The Silver Bride

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘Tomorrow is the key,’ cautioned Miles, clinking the pewter tankards. ‘Providing Harry can persuade Parliament to petition Gloucester to take the crown, all will be lawful.’

  ‘Aye, it’ll need to be.’ Knyvett tugged his earlobe. ‘Someone’s peppering the rumours and it isn’t us. Old loyalties are crawling out from beneath the stones.’

  *

  There seemed to be little left of the old daub-and-wattle Buckingham showing through the newly surfaced exterior, decided Heloise; all his phrases began to sound rehearsed. He breezed in after supper to visit Miles and finalise next day’s speech, but when Heloise was allowed in afterwards, her husband’s jaw was a little more tilted, his tight-lipped frustration at his immobility more apparent. If he was unable to keep a watchful eye on his lord, Heloise was feeling the same about Dionysia.

  She ran her to earth in the ducal bedchamber next morning after his grace had gone to make his speech to Parliament.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ she announced, dismissing her sister’s maid and making sure the antechamber was clear of servants.

  ‘Would you like to check the chests and aumbries too?’ snapped her sister, snatching up the hairbrush the maid had relinquished. ‘I have an amorous goldsmith hidden beneath the mattress, and that is not a nightingale within that cage but an agent for my lord of Gloucester. Has the invalid turned you out for an airing?’

  Heloise counted for six heartbeats to still her temper and then persevered. ‘Agent, strange you should say that. I was thinking of the yellow-haired spy who reports all she hears.’ Dionysia made no comment and she added, ‘Be Buckingham’s mistress if you must, but for your own safety, be loyal to him.’

  Dionysia’s attention diverted to a well-snagged tress. ‘So you fathomed me.’

  ‘Didie, listen to me!’ Heloise put her hand down over the matted bristles. ‘If Buckingham suspects you of coaxing his confidences …’

  ‘If, if. What can he do to me?’ The hand mirror rose; the cherry lips were draw-stringed to a pout. A long-nailed forefinger explored whether the white-head’s hard centre might be exuded. ‘Only until the coronation, Heloise, that is the arrangement.’ The mirror tilted so the silver surface snared her sister’s face.

  ‘I insist you go back to Crosby Place. Your spying puts both of us at risk.’

  Dionysia laid the mirror on its face and ran a finger beneath the emerald collar that encircled her throat. ‘See this, Harry trusts me. He needs me. Deep inside he is uncertain, unloved. I want to prove to him that he undervalues himself.’

  ‘Pigs might fly! Buckingham has not undervalued himself since Gloucester had made him ruler of Wales a month since. He probably kisses his shaving mirror when his varlet holds it up to him.’

  ‘I want to have a child by him, Heloise.’

  ‘Grow up, Didie. You are talking such utter nonsense.’

  ‘Am I? I want to be loved by the most powerful man in England, and Gloucester is a pious bore, so it has to be Buckingham and that pleases me well.’

  ‘Well it does not please me. I really fear for you.’

  ‘Oh, Heloise!’ She struck a pose like a Yuletide mummer, her hand a question-mark upon her brow, “Oh woe, alack I see a great black crow cast its wings across you, Dionysia, oh yes and there will be plagues of locusts in the Cotswolds.”

  ‘And there very well might,’ snapped Heloise, ‘and I hope they all land on you. What if I should receive a warning? What would you say then?’

  ‘Darling Cassandra, I love you but I do not believe in your predictions. Does anyone? “Changeling,”’ she mocked Miles’s affectionate tone. ‘Ask him if he believes one word of it. Please, do not look so put out, Heloise, I am not saying you are a charletan like Nandik – Harry keeps him like a pet ape for amusement – but I do not believe in your faeries. It is wealth that makes our dreams come true.’

  Heloise closed the door of the bedchamber and leaned against it, eyes closed. An amused cough alerted her; Pershall, the duke’s servant, was sitting in the windowseat.

  ‘I … I was quarrelling with my sister.’

  ‘Were you, my lady?’ His pebble-brown eyes gave her absolution. ‘Upon my oath, I did not eavesdrop. In this house, one learns to be as discreet as a cat watching a birdtable.’

  ‘Pershall, you must keep him safe.’

  ‘Who, my lady?’

  ‘His grace, Pershall. If he falls, we shall all land in a heap.’

  The weathered wrinkles tightened. ‘Aye, I know.’

  *

  By Thursday night, the kingmaking had been completed. Harry on bended knee had eloquently offered the crown to his cousin at Baynards Castle, and Gloucester, flanked by his wife and mother on the barbican, had looked down at the plump worm of nobles and worthies coiling into the cobbled triangle with godlike suspicion – but he had accepted. At least the coup had been bloodless, Miles congratulated himself, if one discounted the demise of Hastings and the distant executions of the hostages Rivers and Grey.

  As the bells of the city pealed in the reign of King Richard III, it was Harry who decreed a repeat of the final moments of victory for his frustrated speechwriter.

  Bolstered by muscadelle and pillows, Miles lay back with Heloise embellishing his outstretched arm like a serif, while upon his other side, Dionysia Ballaster sat detached, with catlike independence, her study entirely centred upon her lover.

  Harry, hatless, took up his stance below Knyvett, who was poised sternly on the oaken chest like an unearthed Roman statue. De la Bere and Latimer provided the crowd.

  ‘My lords, gentlemen, friends all,’ Knyvett declared, trying to sound like Gloucester, ‘you do me greater honour than any man may dream of, and yet the task you wish on me is …’

  ‘Onerous,’ prompted de la Bere.

  ‘—onerous. I pray you do not ask this of me for even if Prince Edward is England’s unlawful king, he is still my brother’s child. I cannot agree to take my nephew’s crown – or words to that effect,’ Knyvett added. ‘Can I get down now?’

  ‘No, William, we have not finished yet.’ Harry turned to Miles. ‘Basically, I said that if he would not accept the crown, we should have to send for someone else and that there was another right willing across the water.’

  ‘Tudor!’ exclaimed Miles. That had not been in the speech notes.

  ‘Aye, it lit the powder. Oh, he went rigid.’

  ‘So what did he answer?’

  Latimer threw a cushion to prompt Knyvett, who knotted his hands before him and declared: ‘If it is truly your desire, then I shall accept, but be sure all of you that you want me for your king, for without your love, such kingship as I may offer you rests but as on eggshells. I have no wish to be king. There was a jeer then. Just one. Someone jeer!’ Latimer obliged.

  Heloise shifted uneasily beneath Miles’s arm. His wife’s hidden disapproval echoed his own misgivings at the irreverence. England needed a man like Gloucester, a man who cared about justice and consultation. Why the mockery? In vino veritas?

  ‘Then I must obey God’s will and yours.’ Sir William declaimed solemnly. ‘I swear before Almighty God that I shall do my best to bring peace and justice to this troubled land.’ The room was silent. Somewhere in the laneway a dog barked.

  ‘God save King Richard.’ Harry’s soft words caressed the unexpected quiet. He shot Miles a swift ironic smile before he turned to help Knyvett back to the floorboards. ‘I think we may dispense with the hat-tossing, huzzahs and applause at this point.’

  ‘I certainly received the drift of your meaning.’

  Heloise felt the arm about her stiffen and raised her head, questioning. It shall not be the axe for me yet a while, his expression swiftly told her, but his eyes were brilliant as lodesterres as he studied Buckingham. For an instant, the two men stared at one another and then Miles disengaged his arm from entanglement and, palms up, offered the silent wreaths that were expected.

  Buckingham gave him a mighty hug, buffeting his shoulder. ‘W
e are safe, Miles! We did it! You clever whoreson, this is all your doing.’

  Tears ran down the panes of Miles’s soul.

  Gulping back his own emotion, Buckingham withdrew his moist cheeks so that his expression might embrace them all. ‘We plaguey did it!’ The bed at that point descended into a rout of limbs until Miles yelped loudly and his apologetic friends sprang off like a volley of cannonfire.

  *

  ‘You have an unexpected visitor,’ Heloise announced next day, swiftly kicking a forgotten stocking under the bed as Sir Richard Huddleston entered.

  ‘Is it someone’s saint’s day?’ asked Miles dryly.

  ‘Sir!’ rebuked his wife.

  ‘Not unless you are a culinary devotee of St Martha.’ His guest’s glance took in the abandoned trivet, the tray of phials and herbs and the half-played chess game. ‘We can cook you an omelette to the chanting of prayers if Lady Rushden can purvey some eggs.’ He sat himself uninvited on the bed and tossed his riding crop and gloves aside.

  ‘I hear your hearty northerners have arrived,’ Miles remarked smoothly, his fingers stroking a captured pawn. ‘My lord of Northumberland too. How very embarrassing, now the hurly-burly is over.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Huddleston, clearly aware that he was being baited. ‘They are to be sworn in as special constables for Coronation Day. We have ordered hat badges so they will have something to take home with them other than London curses. I am the bearer of thanks from our new king, by the way, master speechwriter. A gift of fresh quills might have been appropriate, but let us hope there is no need. Something more permanent might be arranged in due course – when the hurly-burly is over.’ Here he bestowed a light smile upon Heloise, who was resisting the temptation to bang their heads together.

  ‘The king’s grace desires you both to attend at the Abbey on Sunday week,’ he added. ‘I am afraid that even if we dress you in colours to match everyone else, Rushden, your palliasse will untidy the procession. Now if we had another horizontal knight to keep things tidy …’ He finished the sentence with a shrug.

  Miles took up the challenge. ‘We could stab the Marquis of Dorset if we could find him, carry him in to balance appearances, and hold the funeral at the same time as the corona—’

  ‘His highness’s thoughtfulness is most appreciated,’ cut in Heloise swiftly, ‘but I am not certain that—’

  ‘Perhaps a cart the night before,’ suggested Miles, quelling her. ‘We can tidy away the bedpans before people in ermine start arriving.’

  ‘I will clear matters with his grace of Buckingham.’ Their visitor retrieved his movables and rose. ‘One last thing. Are the tavern rumours all from you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is what I thought but …’ Huddleston had no intention of finishing the sentence before he left.

  ‘Well,’ exclaimed Heloise as she returned from escorting their visitor down the stairs. ‘I missed half of that, or were you growling at one another beneath the level of female understanding?’

  Miles’s forehead was like a ploughman’s strip. ‘There were no growls.’

  ‘I hate to say it but this going to the coronation is foolish. You could spoil the mending.’

  ‘You think they want me permanently crippled? There’s a thought.’

  Bestowing icy looks upon him was to cast water on an impervious surface. Her drake, having had a bout of feather ruffling, looked fit to curse. ‘Make sure you know where your interest lies, madam wife,’ he muttered.

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Her hips shelved fists. One could not pummel one’s horizontal husband.

  ‘I thought you could read minds.’

  ‘Not when they are as obtuse as yours!’

  ‘Miles!’ bellowed an impatient voice from the stairs. ‘Curse it, lad! Do you have to have your bedchamber half … way to Heaven!’ Red-faced and panting, a large man lingered, stoppering the doorway until he was poked forward. ‘What is this I hear that you have gone and married a cursed Ballaster wench?’ There was no mistaking to whom her husband owed his ebony hair and aristocratic beak.

  ‘Would you like to curtsey, Heloise,’ suggested Miles suavely. ‘It might help.’

  Pushed off the coverlet, Heloise blinked up at the intimidating man she had nearly encountered at Potters Field. ‘Lord Rushden.’ The sudden huskiness of her voice was lost in a rustle of skirts as she sank obediently.

  ‘You must admit it settles the matter of Bramley, Phillip.’ The lady who spoke materialised from behind Lord Rushden, and Heloise’s gaze met the sea-grey eyes of Miles’s mother. She raised Heloise up and kissed her on either cheek. ‘It is the right one,’ she murmured, but such a cryptic remark confused Lord Rushden. He stared puzzled at Heloise’s right cheek, and then understanding came and he reached out and pinched it anyway in a friendly manner.

  ‘Wear your armour to bed, do you?’

  ‘Not any more,’ answered Heloise cheerfully. ‘The lance-restwas a nu—’ She turned pink as a billowy sunset as Miles’s fist thumped the bed and he curled sideways laughing. It was not what she had meant.

  ‘It is all right.’ A large paw shook her shoulder. ‘She will do, lad. She will do!’

  *

  Miles abjured the coronation. Viewing nothing but sweaty ankles from his mattress would be too obnoxious. He was safer stewing in Dowgate, decided Heloise, crushed in the overscented throng at Westminster beside her mother-in-law, for the July sun was not cooking the abbey; it was steaming it. Paste-stiff veils were growing limp upon their wires, and ermine and gris trimmings began to heat their wearers’ tempers before the fanfares shimmered through the holy perfumed air. Drawing Miles’s mother with her, she edged through to the edge of the nave. On tiptoe she could just glimpse the scarlet platform beneath an embroidered canopy and St Edward’s chair swathed with silk imperial.

  The procession of the cross and the anthem Ecco milto angelum meum hushed the congregation. The lords spiritual, from cathedrals and abbeys all over the realm, passed by, their heavy brocades fumed with frankincense. Two by two came the young Knights of the Bath, all freshly dubbed and washed the night before, hesitantly led by Clarence’s son. Heloise was curious to see the young boy, who was barred from the throne by his late father’s treason. No wonder he was forgotten, for the lad’s face was moonish like poor Benet’s.

  To the chanting of the Twentieth Psalm Domine in virtute came the high nobles of England, bearing the ceremonial weapons and jewelled regalia. Howard, the freshly minted Duke of Norfolk, carried within his hands St Edward’s crown, its golden buttresses shining as it passed beneath the shafts of sunlight. The great lords did not falter in their steps but the ceremonial cushions shook a little. Only Lord Stanley, freed from the Tower to encourage reconciliation, had difficulty in timing his stride to match the rest.

  Richard of Gloucester was magnificent in his crimson, miniver and gold but his face reminded Heloise of a devout priest about to be ordained as though it was not the crowning but the anointing with the holy oil that meant so much to him. Four barons held the tasselled cloth of estate above his head and two bishops flanked him: Durham and, as was customary, Bath and Wells. Stillington, mitred, splendid in fine wool and glistening tartaryne, met his nurse’s study. The crowsfeet eyes bestowed a conspiratorial blessing, the dried lips a smile. Heloise knuckled the telltale tears away. She was proud of Gloucester, her duke, and happy for England.

  Careful, but perhaps tempted to tread upon the king’s long train of Roman purple, Buckingham, in blue cloth shot with gold wrought with pearl droplets, followed bearing the white wand of office. He had insisted on being made High Steward of England for the occasion. The black velvet lining the mulberry train whispered at his heels, dusting the tiles before the earls bearing the queen’s crown and sceptre.

  Queen Anne also walked beneath a canopy, tasselled at each corner by a golden bell. She looked frail under the heavy robes, her milky skin outfaced by the rose red that had never suited her. Corn-hued hair, s
o rarely visible, caped her to the thighs. She turned her head as Heloise willed her attention. The smile came from the new queen’s heart but pain like a torturer’s iron band fastened inside Heloise’s ribs. Oh, your grace, God keep you!

  Jesu forfend! Heloise recoiled, instinctively suspicious of the stranger who bore Queen Anne’s train. Behind an enigmatic smile, the woman’s heavy-lidded eyes were making an inventory of who was there and who was not. The shrewd gaze paused on Miles’s mother and the jewelled coronet dipped in acquaintance.

  ‘Who is she?’ Heloise gasped, her mind buffeted by a willpower more formidable than anything she had encountered in her life.

  ‘Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond.’ Henry Tudor’s mother! As if sensing that Heloise carried the wrong allegiance, the countess tightened her gloved hands upon the purple velvet, her gaze passing on. But with all the fey power that she could muster, Heloise slit through the mind behind the high-boned cheeks like a surgeon and laid it open. What she discovered was a putrescent envy of immense proportions; in Margaret Beaufort’s mind, it was her son’s face beneath the crown.

  She scarcely noticed other noblewomen passing by until Lady Margery Huddleston sent her a beaming smile and the world righted itself again. And there was Miles’s father too, among the lesser barons, giving her a broad wink as he passed.

  The Latin anthems soared upon the organ’s winging sound, for King Richard’s love of music was great indeed. Only those clustered round the throne might witness the anointing, the oath to England sworn for the first time in English, the final lowering of the crown and assess Buckingham’s expression as the shouts rang forth –

  Verus rex, Rex Ricardus!

  Rectus rex, Rex Ricardus!

  Iustus, juridicus et legitimus rex, rex Ricardus!

  Cui omnes nos subjicio volumus.

  Suaeque humillime iugem, admittere guernationis!