by MARY HOCKING
He was pleased to have somewhere of his own; it made him feel more like a King, a sensation which had been sadly lacking so far. Now, he sat astride his horse and looked about him with cautious interest. In the distance, he had his first glimpse of the Tower. It was rather squat in comparison with some of the great castles of the Marches, but it compared favourably enough with the Bishop’s Palace. As he drew nearer, it seemed to grow more massive and he felt reassured by its clumsy strength. In front of it, grass sparkled after the rain and beyond he could see the thin blue band of the river; a few rooks cawed in the trees. He thought that perhaps he might do well enough here.
He enjoyed inspecting the state apartments. The pleasure-loving father had seen to it that his sons lived modestly, and the apartments seemed luxurious to young Edward. There was much to which he must attend and by the end of the day he was exhausted and confused. He had dreaded the moment when the drapes were drawn around his bed and he was alone in this strange place, but in fact he fell asleep almost immediately and did not wake until morning.
It was in the morning that he began to wonder what he was to do from now on. Hitherto, others had planned his time for him and had done it so thoroughly that every minute was accounted for. Was there someone who did this for the King, or was the King supposed to dispose of his own time? Before, there had always been someone to provide answers. Now there was no one except his Uncle Richard, whom his mother had told him he could not trust. But all the people whom he was supposed to trust had been taken from him, so what was he to do? It was very difficult and he didn’t like difficulty.
He embarked on the morning with misgivings. The earlier part went much as most days in his life had gone. When he was dressed a chaplain came to him to sing mattins, he went to hear mass, and he had breakfast. It was immediately after breakfast that the first difficulty arose. The dishes had been cleared from the table; he could see two stewards moving about at the far end of the room, and nearby his attendant was in close conversation with the chamberlain. One of the stewards glanced in his direction and looked away again. Perhaps there is something I should be doing, he thought; they will judge me weak and stupid if I fail to do it. Edward had spent much time with his uncle, Earl Rivers, whose handling of ceremonial was so impeccable that court life became a dance in which never a wrong move is made. Edward had not imagined the ceremonial had to be thought about, it had seemed to him that everyone involuntarily performed his appointed role.
Now, things had gone badly out of joint. Not for the first time, but perhaps more profoundly than before, he mourned the loss of his uncle. What was he to do? At the thought of leaving the security of the table a wave of panic seized him. What was life in this place to be like if the problem of rising from table could create such difficulty? He got up. The steward looked at him again, but neither the attendant nor the chamberlain paid any attention to him. Was it possible that here, in this crude, strong building, there was a way of life quite different from the exquisite dance Earl Rivers had contrived for him? He felt an overwhelming loneliness as he began to walk slowly across the hall towards an antechamber at the far end. What was he to do when he reached the antechamber? Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the attendant had broken away from the chamberlain and was now following him.
In the antechamber there were two tall chairs and a table; on the table books were laid out. He remembered with a rush of relief so violent he could have cried out that a priest was coming this morning to instruct him. He said to the attendant, ‘I will wait here until the priest comes.’ There was an arras on the wall which depicted a warrior on horseback looking very fierce and waving an axe to cleave a way through people who quailed beneath him. Edward studied the arras while he waited. When the priest arrived he was surprised to find that he knew him. It was Dr Ormond who had been secretary to Earl Rivers. In the past, he had sometimes given lessons to Edward.
Edward said warmly, ‘I am so glad to see you,’ although hitherto he had never liked this sour-faced man. ‘Has my uncle, Lord Rivers, arranged for you to be here with me, and will I see him soon?’
The relief in the boy’s voice made Ormond wince. He said austerely, ‘It was Dr Morton, the Bishop of Ely, who recommended that I should instruct you.’
They sat at the table. Edward remembered that Dr Ormond was respected as a man of learning. Edward was himself well-versed in many subjects and foreign visitors had been impressed by the fine quality of his mind. Since Ormond was the only person in this strange place whose worth was known, Edward was anxious to acquit himself well in the priest’s eyes. He sought about in his mind for a subject which would display to advantage his learning and his piety. Eventually he said, cutting across Ormond’s discourse, ‘Tell me, Dr Ormond, what think you of this printing machine? What will be the outcome of it?’
Ormond regarded questions as an impertinence and invariably dealt with them by making the questioner appear stupid. ‘What can any man of learning have to fear from books?’ he said acidly. ‘What can any man of learning have to fear from anything which widens the boundaries of knowledge?’
Edward was disconcerted. To him, learning was precious because it gave inner sustenance—like good food, only without the disadvantage of indigestion. There was something reckless about Ormond’s statement which startled him.
‘But suppose it were to come that translations of the Bible into English were to be printed.’ He took refuge in a subject on which there could be no two views: the existing Lollard translation was in his mind. ‘Such books might get into the wrong hands . . .’
‘What has the truth to fear?’ Ormond asked austerely.
Edward was nonplussed. He said, ‘It is men like you, Dr Ormond, whom I think of as guardians of the truth, and I would prefer it always to remain so.’
‘You must be the guardian of your own truth,’ Ormond retorted. He did not think whether this statement was wise, he merely intended to teach the young King not to interrupt again.
Edward was crushed by this appalling statement and remained subdued for the rest of their time together. Later, he spoke of it to his attendant, and the attendant repeated the remark to the chamberlain. And there, for the time being, it rested.
3
About the tune that the young King moved to the Tower, Anne came to Crosby’s Place. Richard had sent asking her to join him and she had responded at once, sensing the urgency of his need. She travelled south through country where life was harsh, robbery and murder still common; but a land no longer lawless. Edward the Fourth had given personal authority to the King’s Peace and the King’s Writ ran throughout the land. But misrule was too near, the country needed years to grow used to order. One night, in a remote valley, Anne dined with a Justice of the Peace. This man had performed his duties scrupulously, secure in the power of the King behind him. Now, he was afraid. For the folk in this wild place, order had no past; when they gathered round the fire at night their stories were of massacre and blood feuds. Lawlessness would spread here as the forest encroaches on clearances if strong measures are not taken to hold the ground which has been won. He did not speak of this to Anne, but the fear was in his face as though already he smelt the predators, saw the bright eyes glinting in the dark beyond the window.
Anne made few other stops on her journey. An observer, seeing her face, calm and resolute, might have judged her eager for her first glimpse of London. It was almost dark when she passed through Aldgate and flares had been lit in the narrow city streets although there were still a few sunset streaks in the western sky. The day had been hot and breathless and the city was like a great cauldron which has retained the odours of everything good and bad which has been brewed in it. Darkness came like a lid pressing down on the cauldron. Inn doors stood open; people crouched in doorways gasping for the first cool breath of evening. From balconies, faces, distorted in flickering torchlight, hung over the street grotesque as gargoyles awaiting some malign event. Anne wanted to turn her head away but could not; a power
beyond her will forced her to take in every detail of this lurid scene.
When she arrived at Crosby’s Place Richard was away attending an urgent meeting of his Council, but his concern for her comfort was apparent. Their bed-chamber was small, by no means the best bed-chamber, but it was at the rear of the house, away from the clamour of the city. Anne thanked the servants and dismissed them as soon as possible. When the sound of their feet had died away, it was blessedly quiet. Through an open window came a freshness, faint and unidentifiable, yet familiar, evoking other scenes than this; somewhere near at hand there must be a flowering shrub with a scent that was just sharp enough to cut the languid air. She went to the window and leant out, but could not see it. As she reached down, one hand probing the wall, there came a distant cry, at once harsh and plaintive. Perhaps it was only the cry of a night bird on the marshes on the far bank of the river; yet it was of Death that she thought. She drew back from the window lest he should be waiting below in the shadow. ‘Oh God,’ she prayed, ‘I am weak and cowardly, and though I do not complain to others. Thou knowest how I complain to myself. Forgive me this weakness and do not answer my constant longing for rest; but have regard to the needs of Thy servant, Richard, my dear lord, and for his sake let me not be taken from him. Renew my ebbing strength; kindle my dull spirit.’
It was agony to look to a time when she would no longer be able to comfort Richard. He needed her as the plough needs the earth. She wondered what she could offer, what sacrifice she could make to the watcher in the shadow. Chill came the thought that she would give her son. Even him.
‘This will not do, these thoughts are too dark!’ she chided herself And then, ‘Now that I am in London I must not hide away in here.’ She went out of the room. A maid was hovering in the corridor, uncertain what her mistress expected of her.
‘And what do you think of this great city?’ Anne asked her.
‘Not near so fine as York, to my mind,’ the woman replied.
At the end of the corridor there was a window overlooking the courtyard and now there came the sound of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones. Anne hurried to the window in time to see Richard ride into the yard. He reined in the horse and looked up, his eyes searching the windows, and just for a moment this was not Crosby’s Place, but Master Harbuckle’s house, and it was all to be done again. How sweet that moment, and how small had been her response! She had held back, keeping some of her feeling in reserve, measuring it out to him. She was better rehearsed now. She leant from the window and let joy spill out into the warm night.
He came to her quickly and took her in his arms; her body seemed all bone, yet he asked, ‘It will not make you ill to be in London?’ as though illness were still some distance away.
She gathered all her store of gaiety together; the eyes became enormous in the fragile face. ‘It makes me ill to be apart from you.’
She was as impatient as he for love and made no plea for gentleness but with eager moaning welcomed the urgent thrust which pierced the darkness and held them so close even Death could not come between them. Her body was a pulsing crimson spiral through which some wanton creature was dragged down, clawing and screaming, to the place where ecstasy and agony are one. Then, even that creature was swept away, she had no being but was part of a tide drifting in timeless bliss. Oh, if this was what Death offered . . . ‘What is it?’ She came to herself with a shuddering start to find not Death but an alarmed husband reared above her. Richard looked shocked by her wildness as though he had found a stranger in his bed. He is like a child, she thought wearily, who asks for the sun and is frightened when he burns his fingers. She wiped the sweat from his forehead and drew his head gently to her breast. ‘Did you not know how much I loved you?’ she chided gently, and stroked his head as though he was child instead of lover. At last when some measure of peace came to them, she said, ‘I shall grow fat now I am with you.’ And he believed because he must believe.
Afterwards, when they were apart, Richard told Anne the latest news. As he talked he paced the room. She saw that an angry spirit possessed him.
‘We meet in Council,’ he said, ‘and then Hastings and Morton go away to councils of their own. If I am to hold them together, I must persuade, conciliate, say this to this one, and that to that one, spend precious hours playing the one off against the other. I am not skilled at such games even if I had the stomach for them.’ The scorn in his voice made it apparent that he had little respect for such skill. ‘If there are people whose loyalty is in doubt, the sooner it is out the better.’
‘But Hastings sent for you. Can his loyalty be in doubt?’
‘Jane Shore has become his mistress and she will have him reconciled with Elizabeth Woodville. I have this on Buckingham’s authority.’
‘And Howard?’ Anne knew little of Buckingham and would not put trust in a stranger; but Lord Howard was a man whose worth was known and proved. ‘What does he say?’
‘He, too, doubts Hastings, though he thinks Morton is the more dangerous.’
‘And Lord Stanley?’
‘Stanley’s health is a sure guide to my fortunes, and for this he will always be of value.’ Richard laughed for the first time. ‘If Stanley is well, then I know all goes well with me. If he becomes sick and talks of returning to his estates, then I know an ill-wind blows for me. At present, he complains the heat loosens his bowels, but he still eats well.’
‘How long can this state of affairs continue?’
He did not reply. She searched his face but found no answer there. The anger had drained away and he looked tired and unexpectedly irresolute. Yet he must know, she thought, that he, and, not this child, must rule.
Chapter Twelve
1
On June 10th, Richard sent for aid to the North where his strength had always lain. He spoke of plots against him and of those who would take his life. The recipients of his appeals must have imagined the atmosphere in the capital to be tense, with men alert to danger at each step they took.
Yet, as often happens, those nearest danger became accustomed to it, treated it familiarly and were sometimes more concerned with trivial matters. On June 13th, when members of Richard’s Council met in the White Tower, Lord Stanley was complaining of the heat; and Howard, who sat next to him, thought that to hear Stanley talk one might suppose there to be no place but Cheshire where a man might hope to find a temperate climate. Hastings wanted the business of the coronation settled, it was the delay over this which had first aroused his suspicions of the Protector; but though he wanted the matter settled, he hoped it would not be discussed at length today, else he would never get to Mistress Shore. The heat affected him in other ways than Lord Stanley and he was not in the habit of practising self-denial.
John Morton, Bishop of Ely, was not one to deny self, either. He was ambitious and not a man to be troubled by the crowing of a cock. But he knew, better than most, that there is a time to act and a time to wait. He did not judge the time for action to be ripe; so now, he turned a tranquil gaze to the window and meditated on the King whom he could see exercising with two attendants on the grass. Young Edward was a rather puny figure, and Morton was sufficiently able to wish for a more effective master. The sun sparked on stone, and Morton wondered about Henry of Richmond, the sharpness of whose mind had impressed those who had seen him recently.
While Morton was taking a long view, beyond the figure of the young King, the winding river, and the distant fields, the door of the room had been closed by an usher. The Archbishop of York, a frail and fussy man, frowned his displeasure at the richness of the Duke of Buckingham’s robes. ‘Preens himself like a peacock, and yesterday he scarcely existed!’ Hastings, also looking at the Duke, reflected that never before had a man been rewarded so far beyond his worth. ‘There is scarce any matter in which he is not inexperienced,’ he thought scornfully. It was damned hot! Sweat pricked like thorns over his body.
The Protector, who seemed unaffected by the heat, said that he had calle
d his Council together because of certain matters which concerned them all. He spoke quietly, almost monotonously, and Stanley thought, ‘I shall go to sleep if he goes on like this.’ The Protector said that reports had reached him which he had not at first believed. Buckingham, red lips pursed, listened with the owlish gravity of a man who hears things which are not displeasing to him. Hastings, watching Buckingham, thought, ‘They are planning to postpone the coronation again. Well, they won’t get away with it.’ He looked round the room, counting those on whose support he could rely, the Archbishop, Morton, Stanley . . .
‘. . . to conspire against the government is not a matter which can be tolerated . . .’
‘Conspiracy is a strong word,’ Hastings intervened, having done his arithmetic and found the answer to his satisfaction. ‘We have no proof of a conspiracy so far as I am aware.’
Buckingham flashed in at this point to say that Hastings and his friends were accused of plotting against the Protector. Hastings, who had not expected such a direct attack, dismissed the accusation contemptuously. ‘Was it not I who sent to the Duke of Gloucester entreating him to take the young King from Lord Rivers and make all haste to London? Is this the action of a conspirator? If so, the word must have acquired new meaning.’
‘On which of your actions would you wish to be judged, my lord?’ Buckingham’s condescending tone was nicely calculated to rouse Hastings’ quick pride. ‘When the Woodvilles sought to impose their influence on events, you did indeed send messages to the Duke of Gloucester urging him to come with all speed and every show of force.’
My God! Hastings fumed to himself, anyone would think the man a justice and I some poor miscreant, he has such a conceit of himself.