“The dirty hound,” said the Widow Wrangwysh perfunctorily; “but hadn’t you a mother and father to go to, wench?”
“My mother is in sanctuary in the West Country. My father — was killed at Barnet Heath.”
“Ah, Barnet Battle,” moralised the widow, her interest in politics getting the better of her, “a sad bloody garboyle. I went to Paul’s after it to see Kingmaker’s body while it was on show there. Lying on the pavement, he was, all naked down to the middle. He made a lovely corpse.”
“Don’t,” said Anne. The widow looked sharply at her.
“Why, what’s amiss?”
“I knew him.”
“You knew the great Earl?”
“My father was — was of his household.”
“Christ,” said the Widow Wrangwysh. It was dawning slowly on her that she was now to enjoy those intimate glimpses of the great world for which she had hungered all her life.
After that there was no longer any pretence of Anne’s working in the kitchen. She continued to eat and sleep with the other servants and to do a few light jobs about the house; but her real business was to entertain her mistress with gossip of the Court and the nobility with tales of King Edward and his brothers Clarence and Gloucester, of Holy Harry (whose funeral procession, with more glaves and staves about the bier than torches, the widow had seen dragging its slow course to St. Paul’s last May), of Queen Elizabeth and her swarm of haughty relatives, and of the great Lancastrian Lord, the Duke of Somerset, whom it seemed Anne had known also. “He was a blackbrowed man,” she said of him, “with a grim face. They say he was very cruel and always for blood-letting; but he was kind to me.” On two subjects only, the widow found it difficult to get much out of her. She would never hint at which of the great nobles about Court it was whose lust had made her run and hide, and she would never talk of Kingmaker. “I did not know him well,” she said.
For the widow, it was all magic and the blowing of trumpets. Curtains of noble arras were swung back before her. Mirrors in ivory frames were held up to show this world in which people washed several times a day, in which a hanging was a thing to order rather than to run and watch, in which ladies who swore and talked bawdy were not looked askance on, as she was by her primmer neighbours, and in which it was considered vulgar and provincial for a man to beat his wife. It was a world that had always twinkled and beckoned at her from the distance. Though she was seventy-four and sometimes (generally on Sunday mornings) felt every year of it, she had never missed a procession, a royal wedding or christening or funeral. Born in the year that Harry Bolingbroke put down and murdered Richard of Bordeaux, she could remember, as a tiny girl, hearing the London bells peal for the death of Hotspur at Shrewsbury. Ten years later, only a month or so before her first marriage, she had heard the babble in the streets drop suddenly to a whisper as the rumour spread out in rings from Westminster Abbey that Harry IV — that tubby, melancholy little man with the neat beard and the tumour at his jaw — had been seized with the pains of death at the very moment when he was kneeling to ask God’s mercy on his manifold wickednesses. She had seen his brown-haired long-nosed son, Harry of Monmouth, ride down Cheapside to be crowned; but it was only later, after her first husband’s death (he was an old man, and did not last her long), that the real fun began: bells banging and crowds cheering for the fall of Rouen; the same bells tolling slowly and the same crowds standing bareheaded in the November rain when the victor of Azincourt came home for the last time, a painted dummy in royal clothes lying over a thin corpse sheeted in lead; years of bad news, and broken men home from the wars, cursing and looking awry as they heard that Orleans was relieved by witchcraft, Talbot was made prisoner by witchcraft, Rheims was taken by witchcraft: and then the same bells banged and clanged again and drunken men shouted to one another that the witch had burned, burned, burned at Rouen. In the years after that, politics, that since Azincourt had been mostly rumours from beyond the Channel, came suddenly home again and a mob fired London Bridge and shouted a new name: “Mortimer.” Mrs. Wrangwysh (she had just married her third, a Yorkshire woolman settled in London) gathered that Mortimer was the family name of the Duke of York and that many held he ought to be King in place of Holy Harry of Windsor, who was addled anyway. She could hardly have foreseen, though, that Jack Cade’s commotion was the egg from which so many of the large public happenings that spiced her life were presently to hatch. The battle of St. Albans took her completely unawares. Nothing had given her or her husband any cause to anticipate it. Simply one morning the news came that the Duke of York and the Earl of Warwick had put on their harness and killed the Duke of Northumberland, the Duke of Somerset, the Earl of Stafford and Lord Clifford, and brought the King back to London as a prisoner: and so in a moment, the War of the Roses, with its inexhaustible banquet of funerals, executions, progresses, coronations and grand marriages, was spread out for her enjoyment. She was so engrossed by it that she might hardly have noticed the death of her last husband, had not the formalities of mourning most annoyingly prevented her from going to see the Rose of Rouen — certainly the handsomest of the four Kings whom she remembered — crowned at Westminster after the battle of Towton.
To have so much stirring coloured stuff about her in her old age was good: but to be able, through Anne’s eyes, to get such intimate glimpses of the harnessed and silk-dressed people whom she had seen riding in processions was intoxicating. She learnt with a warm thrill that King Edward’s favourite oath was “By God’s Blessed Lady,” as it was her own; that the Duke of Gloucester was ridiculously fond of strawberries; that the Queen, who had been nothing but a poor knight’s widow till the King set eyes on her, was now so self-pleased that her own mother had to kneel in her presence on the cold floor.
The widow re-settled herself in her chair and banged on the table. She had less difficulty to-night in making up her mind than usual. There was a letter from her young brother-in-law, Thomas Wrangwysh of York. Anne had read it to her once that day, but there were parts of it she wished to hear again. As someone moved below-stairs, she shouted:
“Send Anne up here, and a half-gallon.”
Anne’s step was always very light and delicate. One would not have thought she weighed more than a bird. She came into the room now with a walnut mazer and a tall, iron-hooped wooden jack.
“You wanted me?”
“Sit you down, dear: sit you down and we’ll have a crack.”
“I’ll fetch my embroidery, then.”
“Do, my dear soul. It helps a body talk better if she’s got her hand moving. Pour me a sup before you go.”
The syrup-thick black beer swished into the mazer with a soothing noise. Blessed Virgin, thought the widow, where would we all be without ale? Ale and somebody to crack with and have a bit of a laugh and hear the fine things there are doing in the world: it’s not much I want.
Anne was back again with her broidering-frame. She lit the rushlights, and the worn, painted cloth on the solar walls, the good stonework of the fireplace and the fine pewter on the buffet came to life. The table bore the hacked remnants of the widow’s supper: a roast leg of pork stuffed with garlic, a veal lèche, a dish of candied quinces and a green-ginger tart. The widow pointed to it.
“Have a bite now. I’ve left plenty.”
Anne shook a meek head.
“I supped with the others.”
“Well, you could do with a morsel more, a growing wench. It’s good: better than you could cook, dear God knows. See here.” She spread her considerable bosom over the edge of the table, leaning to cut a wedge of tart and give it to the girl between her fingers. Then she took a fistful of quinces; bundled them into her own mouth. “When you’ve done, read me brother Tom’s letter again. It’s a nice letter.”
Anne brought the thick-scrawled sheet from the buffet and held it to the rushlight; began in her very clear, gentle voice to read:
“To my sister Jonet, dwelling at the Silver Pack in Eastcheap:
“DEA
R SISTER,
“I greet you well, letting you know that I am in good health, loved be God, and I shall send you presently some good dried eels, I think you have none such in London; and dear sister, if you can by any means purvey me a piece of good bawdekin cloth sufficient for one gown, cheap, I pray you that you do so for love of me, and I shall pay you.
“Item: that the Duke of Gloucester is come among us in these North parts and dwelling at Middleham, and men say he shall bear rule in all these North parts for the King, and he is worshipfully accompanied and doth promise a good rule and amending of felonies and such great riots as have of late been in these parts, as men say. I pray God it be so.
“Item: that there are many here in York that grudge sorely at the great landlords, and in especial the Abbot of St. Mary’s, for their fishgarths and traps that they set up in the rivers for taking of the fish, whereby many poor men, fishermen and other, are deprived of their bread; and in truth it is a great shame as ever I saw; and they say they shall go up to the Duke of Gloucester and complain of such traps which were never allowed of old custom. But I know not what shall befall.
“And God speed you, my dear sister,
“written at York with the hand of your brother, “THO. WRANGWYSH.”
“That’s a nice letter,” said the widow: “news in it. The Duke of Gloucester, I saw him when the King came back from Tewkesbury field. Riding on a white horse, he was: a little fellow.”
Anne had sat back from the rushlight. She said in the dreaming, lazy voice that, her mistress knew, marked the beginning of reminiscences.
“So he’s at Middleham.”
“Did you know the place, dear?”
“He was a child at Middleham,” Anne’s voice continued, “in my Lord of Warwick’s care: very small, but hardy. He liked a big horse and a heavy spear. I think he was a little ashamed to be so tiny; wanted to show us that he was not weak with it. He could unhorse boys bigger than himself.”
“Lord now, and you knew him when he was a child. Fancy that, now. Go on, dear.”
“He liked Middleham; told me so. I’m glad he’s got it for his own now. Do you suppose he remembers the old times there?”
“Nay …,” the widow was uncertain how to deal with the question, “you say he was there when he was a little one. He’ll remember it. Well, God’s flesh, I could find my way about Canterbury streets myself now, me that’s not been there since before I wed my first.”
“He liked the country. It’s dour land in Yorkshire, and there is much rain, though it never seems to make the fields green.”
“Aye, so my husband said. I was never in Yorkshire. They say they’re a riotous stubborn lot in those parts. The Duke now: d’you think he’ll redress the grievances they have?” Anne laughed very quietly.
“Redress grievances? It’s his one thought. When he was little he told me: ‘We think too much of greatness, Anne, as though it were a thing for ourselves. The great are only God’s tools and instruments to amend what is displeasing to him.’”
“Now, what a blessed thing to say,” approved the Widow Wrangwysh.
“No wrong that Dickon sees will be left unaltered. Those hard landlords with their fishgarths: they don’t know what’s upon them yet, what a cat they’ve got among their pigeons.”
“And him only young, too.”
“Yes, we’re both young. I forget that sometimes. But, then, steel’s full-grown from the day it leaves the furnace, and when it ages it is only into rust. Dickon is like steel. I always thought that from when I was a tiny girl: steel, anything cold and spare and clear. Nothing will turn his point.”
“He sounds a monkish sort to me. Give me a warm man that can laugh, I say.”
“Oh, Dickon can laugh: mostly at little things, though. He likes watching birds and puppies, and when he makes a joke he doesn’t smile himself.”
“Then he’ll do well in Yorkshire. My man was the same, and so’s his brother Tom. Those Northern folk, they do their laughing with their mouths shut.”
“He reads books, too, and remembers them. He used to tell me tales out of old chronicles of Sir Percivale de Galis and Randulph of Chester, and he is fond of singing and music.”
“I like a good bawdy song myself,” said the widow.
“Not bawdy, but rondels and madrigals and church-singing.”
“Ah, well, there’s a deal of comfort to be had in sad singing. I mind when I was a girl I always cried at a sung Mass. But he doesn’t sound a gay companion like his brothers, Duke Richard.”
“He doesn’t drink so much as them or play cards or dice; but he’s the best dancer at Court next to Edward, and his hands are always cool and he has a gentle voice, not loud.”
The Widow Wrangwysh helped herself to ale and narrowed her short-sighted eyes at the girl. One thing was becoming increasingly apparent to her. Whoever was the great personage who had made speeches to young Anne, it was not the Duke of Gloucester. If it had been, she would not have run away.
“Well, he’s none the worse for being an honest liver, I hope, God amend all. Some might be the better for following him. There’s a fine new tale I heard about the King the other day, a very rusty one. Mr. Shore, the mercer at the sign of the White Hart, must be wishing Holy Harry was on the throne still: God’s blessed Lady, yes. He’s got a pretty wife, and our good King Edward knows it. When he went to Windsor the last time, they say he took her with him, malgré the Queen and all. Was there ever such a bold whoremonger? They say the little dagget-arsed boys in the street make horns with their fingers whenever Mr. Shore steps over his own threshold: and fancy the King of England and a mercer’s wife. Oh Lord, I was born too soon and that’s the truth of it.”
“Edward was always a wencher.”
The Widow Wrangwysh started. She was free-tongued herself in her comments upon the doings of great men, and was used by now to Anne’s simple assumption of familiarity — almost of equality — with them: but even so, she was unaccustomed to hearing the foibles of an anointed King dismissed quite in that tone of indifference and distaste, as though one were discussing the habits of the cat or the parish priest.
“Lord save us, girl!”
“He always was, though.”
“Well, I’ve heard tales myself. There was talk of the Lady Elenor Butler, long ago, before he married. Did you know her too? Nay, you’d be too young.”
“I heard her spoken of. They say he dishonoured her and she married one Lord Sudeley to cover her shame up, and is dead.”
“Poor soul! God’s blessed Lady have pity on us women, I say; and she ought to, being a woman herself.”
“Amen.”
“But I must say I’m surprised the Queen doesn’t take order with him. Christ, I’d ’ve liked to see any of my three — god rest ’em — taking their whores on a journey. I’d ’ve had the hair off them.”
“Queen Elizabeth,” said Anne in a voice that came from the back of her throat, “was a poor knight’s widow until Edward married her. If she thinks she can please him best by sitting mumchance whilst he has his sport, I’m sure she’ll do it.”
“And I’ve known some wives rule their husbands very cleverly that way. Those whorson Wydvylles, though: I never liked them. Taxes and tallages have been higher ever since he married amongst ’em. That’s true as the Mass: and they’re very cruel, too. There was poor good Sir Thomas Cooke, was my last husband’s friend, that they made up a moonshine charge of treason against. The old Lord Rivers and Sir John Fogg seized his goods and houses and put him in the Counter in Breadstreet; and there he must stay, poor soul, until he paid eight thousand pounds — think of it, child, eight thousand pounds! — for a fine: and over and above that, may God wither and rot my tongue but the Queen claims eight hundred marks from him as a gift or a privilege or I don’t know what. Robbery’s what it was: and he was as much a traitor as I’m the Pope. But the cursed Wydvylles had some like of a spite against him, and King Edward listened to them, and there was a poor honest man, and my k
ind friend and my husband’s, beggard and broken.”
Anne did not say anything to that immediately. Her hand flashed back and forth at her embroidery. Presently she shrugged.
“Richard was right. We think too much of greatness, as though it were a thing for ourselves; and most of all if we were not born to greatness, but come creeping up to it.”
The Widow Wrangwysh took a fresh pull of ale and nodded her head.
“You talk as if you were a Princess yourself, child, but by God’s holy body and blood you’re right. There’s more poor folk than Princes and Lords in the realm of England, but the Princes and Lords never heed it; and there’s the trouble.”
*
Middleham Castle woke up at dawn: servants with tousled hair coming out from their quarters in the East Ward, crossing the moat by the bridge into the Inner Ward and getting about their business. It was a clear Northern dawn, blue and cold and with birds singing. Horses stamped loudly and whinnied and cocks crew from the East Ward. The night-watch from the gate stumbled up the narrow stairs, spitting and yawning, and the day-watch came down to take their place. There was a crackle and flash of sun-gilt wings from the dovecote on the Keep. A flight of pigeons shot out across the battlements, made a wide circuit above the wakening village of Middleham, and came back again. In the bedchamber at the South end of the Inner Ward two grooms of the chamber and two pages set about their morning function of awakening Duke Richard of Gloucester, Warden of the West Marches against Scotland and Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster beyond Trent.
They brought two silver basins of warm water scented with ambergris, armsful of warm linen napkins and a lidded silver tankard topped with the boar that was Duke Richard’s cognisance. One groom drew back the arras of the window and set the shutters wide. The other went on tiptoe to the bed, which resembled a pavilion: a great scaffolding of painted and gilded wood with escutcheons of the royal arms differenced for cadency and surmounted by ducal coronets. Its hangings, that closed it in completely, were of green velvet worked with coroneted cyphers of RG. alternating with silver boars and complex scrolls of the Duke’s motto: Loyaulte me lie. The groom made the sign of the cross very perfunctorily and drew the hangings on the side nearest the window. The Duke of Gloucester was discovered with his head resting on a frilled pillow of silk and swansdown five times the width of his small shoulders.
Under the Hog: A Novel of Richard III Page 18