I, Richard Plantagenet: Book One: Tante le Desiree

by J. P. Reedman

  My wishes came to naught. George, oh Christ help him, my fickle and envious brother! He had gone mad, truly mad.

  Terrible rumours were abroad, reaching my ears even in the most remote part of the Dales…No, no, not rumours, for in my heart of hearts I knew they were true.

  George had abducted an old servant of Isabel’s, Ankarette Twynyho, breaking down the doors of her house with a party of armed thugs and seizing her in front of her horrified family. Despite pleas for mercy, he dragged her forthwith to Warwick castle, along with another prisoner, a man called John Thuresby. He tried them in a sham trial, after intimidating the jury, and found them guilty of murder—Ankarette of killing Isabel, and Thuresby of poisoning George’s baby son Richard. Upon pronouncement of the sentence, a gloating and vengeful George promptly marched the couple out to a lonely common, set up a gallows, and hanged them by the neck until they were dead.

  We live in harsh times and sometimes justice must be swift and cruel in order to nip treachery and disorder in the bud. But Ankarette was an aged woman of good character, old enough to be George’s mother, and Thurseby, it seems, was a simple soul who barely registered the charges brought against him. By unlawfully executing them, showing no mercy, George had acted in a way he had no right to. He had acted as if he were King. There could only be one king.

  Still, Edward did not act, though the commons grumbled and it was said the Queen nagged him like some shrew, begging him to subdue George lest her children never see the throne because of him.

  Then, in the weeks that followed, a man from George’s household, Thomas Burdett, was accused by an Oxford sorcerer called John Stacey, of joining him in diabolical rituals that included seeking to foretell the King’s death with magic. Predicting the sovereign’s demise was a treasonable offense, punishable by death…and so Burdett was hanged, though he pleaded his innocence even while the hangman’s noose was placed about his throat.

  At the killing of his servant, George pent up rage exploded. Bursting into Westminster after Edward had moved his household to Windsor, he shouted out his grievances against the King and had a certain Dr Goddard read aloud Thomas Burdett’s statement of his innocence to a crowd of stunned onlookers.

  Then he ran amok throughout the country, sending out his most trusted henchmen to spread rumours that the King was not only a bastard but a practitioner of necromancy, a poisoner of men’s minds, and an untrue husband. Everywhere he travelled, he continued to rave about the injustices done him by the King, and it was reported he even cried while in a great passion, “My brother means to consume me as a candle is consumed!”

  Ah, a flame burned in George, ‘tis true, but it was kindled of his own making and not by Edward.

  I paced my chambers and my hall, sick with the thoughts of the turmoil going on so far from me, this strife between my brothers that could have no happy conclusion. Even Anne could not comfort me with her gentle ways—I sent her from me, and we even slept apart while I tossed and turned and wrote impassioned letters to both my brothers, begging for cool heads, that I tossed into the brazier, watching the paper blacken, turn to ash and crumble to nothingness.

  In June, Anne and I journeyed to York for the celebration of Corpus Christi. After the harshness of the winter and all that had unfolded, it was a pleasure to visit my favourite city. My lady and I were members of the Guild of Corpus Christi; my mother Dame Cecily had joined their fellowship over twenty years before and we wished to follow her example. On the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, we gathered with our fellow Guild members outside Holy Trinity in Micklegate to witness the beginning of the Mystery Plays.

  The Mystery Plays were not confined to York, but York’s were the most famous for the lavishness of their production. Wagons would process to stations throughout the city, while actors told the story of the world from Creation to Doom.

  The day was bright but chill as the Guild members clustered outside Holy Trinity; dawn had just broken and the blood-hued light of the rising sun turned sky, clouds, banners, and stonework to flame. The processional carts stood ready, some four wheeled, some six, covered in banners and bright decorations.

  A horn sounded. Out of Holy Trinity Priory strode the figure of the Crucifer, the cross-bearer, followed by a group of men carrying a bier on their shoulders. Upon its white silk cushions rested a reliquary holding the beryl vase that contained the blessed Host. Behind the bier-carriers strode the Masters of the Guild in their silk copes, and then the Senior Wardens bearing white wands. Torches were lit, blazing like the fire in the sky; we carried them on our hands, my wife and I, along with other notable guild members.

  Joyously, the monks began to sing, “Salve, festa dies, toto venerabilis aevo. qua deus infernum vicit et astra tene!”

  Bells began to toll, high within Holy Trinity priory and then across York, as the receptacle containing the Host moved through the gathered crowds, followed by the processional wagons with their wheels grinding on the cobblestones and making thunderous din.

  Trundling behind the procession of Guild members, the first cart showed the Creation of the Angels and the Fall of Lucifer. An actor wearing a hideous horned mask capered atop the cart and prodded men standing within reach with a great fork. Instead of a codpiece, on his crotch he wore another mask with a lascivious face, symbolizing the lust with which Satan seeks to ensnare men. He was truly loathsome to behold, but to combat his evil, overhead soared angels—puppets attached to a clever, stringed device that hauled them into the air and whirled them around to emulate the angels’ flight above the Throne of God.

  The procession passed on to its first station, marked with the glorious banners of the city. Behind Lucifer’s Fall trundled the other wagons replete with moving displays: Adam’s Rib was lowered from the heavens on a shining string, and beautiful but treacherous Eve (played by a man, of course) stood forth clad in naught but a wig made of long, curly wool and held out the fatal apple that both doomed us and yet gave us knowledge. ‘She’ spun the apple into the crowd, and the women screamed as another player dressed as a serpent leapt up from the floor of the cart, hissed, and wriggled his tongue in a lewd manner.

  After this display came Cain and Abel, at first a comedic scene with two squabbling brothers both seeking esteem in the eyes of God. I smiled faintly to myself, knowing more than enough of fraternal rivalry.

  However, as the player acting the role of Cain lifted a rock above his head and boomed,

  “Thy death is set—thy day is gone,

  out of mine hands, thou shalt not flee!

  With this stroke, I thee kill!

  Now this youth is slain and dead…

  or him I never more shall dread…”

  a strange shivering overcame me, despite the growing warmth of the day. A cramp needled my belly and I wondered if I had eaten something at table that was sickening me. Anne must have noticed my body tense, because she glanced at me quizzically.

  Then Cain and the dead body of Abel swept past, and from the watching crowd there rose an irreligious cheer as Noah’s Ark swayed into view. Built by the Guild of Shipwrights, it was the largest and one of the most elaborate pieces in all the plays. Actors in carved animal masks hung over the sides, lowing and howling while long-bearded Noah stood proudly at the helm, steering the craft.

  Nearest to the Minster, the last of the processional carts performed the Death of Christ as the culmination of the Mystery Plays. A Rood was carried in, built by the Guild of Carpenters; Inri was graven upon it at top and bottom. A wooden effigy of Christ was hauled onto it and pierced with cruel nails by the town’s butchers, chosen for their roles for the symbolism inherent in their bloody trade. A spear was brandished, tip winking dully; the butchers thrust it into the carving’s side with many a cruel taunt.

  At once trumpets blared and drums rolled. The Day of Judgment ensued, as Archangel Michael soared through the sky with his sword aflame and a choir of angels sang. On the steps of the Minster, onlookers gazed in awe as pulleys creaked within the l
argest of all the Corpus Christi carts and a huge image of Christ on a rainbow ascended into the morning air, His body wrapped in white samite, and His head surrounded by spokes of gold as bright as the sun. Immediately the ‘dead’ (a dozen players sprawled on the ground) leapt up, resurrected, and danced in joy on the lawn as the bells boomed in the towers of St Peter’s.

  The day finished with a banquet held by Mayor Wrangwysh, and as the sun set, bleeding red over the spires of York just as it had risen that morning, I felt well content. My earlier sense of dread and sickness had faded; I put my momentary indisposition down to the pungent fish I ate the day before. Summer was here, my dear wife was at my side, looking hale and healthy after all the distress of her sister’s death, and the entire world seemed right, with evil held at bay, even if not conquered as in the finale of the Mystery Plays.

  But Satan was always residing amongst us; I mused upon that thought as darkness fell over York and the streets crawled with harlots and hawkers and cutpurses. Man was fallen, greed and jealousy ran rife, lust and gluttony was lauded, and brother fought brother as Cain fought Abel.

  The thought sobered me, and without further ado, I took Anne through the heaving streets to our lodgings in the Lendal and closed the monks’ doors against the sinful world.

  The story of Cain and Abel was foremost in my mind when we reached home to evil news. George had been arrested; Edward’s patience had at last run out. Clarence had tried to foment another uprising, and then King Louis, ever eager to meddle in English affairs, had written to his ‘dearest cousin’ Edward that his spies had discovered letters from George in Burgundy—declaring that he wished to marry Mary of Burgundy in order to increase his chances of deposing the King.

  So now George was locked within the Tower, a prisoner, his ultimate fate unknown.

  “Oh Richard, I am so sorry…” Anne’s hand brushed the shoulder of my doublet, seeking to comfort.

  “Get off me, woman!” I snapped with more rancour than was usual. Guilt ate at my belly as she recoiled, trying to mask her dismay. Fingers gnarled into claws, I ran my hands through my hair. I did not know what to do…George surely deserved his fate, but still, we were born from the same womb, the same seed. He was my brother.

  I began to stalk around the chamber, all angry energy and despair. I dismissed Ned’s courier, who slunk uneasily into the hallway. “You know what is worst of all?” I said to Anne, my voice choked with emotion. “After writing to me of George’s arrest, Ned then asked me to attend the wedding of his youngest boy to Anne Mowbray! Just like that, Anne, as if all in the world is aright! How can I make merry with the fucking Woodvilles when George lies bound in the Tower? Edward asks too much of me!”

  Anne tried to comfort me again, and this time, with no one else in the chamber, I let her. Standing in her warm, familiar embrace, I let her cosset me as she did when little Ned fell and grazed a knee. “He does ask much of you,” she whispered. “I hope he truly appreciates your loyalty, Dickon.”

  “Of course he does!” I cried, surprised that my wife should say such a thing, but Anne looked at me sadly as if she saw something I did not.

  “You will go to this wedding of infants, even feeling as you do?”

  “I must,” I said, “but not for the celebrations. I will go for George, to beg for clemency for him. Perhaps if Ned is in a good mood…”

  “You are a good man, Richard,” said Anne, and she lifted her head and kissed my mouth.

  My initial distress lessened; I decided to throw myself on Edward’s mercy and plead for George. He had given me much—lands, power, a virtual palatinate in the north. Surely, one more thing would not be too much. One thing for a loyal brother?

  “I am not so very good,” I muttered, trying to force a smile. “Indeed, I can be most wicked. Sometimes you can make me wicked, Lady…Like now, tempting me with your lips…” It was a weak attempt at humour but I wanted to let her know my frustrated anger had passed and that I was sorry for my outburst.

  “I like you when you play at being wicked. Because I know you are not truly wicked.”

  “I sometimes think George is truly wicked. Or possessed. Christ, Anne, will it never end? And how will it end? That is what I cannot bear, not knowing the outcome of this trouble. It also pains me to realise one thing: that although I have honoured the King all my life, worshipped him even, risked life and limb for his cause…I still do not know if he will listen to a word I say.”

  Anne gave me that sad look again and clasped my fingers. Outside a cloud slipped across the sun, and blue shadows fell about the chamber. “Bring us torches!” I shouted to the servants waiting outside, but as they hurried to light the cressets I thought that no matter how many were lit, true light would never come into our lives again.

  Edward wanted me to attend court in October, a few weeks after my nativity day. As I was expected to stay throughout Christmas, I decided to take Anne with me. Three months or more without her, with George languishing in prison and the Woodvilles swarming around Ned as flies swarmed around meat would be too much to bear alone.

  Crosby Place was our chosen dwelling place for the duration of our time in London, rented from the widow of Sir John Crosby, whose tomb stood in the nearby chapel beside that of his first wife, Agnes.

  Although missing Little Ned, Anne busied herself directing the servants to make the place homely, full of items that pleased us and were fair to the eye. It was not hard to give Crosby’s a welcoming feel. It was a stately abode, with a spacious Great Hall, a minstrels gallery, clean kitchens, an airy solar and numerous bedchambers for guests. Gardens stretched out back, a green space amidst London’s greyness, complete with herb gardens, a rosary and apple trees; though the trees were gnarled and empty now, with withered fruits lying forgotten at their feet.

  While Anne made these temporary lodgings into a proper home, I fared to Westminster to see my brother the King. White with anxiousness, I came before him and went humbly on my knees, showing utter humility and restraint—although I was bursting to shout out that he must listen, must give clemency to George one more time.

  Edward looked equally strained as he raised me from the chill flagstones, embraced me and kissed my cheeks. “You are cold, Gloucester.”

  “The wind off the river is fierce, your Grace.”

  “Sit by my fire.” He gestured to a chair draped with much upholstery and beckoned for a boy to bring hippocras and wafers. “I am glad you are here, Richard. The season of Christmas will be a merry one, and the wedding of my son a few weeks later will make the season even merrier. You will have an honoured position, as ever, at the marriage ceremony. There are other diversions too, Richard, which I know will interest you…Do you remember Caxton? William Caxton? We met him in Burgundy when we were in exile.”

  “I remember. He printed books. We were all most impressed.”

  “Aye…well, he has returned to England and dwells in London at the Red Pale. He has established his printing press there, and has just produced a book by Anthony Rivers! The first printed book in England…imagine that!”

  “Not Rivers’ poetry, I hope.” I smiled wryly.

  Edward swallowed a laugh. “No, Rivers translated a manuscript of philosopher’s sayings. I have heard it’s rather good, if one enjoys such musings. We can go and see this printing press, you and I.”

  “I would like that very much, your Grace,” I said, but I could not keep the strain from my voice. It sounded hoarse, clipped.

  Edward noticed at once. “You are upset with me,” he said. “I know why. It must be, Richard…he is a danger to us all.”

  My eyes narrowed, caution thrown to the wind as I remembered George’s panicked words in the Tower garden earlier in the year. “Is he the danger?

  Edward’s face flamed. “You would do well not to start speaking like him, Richard. I would not have both brothers locked in the Tower!”

  I half rose. “Sire, I have ever been loyal to your cause. You do me wrong this day.”

&n
bsp; Edward gritted his teeth, stared away at nothing. His hands clenched, fingers crumpling the ermine-lined sleeves of his great golden robe. “Mayhap I do…but Christ, you don’t know what George has put me through! Killing that woman and a manservant, then trying to foment an uprising and spreading rumours about my family and me. I mean, do I look like a sorcerer to you!” He waved his hands in the air in an agitated gesture. “Mayhap I could cast a spell and make troublesome George disappear, and end all our problems.”

  I did not appreciate the reference to George ‘disappearing’. “I do not think the subject of our brother’s imprisonment is a meet subject for jests,” I said sullenly, even though my disrespectful words might further provoke the king’s anger.

  Edward took a great, heaving breath. “I am not jesting! God’s Hooks, Richard, George was so entranced by his necromancer friends, he even announced that they predicted that ‘G’ would seize the throne and disinherit my children.”

  “Nonsense, of course.”

  “Aye, but dangerous nonsense.”

  I lifted my head, met his eyes. “What will you do Edward? He cannot stay in the Tower forever.”

  Edward’s fingers, calloused from long years curved round a sword hilt, bent and tightened. “I will be blunt with you. He will face trial. If he is found guilty, he will suffer the same consequences as any other who has committed treason.”

  Feelings of panic wracked me. If he was found guilty! Of course he was guilty. But he was deluded, addled by drink, warped by grief, sour with resentment…and he was our brother! Aye, there were times I had fought with him, threatened him, wished him gone…but would I really have ever slain him if he came against me? Only in honourable open battle. Not like this…“Edward, you cannot…cannot…”

  “There is nothing I cannot do, Gloucester,” Edward bawled, his own frustrations pouring out. “And there are things I must do to keep this realm at peace. Things I would rather not do! Be glad you do not have the worries of a crown lying heavy on your brow, Richard! I have had enough of this talk, your questioning of me. Get out, and come back when you can be civil and respectful, as my loyal brother should be!”