapons in the hands of others.”

  “Like your husband, eh?”

  She nodded, being unable to speak in her distress.

  “And Warwick?” said the king. “Here is a false Warwick now risen against, me, urged to it by some traitor friar. I cannot kill the friar who will plead to be tried in the spiritual court, and there they are always over-gentle to their own, no matter what the villainy, lest the church suffer in its reputation. But he’ll not escape me. If not hanged, I’ll have the dog locked into some dark cell alone until he dies or goes stark mad. I told you, I warned you, I will pardon no more. No more,” he repeated, glaring at her.

  She dared not ask him about Perkin. In anguish she waited, beginning to feel dizzy again.

  “Your husband is a fool,” said the king. “He must be warned that my forgiveness is at an end. That from now he obeys me, does what I command of him, or there’s an end to it.”

  Perkin was not dead, was not charged and therefore must be quit of any complicity in this rebellion. Joy at that discovery was such that Katherine did not heed the threat under the king’s words. She gulped, trying desperately not to weep, while she felt her legs begin to sag, the knees giving a little.

  “Did you hear me?” cried the king, his voice rising. “If your husband will not do what I say, I’ll have him hanged. I have been too gentle with the rogue; now will I show how ruthless I can be. He must bring Warwick into some plot, a plot to escape, to blow up the Tower, anything so long as it is treason. Have no fear for your husband. If he is obedient he’ll not suffer, but Warwick is wellnigh a Bedlamite without the brain to plot anything.-He’s seen so little of the world that he’s a child, and like a child he can be easily led. Your husband must lead him, madam, must lead him to the rope.”

  “He would never do it,” she whispered.

  “Then you must do it for him. You are a woman, born for intrigue. Whenever you wish it you can visit him. I’ve no fear of your betraying what I’ve said. It would not matter if you did, my girl. Should your husband have naught of this plan, then he must die some other way. But if you could so manage it that he traps Warwick, even though he does not know that he traps him, you’ll not be blamed and he will be let free. I must get rid of Warwick. That is all.”

  “He would never do it,” she whispered again.

  “Mother of God!” shouted the king, his voice rising almost to a scream, “he need do nothing. If you cannot tell lies or play tricks, you are no woman. And yet you say you love the fellow! Come, lady, what is the Earl of Warwick to you, a man you’ve not even seen? All I ask of you to is seduce your husband — you should not find that difficult — into escaping and taking Warwick with him. I give my promise that your husband will not be harmed: Once the moment’s ripe, I pounce and I’ll have Warwick in the net … and for reward, you will have your husband pardoned and given back to you again.”

  She could not trust this man. He would promise anything and afterwards he would forget the promise if it suited him. They were alone in that chamber with none save herself to witness his words. Yet if she refused, Perkin assuredly would die; while if she consented, there remained some hope, however frail And at least it would keep the king from acting, for a time; and perhaps by then his anger might have cooled …

  “I — -I will do it, sire,” she said; and saw the room spin around her with the king’s long face growing longer, growing longer, and she heard somebody scream and wondered who it was that screamed, herself or some devil, and she saw the rushes on the floor sweep up to strike her cruelly on the face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE END OF THE DREAM

  IF PERKIN could be saved, even against his wish or to the tarnishing of his honour, Katherine was prepared to do anything that the king might ask or her wits suggest. Useless was it to argue with him, to plead with him or to try to wheedle him with kisses. He was drunk on a dream of honour and beside that dream reality had become insubstantial and even love and death appeared of small importance. Yea, even love was of small importance.

  Although his young strength was being sapped by that impested atmosphere and the lack of nourishment, he was gay and he laughed into the future. Never had she found him so loving in his delight at her soul’s submission. He would chuckle while he caressed her, gloating on her with an astonished air, as though he could not believe his good fortune in possessing so lovely, so loving and so obedient a wife, the sibling of a king. Had there not been over them the threat of coming disaster, Katherine, for the first time in her life, would have been entirely happy under his adoration; but never could she forget the watching king and even in moments of bliss she felt the chill of his presence like ice against her backbone and shivering the terror down her flanks. Soon, she realized, soon, at almost any hour of day or night, this dalliance must cease.

  It seemed to her that Perkin had no fears. To try seducing him from his allegiance to Warwick with the bribe of a lifetime’s love was, she knew, useless. To have attempted it would only have driven him from her in disgust. All that she could do was to pray while awaiting an opportunity to save him without his knowing that she had saved him … Therefore she had to counterfeit enthusiasm for his mad dreams, pretending that Warwick could escape and Henry be slain. For Perkin had begun to trust her, revealing little by little more of the plot; and, not knowing then what she would do, whether she might tell the king or no, she dreaded to hear him say that the hour at last had been chosen.

  Now that she came daily to the Tower, bringing foods and wines, Perkin lost much of his
mistrust. So humbly did she behave, she who had been so insolent! never arguing against his dream but being always fond and patient with him, that in his new-found arrogance as the son of the duchess, he grew to accept her devotion as though it were his by right of being her husband and a son of York. Yet this arrogance, she found, had not wholly submerged the old, shy Perkin. In her arms, at times, he became a boy again, clinging to her as though she were his mother, and he drew succour from her devotion while shutting his eyes against the future. Quickly out of these spasms of fear would he swing to shouting over-confidence, a braggart defying unsubstantial enemies in the shadows of his chamber. Could she have been all the time alone with him, before very long, she believed, she might have mastered him as she had mastered him in the past; but she had such little time, dear God, such little time in which to sway him! and when she was back at Westminster, Astwood or Cleymound would be at his side, urging him further on to madness.

  She did not like those men, the enemies of her love. Astwood was afire with hatreds. Almost could she feel his fury burn her when he glared suspiciously into her eyes. Yea, it was a flame within him, and he could chatter of little save of hatred of the king; and his glances were shifty, never meeting yours. Either he was very sly, she felt, or he was as mad as any Tom o' Bedlam. Cleymound was very different. In his great bulk, there showed nothing of the martyr’s absorption in ideals. Against Astwood’s enthusiasm he would use reason, giving ballast to the other’s wind.

  “I like them no more than you,” confessed Perkin when, face hidden by the darkness, she spoke of her mistrust. “Yet I must keep faith in them. Each of us holds the others’ lives in his hands.”

  In Cleymound’s effusive friendliness she smelt deceit and she did not like the way in which he tried with smiles and nods and winks to make her his confederate, drawing her apart from her husband and Astwood. He was a lecher. She knew that the moment he looked at her with a certain cringing insolence, as though he stripped her naked in his mind and licked his lips at what he found. Of the two, she preferred Astwood. And when she strove to balance them, to find which might be a traitor, she was never sure for long. One day It would be Cleymound, and the next day it would be Astwood. Neither of them was pleased to have her in their company. Cleymound might desire her as a woman but he distrusted her as a conspirator, while Astwood distrusted her wholly and her beauty meant not a pinch to him.

  “They will betray you, one of them or both of them,” she warned Perkin.

  “Base tools maybe used for noble ends,” he answered impatiently. “I don’t trust them myself at times, but I have no other friends.”

  “With allies such as that, the adventure must fail,” she said, holding him tight.

  He shrugged. “They have the keys,” he sighed. “Cleymound is keeper of this Tower and without him we could do nothing. He is to give the word. The ship is ready and we wait for him.”

  “When?” she asked. “When?”

  He did not tell her. He said he did not know, that, being a prisoner, he had to rely on his confederates to arrange everything; and she moaned with anger because she was not certain whether he were lying. Any day, any night, there might come the call, the whistle to be ready, and she might not be there. They did not trust her. That they were right not to trust her only strengthened her indignation. They suspected she was acting for the king and therefore were they silent in her presence; and had she known the hour … what would she have done? She could not be sure, but, at least, she would have tried to bargain with the king, demanding her husband’s freedom for her betrayal that he might capture Warwick.

  Each night, on her return to Westminster she told the king what she had heard and seen, reserving only details that might incriminate her husband, and she sought to discover from him whether Cleymound or Astwood were traitors. The king stared at her as though their names meant nothing to him. Rarely did he make any comment on what she told him. Before the fire he would sit, nodding his head and watching her as though he could read into her heart.

  “You must arrest this Cleymound,” she urged, “and Astwood. They are the traitors, drawing my husband into their conspiracy, and it should not be difficult to make them talk. You promised me my husband’s life in exchange for Warwick’s, did you not, sire? Well, there’s the way to it. They’ll give you Warwick quickly enough at a turn of the rack.”

  “Their word would not be sufficient,” said the king. “Warwick would deny whatever they might swear to. He must be caught in the act of treason. For the others, I care nothing.”

  “O, what more can I do?” she moaned, “I’ve hidden nothing from you. I’ve been dishonest to my lord and he would hate me for it if he knew. Please, sire, take the others before it is too late. Any night now they might steal off to Burgundy.”

  “That is why I am waiting,” said the king.

  “And my husband?”

  “I have no dislike of your husband. His confession has made him useless to my enemies: no one would believe him now even though he did escape. But while Warwick lives, conspirators will be always busy and my only longing is to bring peace to England. For England’s sake, he must be taken. But I cannot let one go free and hang the other. Both must hang … or, as I warned you, your husband must earn his pardon.”

  “How?”

  “He must speak out against Warwick. I will need as many witnesses as can be got.”

  “But … but you said … you promised me …”

  She wept and did not try to control her tears. Against the wall she leaned to keep herself from falling while with horror and hatred she stared at him.

  “You have done well enough, my child,” he said, “and have no need to fear. Nor have you been lying to me — at least, not greatly lying …”

  “What — what do you mean? How can you know?”

  “When a wise man employs a spy, my child,” he smiled maliciously, “he is not content to trust the word of somebody he has bought. A traitor to one man can well be a traitor to another.”

  “You have other — other spies?” she faltered, hoping that at least she would hear the truth. “Astwood?” she cried. “Or Cleymound?”

  He shrugged and turned away. “Time is going rapidly,” he said, “and I am weary of waiting. These fools dally too long and must take action yarely. Therefore must you have especial care in watching them.”

  “But which?” she sobbed. “For the love of God, sire, which — Cleymound or Astwood?”

  “I have other servants in the Tower,” he smiled. “Do not be afraid, child, friends are watching you all the time to see that you’re not harmed.”

  That was the royal rascal’s cruel trick, to hang you on suspense, to probe with a hint or with a sidelong threat Cleymound and Astwood might be traitors both, or they might be loyal men, and he had given her this doubt to rankle in her mind. She did not like either man and it was useless telling Perkin her suspicions. When she did, he usually became impatient, truculent, and said that she was the one whom they distrusted and he had greater trust in men than in women.

  Some of his serenity now had gone and she knew by his irritable manner that the hour of escape was near. From confidence to fear he swung, laughing one moment and trembling the next, and he cursed at the mention of Wilford. Why hadn’t the fool waited, as they had urged him to wait, he cried, until he and the friar could have united with their conspiracy? But driven to madness by the friar’s prompting, he had struck too early and been taken. Waste of brave men! What use was he now that he hung in a noose, a plaything for the wind and rain, and the friar locked for perpetuity in a cell where he could scheme no further failures? But had the friar been honest? had he been the king’s man sent to prick Wilford into premature rebellion?

  “There is none to trust! none!” he cried and stared so long and wildly into Katherine’s eyes that she grew afraid, his fingers being on her throat. “You have great freedom, lady,” he said, “and the king has no rea
son to make me happy with your company. Why should you: be given rights denied to most prisoners’ wives?”

  “Mayhap, because I asked for it,” she said, trying to speak calmly.

  Her stillness under his hands, an unnatural stillness as though she held her breath and stretched her legs stiffly in fear, made his suspicions stronger. The rush-light twinkled on his staring eyes and she trembled because there was no love in them, merely a blank, cold anger.

  “But Tydder sent you here,” he said.

  She seemed to grow more rigid. “Why do you ask: that again?” she whispered in a tired voice. “I’ve already told you. He granted my request; and yet … there was something else, something I’d not like to tell you.”

  Swiftly, through the narrow neck, the sand in the hour-glass was running and she must speak now even with his fingers on her throat. Better, she. felt, would it be to die than to continue in this agonized perplexity.

  “I knew it,” he grunted with furious satisfaction. “You were hiding something from me. I knew it all the time.”

  This was the moment she had dreaded and which again and again she had put hastily by, hoping that she might never have to speak. But Henry had become more pressing, more threatening, and she could bear this strain of deceit no longer.