Some Touch of Pity

by Rhoda Edwards

  Anne said, shaky with laughter, ‘Come here…’ He jumped up, unselfconscious again, and ran to her. When he left his mother and came to me, I put both arms round him, and pressed the warm, eel-smooth naked child close to my chest, while he kissed me with noisy, damp enthusiasm, as he always used to do. He smelt of soap and linen sheets, and his small bare feet were standing on my own, on top of my dusty boots. I was absurdly relieved that he was not as much in awe of me as I first thought.

  ‘Oh, Father!’ he said, between pressing his nose into my cheek and his fingers into the back of my neck, ‘it was a hundred and twenty-three days — I counted! — since you went away.’

  Anne, who was holding on to me, her hand on my knee, said, ‘No more days to count now. You must try to make these last long, not wish them to fly away.’

  ‘No,’ he said. Then, curiously, ‘Father, you do look ordinary!’

  ‘I’m no different,’ I told him.

  He looked into my face, very serious. ‘But you are the King’s Grace,’ he said. I could tell that he understood, that it did make a difference, even for him, and that he had accepted that I could be the same, yet different, at one time. ‘May I see your hand?’ he asked, solemn still. I let him take my right hand between his. He held it palm upward, unfolding all my fingers, turning it slightly from side to side, so the light winked on the gold backs of the three rings. He peered at it as if about to read my fortune. My skin looked very hard and lined beside his. ‘Even though it’s washed away now, it does stay on you for ever, doesn’t it, Father?’ I realized what he meant by this scrutiny of my hand; he’d half expected to find signs of my anointing still there, like stigmata on me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘for ever.’

  Anne had got up now, and was looking down at us. Her face was as serious as the child’s. ‘Sometimes, Edward,’ she said, ‘things you cannot see mean most.’

  ‘Yes.’ He understood.

  ‘You must go back to bed,’ I said in his ear, holding him close again. ‘Your mother the Queen is tired now, she would like to go to bed too.’

  ‘Oh!’ A half-protest, then, ‘I could put on some clothes!’

  ‘No,’ I said, and picked him up, to carry him back to bed. He was excited already, and I didn’t want him to become too tired; he had a few hard weeks ahead of him. He clung to me like a marmoset, with arms and legs, even his toes tried to wriggle down the tops of my boots; his sharp knees dug into my ribs. He’s too old for picking up and all this hugging and kissing. I thought myself too indulgent to him, but it could do little harm, I see him so seldom. I put him back in bed, tucked the covers round him. We stood looking down at him. He must have been in the bath-tub earlier, the ends of his mouse-fair hair were spiky with damp after a towelling. He lay, grinning up at us with possessive delight, his prodigal parents returned.

  That very evening I got Kendal to draft a charter creating my son Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester. For his age, he understands what is expected of him and shows seriousness and intelligence — with God’s grace, he’ll make an honest man. I have great hopes for his future.

  Five days later, on the feast of the beheading of St John the Baptist, we set out for York. My son had been tutored on how he was to address the citizens, the lords and the Bishops; I had caught him reciting all his instructions, so I knew that he was trying hard to remember everything. He rode on his white pony beside his mother, a few paces behind me. Anne looked less tired now, as if she had come back to life again in the north; there was colour in her cheeks, and she smiled often. We stopped twice by the road, for refreshment, and people came crowding up to us, offering all kinds of gifts. They brought white roses and gillyflowers, baskets of ripe plums, apples, a green finch in a cage for the Prince, and a basket of cheese cakes — the ones the wives of York make so well. My son, when offered these, promptly took one and ate it there and then, as any boy of his age might, given the chance, which gave the crowd huge delight. They blew kisses to the Queen and Prince, and pressed round, trying to touch my clothes, kneeling in the road in front of me. All this, on the road from Pontefract — I knew that when we reached York, we’d be welcomed more warmly than even John Kendal had hoped.

  We were met at Breckles Mills near Tadcaster by the Mayor, John Newton, the Aldermen and Council of twenty-four, all in scarlet and red gowns, mounted on fine Yorkshire horses. They escorted us into the city, one of the Sheriffs riding in front of me. At the chapel of St James-without-the-Walls, several hundred citizens in blue, violet and musterdelvers were waiting on foot to greet us. It was here that the crowds began. Along the city walls, on either side of Micklegate Bar, people sat, leaned or hung on every inch of the crenellations, their heads stuck out of the slit windows of the guard rooms, they packed the ground. I had been welcomed many times to the city, with both my wife and son, but had never seen so vast a crowd, or one that more noisily demonstrated its welcome. The King, the Queen, the Prince… I never knew, on those other occasions, that this thing would come about. Now, to see the people glad that I had come back to them in the royal state, did much to ease the burden it had set on me.

  The citizens came forward, carrying the most handsome present we’d ever been offered — a hundred marks piled in two basins of silver-gilt for myself, a hundred pounds in gold in a great cup for the Queen, which so astonished and moved her, I could scarcely hear her murmured words of thanks. In York, we would not refuse gifts. They would be repaid in kind; the city had given me twelve years of friendship, which I could never forget. Outside Micklegate Bar, a pageant had been set up, showing Eborac, the legendary king of the city, enthroned. When I rode up to the open gate, he came down from the stage, and walked up to me, offering on a velvet cushion a great gilded bunch of keys — the keys of his city. Then he took the crown off his head and offered that to me also, making a rhyming speech, beginning:

  ‘Most reverend rightiouse regent of this rigalitie,

  Whos primative patrone I peyre to your presence,

  Ebrauk of Britane…’

  which was doggerel, but sounded fine, in spite of that. This done, and the city given into my hands, the crowd roared its approval, and we rode on through the gate, come home to our city of York at last. Every foot of the house fronts in the street from Micklegate to the Minster, was hung with arras and painted cloths, and garlands of flowers, the streets cleaned as I had never seen them before.

  At Ousebridge there was another pageant, showing three Kings: St Edward the Confessor, my brother King Edward, and myself. St George with a shining gold halo presented me with his sword. Then a child came on, and St George crowned him with a little coronet. The crowd went mad, cheering my son the Prince. He stared at the show, enthralled, recognizing himself, and smiled and waved as if he too were a player and had done all this before. An idea that had been at the back of my mind for some time, suddenly came to the surface, and I decided that the people of York should be given a show for themselves. I would formally invest my son as Prince of Wales here, in a great ceremony in St Peter’s Minster, with a procession through the streets. To be honest, I felt pleased as a schoolboy to have thought of it.

  On the last day of August, I sent to London for the gear needed in the ceremony of investing my son with his new title. This left only seven days to try the speed of the messengers to London and back, for I had decided the day most suitable for the ceremony would be the eighth day of September, the feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The Prince had a special gift, a saddle for his white pony, covered with crimson and blue cloth of gold, fringes of Venice gold, and long silk tassels of blue and crimson. We had banners for the procession, of the royal arms, St George, Our Lady, the Trinity, St Edward and St Cuthbert of Durham, the greatest of all the northern Saints. The Dean and Chapter had their own banners of St Peter, and St Wilfred of York. Thirteen thousand badges of the white boar were needed for the household, all the citizens and the men who would keep order in the streets, if only by restraining the people’s enthusi
asm.

  In York, there were many pleasant matters to be attended to. In the absence of Dr Rotherham, whom I had not yet seen fit to restore to favour, we were lodged in the Archbishop’s palace, near the Minster, a whole wing of which was given over to the children. My brother George’s son, the Earl of Warwick, had joined the Prince’s household. Before, he’d been brought up quietly on one of his father’s old manors, until it became necessary to keep a closer eye on him, in case conspirators should try to use him against me. He is a year older than my son, and though they share the same blood, being the children of two brothers and two sisters, and bear the same name, they could not be less alike. Warwick’s a handsome child, in looks rather like his father at eight, but, thankfully, lacking George’s irrepressible bad behaviour. He seems timid and solitary, and my son outshines him at lessons as if their ages were reversed. His ten-year-old sister Margaret is so different, charming and intelligent. She was to stay in the Queen’s household, with the other girls, who included the two youngest daughters of John Neville, Marquess Montagu, whom we’ve cared for since Barnet, and my bastard daughter Katherine. I’d like to see Katherine betrothed by Christmas, now she is turned fourteen. I have in mind for her William Herbert, Earl of Huntingdon, whose Woodville wife died a year or two ago. His lands lie mostly in Wales, where I need all the allegiance I can get, and he is an Earl, which is a good match for a King’s bastard child, though — and I give away no secrets — her mother was of noble blood. My son John had pleased me so well that I intended to make him a knight, at the same time as the Prince’s investiture. His mother had no high lineage, and he is a bastard, but I wish him to remember that he is my son, and though he cannot inherit, he has my affection. They are good children, for my sins. It worries me that God has not seen fit to bless my marriage with more than one son. Being King has suddenly made this more important than I care to admit, but I cannot say it to my wife, for she would be hurt. I wanted to see her happy, during this brief homecoming to York.

  On Sunday, September the seventh, the Creed Play was performed for us. This was a very great honour as it is usually played only every tenth year, at Lammastide, and the rule had been broken. The scenes illustrate the words of the Credo, beginning with God the Father, in white robes, a long beard and a halo on his head, saying:

  ‘I am gracious and great, God without any beginning.

  I am maker unmade, all might is in me;

  I am life and way unto wealth winning.

  I am foremost and first, all I bid, shall it be.’

  The Prince was intrigued by the beard, for he had not often seen men with hairy faces, and seemed to think it almost blasphemous that God should have his beard stuck on with glue.

  The next day was almost entirely given over to my son’s honour. I shall never forget his face when he saw me for the first time crowned, in Parliament robes of crimson velvet furred with ermine, with a train six knights had to carry. His eyes went straight to the crown and stayed there. He was struck dumb by it. When I smiled at him, he smiled back, but looked solemn again immediately. He looked from me to his mother, and back, then to her again. She wore her hair loose, and her crown on her head, which fascinated the child; he had never seen her like that before.

  We walked in procession to and from the Minster, for High Mass, through the streets of the city. At the end of the service, the great west door was opened, and the Bishop of Durham went out. I stood at the top of the steps, looking out over my city of York and its people. The afternoon sun shone straight in the door, blinding me. The people began to roar, loud enough for a pitched battle or a riot, but happy noise, for all its fearful volume. I was moved, in a way I had only been once before, when I knelt before the High Altar at Westminster, for my anointing, and received the Holy Spirit. Tears ran down my face, and I had to blink several times before I could walk down the steps between those surging ranks of thousands of yelling people. They gave me something, those men and women of York, that I had most desperately needed, ever since I took my seat at King’s Bench, and became King; they enabled me at last to believe in my right.

  In the streets, the soldiers looked more like drovers faced with a stampeding herd; they had to fight to keep the crowd back. When they saw the Queen, walking behind me, hand in hand with the Prince, they went mad. A young woman and a child together are guaranteed to move multitudes, and York showed itself crazed with delight. I was able to turn round once, to look at them. Anne was smiling, first at the crowd, who obviously adored her, then at the Prince, who smiled back. He seemed a little apprehensive of the noise and thrusting nearness of the crowd, but when his mother bent and whispered to him he walked on between them more confidently. As she bent her head, her pretty hair fell forward, spreading round her shoulders. I could have walked all day through all the streets of the city, and never tired; I was so drunk with the elation of it. In the middle of Stonegate, as we came back towards the Minster and into Petergate, I stopped, to allow the Queen and the Prince to draw level with me, and in sight of all the people, kissed them. His lips were incredibly soft, as a child’s are. Anne’s lips were no less soft, moist and gently parting, as if she would prolong the moment, defying the eyes of the city. That kiss, between the King and Queen, brought a fresh roar from the crowd — cheers, shouts, whoops and whistles, that made the Queen blush as bright as a poppy.

  When we had come back to the Archbishop’s palace, in the great hall there, before all the lords spiritual and temporal, I invested my son with the symbols of his dignity as Prince of Wales. He had begun to look tired and big-eyed, and nervous of doing anything wrong. I felt that he wanted very much to hold my hand, but was not allowed; princes have to learn the hard way. When I buckled on his small sword, and put the gold ring on his finger, he was trembling like a puppy dog with a fit of the shivers. I set the gold garland on his head, thankful that it was light for him. When I put the rod in his right hand, for him to hold like a sceptre, I held his clenched fist in my own hand for a moment, and squeezed it, until he became steadier, and was able to manage a smile. Then he watched while I made his cousin Warwick, my bastard son John and Sasiola the Spanish ambassador knights.

  After that, a banquet was held, which lasted four hours and reduced all the children present to yawning silence. Their cousin Lincoln had been briefed to see they did not eat too much and make themselves sick, or drink anything but very watery wine. At the end of it, Lincoln carried Warwick out, for he was almost asleep. Francis Lovell would have done the same for the Prince, but received a polite refusal. My son preferred to walk, still carefully grasping the rod of office, and very much on his dignity, though he was stupid tired, and faced being put immediately to bed.

  Watching them go, the two Edwards, I suddenly thought of the other one, whom we thought would be King, and his brother, who bears my own name, and all the happiness of the scene in front of my eyes was blighted. Darkness, sickness and guilt came on me as if a demon had me by the throat and stifled me with his foul wings. There were many children there that day, but not those two. I shook off the mood quickly, but not before Anne had seen my face. I felt her touch my arm. ‘You look as if you’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Not ghosts,’ I said. She looked round, at the departing children, and the remains of the feast, the broken sugar subtleties, the crumbling ostrich plumes.

  ‘If there’s blame,’ she said quietly, ‘I share it.’ She knew my thoughts; I did not have to make any reply. The unspoken words — my brother’s sons, Ludlow, the other Prince — were understood, and would never be used between us, one against the other.

  It was too much to ask, that I might be allowed to linger in the company of my family. Those clouds that lay on the horizon were gathering nearer England’s shore. I had word from several sources that unrest in the south was growing, in just those counties where the Woodvilles had always laid their bribes thickest. I took the precaution of issuing commissions for the defence of London, and wrote to John Howard, Duke of Norfolk, urging him to lea
ve his own county and go to his Sussex and Surrey estates, so that the people might take warning from his presence.

  Before we left York, an envoy from Duke Francis of Brittany brought me an unwelcome request, that amounted to a threat. King Louis had made his cousin of Brittany an offer: gold in return for the surrender of Tudor’s person, but if this were not forthcoming — war. In order to withstand France, Duke Francis required no less than four thousand archers from me, to be maintained at my expense — and he wanted an immediate answer! Since I have never complied with any demand while under threat, though I’d be alarmed to see Tudor traded to France, I’m afraid the Duke will have to whistle for his archers. But even as Monsieur Mainbier, his envoy, spoke with me, news came that old Louis was almost certainly dying. This was a small relief, for there was trouble enough at home.

  By the feast of St Matthew, we went to Pontefract again. I’d intended to be in London by Michaelmas, but wanted a little more time to set up the Prince in his new larger household. It was the end of the first week in October before I parted from my wife and son, and rode south. Because I did not know yet when the storm brewing there would break, I wanted Anne to stay in the north for a while. She did not wish to leave me, but could not deny that she would be pleased to go home to Middleham with the Prince. Edward had begun to plead to go to London. For his own good, I cannot allow it, until he is a little older, and affairs more settled. Then he may come for Parliament, or Christmas.

  This parting disturbed me a little. Too often, recently, I’ve crawled into my wife’s bed at midnight, too bone weary to do anything but lie against her welcoming warmth and go to sleep. That night, I’d promised not to be such uninspiring company, and to come to her earlier. Each time we part and danger threatens, I can feel that she is afraid, though she does not say much, or cling foolishly, and almost never cries. I thought that she’d been tired ever since coming to London in June, into the heat, danger and trouble. Because she cares for me, she had suffered great strain all through that time, until after the crowning. It seems to me sometimes that she is not very strong; I could swear that in the last few difficult months, she has lost flesh, and she has always been slight. I could circle her wrists between my forefinger and thumb, and feel the separate bones in them. In spite of their delicacy, she does ordinary things with her hands and wrists, and handles a horse better than most women. Her ankles are small too, and finish off the best legs one could wish to see on a woman, very slim and smooth, and shapely. When she turned her back to me, I slipped my hand between the long, loose ribbons of hair, and ran my finger down the curve of her spine. It made out each bone, from the nape of her neck where the hair grew downily, all the way down to the little tail end, where she became soft and round again. I wished I might give her some of my strength; my own body is so tough and stringy, and has never suffered a day’s illness in years. I look at her sometimes and think of a bird poised for flight — a lark or a swallow. Surely it is one of God’s miracles that she wishes to stay with me, summer and winter, never wishing to fly away. When I touched her, she turned over towards me. It was too dark to see her face. To find out if her eyes were open, I felt for them with my lips, found them wide open. She did not blink, or flinch from the touch; the lashes stayed still. I traced the outline of her lips with the tip of my tongue; I’d know her blindfold, those lips have their own special shape, long and narrow, with shallow curves, and a sharp little dip in the middle of the upper one. In her left cheek, a single dimple comes when she smiles. She was smiling now, I could feel her lips stretch, the dimple crinkled as I touched it, growing deeper as she smiled more. When she began to kiss my mouth, trouble and fear went away from us for a while.