He Who Plays The King

by MARY HOCKING

  1

  To those who worked long hours on their lord’s fields, the idea that a change of king should bring any change in their lives would have been greeted with scorn, had any such idea reached them. But they had no time for ideas. They worked, bore children who, it seemed, one day cried on their mothers’ laps and the next were working beside them in the fields. They worked during the hours of light, in all weathers, were aware of changes of season and little else. Of the world beyond their fields, they knew nothing and cared less. Some, more enterprising, drifted away from the land and took service with one of the great lords. His world became their world, his writ was law. What the king wished or did not wish was of no account. And so it was over most of the country.

  But in London, and other cities where the merchants were growing rich, it was different. A new king had indeed come to power and they had every hope that commerce would thrive. What others had won by foreign wars, King Edward the Fourth meant to achieve by foreign trade, and was prepared to pursue this end as adventurously as the great King Harry had waged his wars. He was as well-endowed to prosper such a cause as King Harry to lead an army. He had a splendid figure to show off fine materials, a good appetite for food and wine, his hospitality was lavish. A time of peace, justice and prosperity lay ahead. None believed this more strongly than Richard of Gloucester.

  Richard had it in mind to influence his brother, George, in such a way that he would henceforth serve Edward with unwavering loyalty. It was to this commendable end that in company with his friend, Francis Lovell, he called on George and his duchess at their London house.

  ‘Anne is staying with us, as you know.’ George made a gesture which for him was unusually economic, introducing and dismissing Anne in the one flick of the hand.

  Anne kept her head bowed so that Richard’s friendly greeting was lost on her. Many years had passed since she and Richard had last met. Richard had proved himself in battle, had cultivated his mind, had had several women and was the father of two bastard children. He regarded himself as a man of considerable experience and expected to make an impression on others. He was not content to be ignored. He asked Anne what she thought of London. She appeared not to hear him and seated herself at some distance from the rest of the party, occupying herself with embroidery. Richard, who had intended to speak to George of Edward’s plans to bring wealth to the crown, now found that it was more important to gain Anne’s attention. This did not please George and it embarrassed the Duchess who scarcely knew what attitude to adopt, wanting to be sisterly, yet anticipating that this would not please her husband.

  Anne’s inheritance was considerable, and it was with this in mind that George had taken her into his household. He had little liking for her. This was apparent to Francis Lovell, but Richard chose to be obtuse. He stood beside Anne and spoke of her skill as a needlewoman, about which he knew nothing, and then widened his subject to include other crafts about which he knew rather more. George watched with evident dissatisfaction and Francis Lovell endeavoured to engage Isabel in general conversation. Anne continued with her needlework. Had she paid Richard the attention he thought to be his due, he would have been satisfied with the exchange of a few words. Lack of encouragement, however, spurred him on mightily. Francis Lovell thought he had never seen a man so excited by so little. Since it was obvious that Anne did not wish to be reminded of the time they had spent together at Middleham, Richard began to talk of his foreign travels. He was not sorry to have a chance to display his knowledge of music and art, since he had few friends at court who shared his interests.

  George now mounted his own hobby-horse and descanted loudly to Francis on the problems attendant on being brother to the King—so many duties, so little thanks. Francis, aware that George was very easily offended nowadays, listened with an appearance of sympathy. Isabel stared anxiously at her sister. Anne, although saying little, was now regarding Richard. Isabel thought that her sister was rather too serious; men did not care for women to look at them quite so straight. But Richard seemed to gain inspiration. The harder Anne made his task, the more important it seemed to him to succeed with her. At last, he won his reward. Anne gave him a pretty smile and began to converse with him. What she said, Isabel did not know, but judging from Richard’s expression it might well have been the most marvellous revelation. A pulse leapt in Isabel’s throat. Something was happening here that should be stopped, but she was not an effective person and could not think what to do.

  Fortunately, George was now occupied with something to do with his hounds which necessitated his leaning from the window and bellowing to a groom in the yard below. Isabel moved closer to Richard and Anne, wondering what it was that so held his attention. She was mystified to discover that all this excitement was occasioned by Anne’s description of the Book of Hours which she had had from her mother. She was describing it with the animation with which Isabel might have spoken of a precious stone or a fine silk. Richard listened, his eyes exploring Anne’s face. When she saw his expression, Isabel ceased to be mystified. She did not understand what was so marvellous about the Book of Hours, but she understood better than Anne a man’s lust for possession.

  ‘Dickon is much taken by your sister,’ Francis Lovell said quietly. George was now so engrossed in the matter of the hounds that he was free to join Isabel.

  ‘It won’t please George,’ she said wretchedly.

  Lovell studied Anne. She did not use her features so busily as some women and perhaps because of this one was particularly conscious of the eyes. Now, while still regarding Dickon in a very straight way, the eyes expressed a great concern, as though they would draw the soul from his body. Dickon, for his part, seemed so vastly surprised that one might have supposed her specially created, that no woman before her had two eyes, a nose and a mouth!

  ‘I swear I will not leave without you show it to me!’ he was saying. Anne demurred.

  ‘Dickon keeps himself occupied with Anne.’ George had turned from the window at last.

  ‘It is a matter of her Book of Hours,’ Isabel said. ‘He would like her to show it to him.’

  ‘Then so she should.’

  ‘I think she fears that he means to possess it.’

  George laughed. ‘Then she must make up her mind that he will have it. Make no mistake about that. He can be very determined. One way or another, she will have to part with her treasure.’

  A few days after this meeting, Richard asked Edward for his consent to his marriage to Anne. George, infuriated that Richard’s demands should advance so rapidly from the possession of a Book of Hours to the Neville estates, opposed the marriage vehemently. Richard’s feelings were of the kind only to be strengthened by opposition. He meant to have Anne. He had known other women more obviously attractive, but in her quiet features he saw a promise of something that would meet his deepest needs. She was quiet, devout, of a serious mind; she would be tender and true. All these were admirable qualities, but would not alone have so greatly excited him. But she had an inner confidence which he did not possess and which seemed to him of inestimable value. She had an almost miraculous rightness, as though everything she said and did had the hallmark of perfection. Every movement, however slight, was finely executed; the words which passed her lips, unremarkable though they might be, were spoken with such precision they seemed new-minted for her use. She would be a source of strength on which he could draw. In return, she would make demands, she was fastidious and her standards of behaviour were high, though gentle she would not hesitate to rebuke him; but this only roused his desire to please her in all things. He would have her.

  George imagined that Richard could be made to give her up. There was trouble with the Scots and Edward sent Richard north to put it down. George seized his opportunity.

  One night, not long after Richard had left London, Isabel came running to her sister in great distress.

  ‘Oh, my dear Anne, you are to go away! What are we to do? What are we to do?’ She seemed ready to
repeat this endlessly, with much hand-wringing and anguished snatching of breath.

  ‘If I am to go, then I am to go.’

  ‘How can you be so calm?’ Isabel had risked her husband’s displeasure by coming with the news so precipitately and felt that a more dramatic reception was warranted.

  ‘It will make no difference if I am not calm,’ Anne pointed out.

  ‘It would relieve your feelings.’

  ‘Where am I to go?’ Anne showed no disposition to part with any feeling without first being able to measure what amount might be due.

  ‘You are to go to a Mr Harbuckle, a merchant to whom George owes so much that the wretched man dare not refuse him anything in case he never receives payment. I gather that he needs a scullery maid.’ Isabel exaggerated, making the worst of the arrangement because she was determined to wring some tears from her sister so that she might have the satisfaction of giving comfort.

  ‘I see.’ Anne remained motionless for a moment, her eyes narrowed as though she was trying very hard to see. Her face looked peaked with the strain of it. Isabel went to her and put her arms around her.

  ‘It is because of this persistence of Richard’s,’ she said. ‘As soon as he gives in, things will be better again.’

  ‘You think he will give in?’

  ‘George is very determined about this, and when he is determined he always has his way.’ Isabel confronted her husband only in household affairs where his wishes were never questioned.

  Anne turned away. ‘I would like to make sure I take one or two things with me. Will you leave me.’ When Isabel had left the room, Anne went about her business briskly, collecting a few personal effects including a heavy shawl in which she wrapped the Book of Hours. She then laid the shawl across her arm, pressing the book close, and waited.

  If Richard loved her, he would come for her. For a time, he would suffer great distress but this would test his feeling for her; after her previous experience she had no mind to marry a man whose feeling for her was unproven. She lowered her head submissively when told formally of the arrangements which had been made for her future.

  But it was not only Richard’s determination which was to be tested. Mr Harbuckle was kind, and not a little embarrassed. He did the best he could for her and had put aside a room not much bigger than a cupboard for her use. There was a small, low window. ‘So you will have air,’ he said solicitously. The window overlooked the street and admitted evil vapours which nearly choked her. The noise was intolerable; people shouted all day and at night there were more sinister sounds. She lay with her fingers pressed over her ears until the stench so choked her that her own coughs drowned the noises in the street.

  Mr Harbuckle remained considerate, and the rest of the household treated her with courtesy. It was the people in the street who most menaced her. She had not felt such hatred for her father’s killers as she felt for this raucous mob who destroyed her peace by day and denied her sleep at night. For all her Christian piety, she would have been sorely tempted to pour boiling oil over them had she had any such remedy to hand. Worse than all this, was the racking cough. There were times when she fought for breath and, becoming panic-stricken, brought on an even worse paroxysm. She entertained the morbid fear that Richard would not find her alive. As there was no one for whose sake she must put on a brave face, she spent much time in solitary weeping.

  She still believed that Richard would come, but was so dispirited that the thought brought her little joy. Only occasionally, when for a brief space it was quiet in the street, did she manage to comfort herself: in her mind, she again inhabited Middleham, saw the broad valley stretching beyond the castle walls, breathed good air into her lungs.

  Richard, too, thought of Middleham as he journeyed south again. The estate had been bestowed on him; he planned to return to it when he and Anne were married. As soon as he arrived in London, he went to Clarence’s house where he was informed that the Duke and Duchess were away, and that Anne had left there some weeks ago. No one knew her whereabouts. A meeting with George on his return proved no more helpful.

  ‘I was prepared to make arrangements for her, to ensure that she was comfortably settled.’ George spoke with every appearance of injured dignity. ‘But it was taken out of my hands.’

  ‘But you know where she is?’ Richard persisted.

  ‘No. Why should I?’ He became petulant. ‘It is all very well to turn to me now. You would not listen to me before, you swept my advice aside . . .’

  ‘Your advice! As I recall it was not given in the form of advice!’

  ‘You recall nothing. No one pays any heed to me.’ George’s face was beginning to be marked by his grievances, his mind was entangled by them; it was doubtful whether he was really aware that he was lying to his brother.

  Richard’s face was impassive save for a slight tick beneath his right eye which afflicted him at times of strain. He said with a thin semblance of reasonableness, ‘Come, you might as well tell me. I shall find her in any case.’

  ‘How little you know of London!’ George scoffed. ‘Will you go from house to house, insisting on searching each room? You will make yourself a laughing stock.’

  ‘She is in London, then. At least we make some progress.’

  ‘I did not say so,’ George blustered. ‘I merely advised you not to make yourself foolish.’

  ‘Pray give me more detailed advice. I promise to listen carefully.’

  ‘I have nothing further to say.’

  Now that Richard was angry he saw his brother more clearly than before. There was that in George’s character which would always tend to play into his opponent’s hands: he had a fatal lack of discretion. It was unlikely that his plan would have been formulated or executed with any degree of thoroughness; no doubt someone in his service could be persuaded to give information. Richard, who was nothing if not thorough, set his own servants to work and in a few hours he was informed of Anne’s whereabouts.

  Early that evening Anne heard people in the street scurrying in front of horsemen; she heard someone in the house call out, ‘It’s the Duke of Gloucester’s men.’ Eagerly, she knelt by the low window and saw Richard. At this angle, he looked little different from the boy who once at Middleham had called out to her and Isabel, ‘Are you damsels in distress?’ She watched him dismount. There would never be this distance between them again. She would like to have delayed him, to have fixed him there, unaware and undemanding, so that she could observe him without hindrance. And, for a moment, he did delay, turning to speak to a man beside him, making a show of authority. The other men were all taller than him. He is but a lad trying to make himself conspicuous, she thought; how ridiculous to have devised tests of his love! How often in the last few weeks she had envisaged this moment; yet now she felt no great surge of emotion, only a wry tenderness.

  It was only when he disappeared from view that she realized she should have leant from the window to signal her presence. Now she was afraid lest he fail to find her. She ran out of the room and heard, far below, Mr Harbuckle’s panic-stricken denials silenced by Dickon in an icy voice that was not that of a boy or any man she had known. She recoiled and turned back to the room, there to await this unpredictable stranger who had come to claim her. Soon, steps sounded on the stairs, the door was thrust open and she was in Richard’s arms, shaking with a fear for which poor Mr Harbuckle was not responsible. Richard comforted her and held her tight so that she would understand that no one would ever dare to harm her again because she belonged to him. Imprisoned by his arms, Anne knew that more than duty would be demanded of this bargain. She gasped, ‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’ He released her gently and she said, petulant with exhaustion, ‘I have no strength . . .’

  ‘It is not far,’ he assured her.

  ‘Far?’

  ‘I am taking you to St Martin Le Grand. You will remain in sanctuary there until Edward gives his consent to our marriage.’

  ‘St Martin Le Grand! I am to be shut up ag
ain, and still in London!’ He looked down at her, hurt by her disappointment and a little afraid of her fragility. She sensed the ebbing of his vigour and said, ‘Forgive me, I scarcely know what I am saying.’

  ‘I don’t like to see you so sad.’ He was a lad again, despondent, the splendid rescue marred by his inability to perform some spectacular feat which would release her entirely.

  ‘I am not sad!’ She found there were a few grains of courage left which, with careful husbanding, would sustain her until they reached St Martin Le Grand. ‘I am dazed with the wonder of being free and this has made me weak. I shall be glad to go if you will take me there now.’

  As they rode towards St Martin Le Grand the last of the sun was smouldering in the west; it was already cooler and the dust had settled in the streets. People sat in doorways or shouted to each other as they closed the shutters of their shops for the night; they were no longer the raucous, boorish people Anne had found so frightening. Her unheroic lad had worked his miracle after all. As she looked about her, she saw the world sharp-edged and brilliant as though all her life until this moment had been spent waiting to emerge from a cold mist. She looked at Richard, riding quietly beside her; but either her eyes were not yet used to this radiant world, or he was too near, because she could not see him clearly.

  ‘I am quite recovered,’ she assured him when they parted; and then, seeing that this was not entirely to his liking, she expressed the quavering hope that they would soon be reunited. Her spirit was more stubborn than that of many a more robust person; but there would be time for him to discover her strength and now she made him a present of her weakness.

  Richard made the journey to his own apartments slowly. In spite of the noise in the city, which had changed in character with the evening but was no less rumbustious, he felt at peace. On either side, the scrofulous hovels, touched with the first milky sheen of evening, had an air of enchantment, and the people, relaxing in their own noisy fashion, had a vibrance which made them almost beautiful. He made his way by the river, dun-coloured now, the reflections of the wooden buildings gradually dissolving. In the distance as the light thinned, the buildings of the city seemed to draw closer together, accommodating themselves to the oncoming night. He could almost understand, at this moment, why Edward liked London.