We Speak No Treason Vol 1

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  In the afternoon, Anthony Woodville came to visit the Duchess in her apartments, bringing some translations of the verses of Christine de Pisan that he had made. The gentlewomen fluttered like birds, for he was handsome. Attired like the most royal of princes, he strode through the gold-hung chamber in a journade of white velvet edged with ermine. Stylishly, he carried a tall hat on the end of his cane with an affected air. The pikes of his shoes, a quarter ell in length, were caught up at the toe and buckled about the knee with gold chains. He walked with caution. He had two new rings: a sapphire the size of a small walnut, and a pearl-and-enamel thumb-ring shaped like the royal rose. Very recently had the King bestowed on him the Order of the Garter. He knelt to kiss his mother’s hand. All the women withdrew to a modest distance. Elysande pulled me down beside her on to cushions. She gave me a little shadowy smile, with a teasing cock of her head in Sir Anthony’s direction.

  ‘You see his shoes? Jesu, I wonder he does not braid his legs and tumble on his face!’

  I smothered a laugh.

  ‘The Pope has sent a Bull into England,’ whispered one of the other women. ‘He’s sorely vexed at the worldliness of this new style, and says he’ll excommunicate any cordwainer who fashions such long pikes.’

  ‘My cordwainer says his Holiness’s curse won’t kill a fly,’ said someone.

  ‘Are you well, Madame?’ enquired Anthony Woodville tenderly of the Duchess.

  She gave a loud groan. ‘Nay, sir, I fear I am sick in my stomach. I’ll remain in my chamber this day.’

  ‘Shall we not see you at the feasting tonight, my lady?’ he asked. ‘I vow you’ll enjoy the sport. The Lord of Misrule holds sway this evening.’

  I held my breath. Holy Mother of God, let her decide to go! I prayed. This was a turn of events I had not foreseen, The Duchess paused for a long space, while I bit my lips as if by pain I could will the right words from her.

  ‘I cannot say yea or nay at this time,’ she answered finally, and I lusted to leap across the room and shake her till her teeth chattered.

  She peered at her son.

  ‘How goes the sport?’

  ‘I have been in the tiltyard at Eltham, and have unhorsed eight knights without a break,’ he said with satisfaction.

  ‘So you are champion again,’ she said delightedly, and he smirked with pleasure.

  ‘Yea, Madame, as on every day,’ he answered, and went on to tell her of the ingenious new harness he had designed himself, cunningly fashioned to overthrow any opponent, or so he said.

  He kissed her hand again before departing, and turned at the door to bid her finally farewell.

  ‘I trust we shall have your company this evening, madam my mother,’ he said, but still she would not decide, and I began to shiver and grow chill at the thought of not being able to slip away. As he made to leave, his cold grey eyes flicked idly round the mute circle of gentlewomen and came last to me. No recognition crossed his face and I was glad of it, for as I looked at him I remembered the dark chamber of Grafton Regis, and my fear. ‘Flogged, at the cart’s tail.’

  I went swiftly to the Duchess. ‘Are you too warm, my lady?’ I murmured. ‘Though for sure, the fire has brought a pretty colour to your face, dare I say it.’

  She looked at me, and I thought she was about to grumble, but she said:

  ‘You are a good child—thoughtful and kindly—would that all were the same,’ and she shot an evil glance at Elysande who, truth to tell, often shirked a duty, if she thought she could do so undiscovered,

  ‘Bring me some gowns,’ she commanded. ‘I will choose one to wear this evening.’ And my heart sprang up with gladness, for tonight I could go to the gallery; and see again the face of my love.

  The Duchess sifted through damask and velvet, and sighed heavily that none pleased her.

  ‘This one becomes you well, Madame,’ and I drew out an orange satin lined with marten’s fur. She threw it to the floor.

  ‘I’ll not wear that gown,’ she said angrily. ‘The last time I appeared in it, there were those that mocked me.’

  The gentlewomen gasped in chorus. ‘Never, my lady,’ said Lady Scrope. ‘What churl would dare?’

  ‘I saw my lord of Warwick smile,’ she said grimly, and the whole chamber seemed to darken with the venom of her look. She cast the dress away with the point of her shoe. ‘Take it,’ she told me. ‘It needs but a little threadwork to fit you.’

  Stroking the slippery richness, I murmured my thanks. Elysande was beside me, caressing the fur, eyes lowered in admiration. ‘You’ll look like Venus,’ she whispered. My heart turned one of Patch’s somersaults; now I could appear before him fittingly clad, worthy and fine. Meanwhile the Duchess tried on dress after dress. And still she would not decide.

  At four o’clock, pages brought up a light meal for the Duchess, who picked at it with little heart, and if her stomach was sick, mine was sicker, with my dread that she would abstain from the feasting. At seven she vowed she would take a short rest on her couch, and at nine she still slumbered, her mouth open, the jewels at her breast catching the light as they rose and fell. Elysande and I stood watching her.

  ‘Could you not pour a sleeping draught between her jaws to quiet her for all night?’ I whispered desperately. Elysande choked on merriment.

  ‘Would you have us both end our days in the Fleet?’ she sighed, weeping with laughter. She looked at me sideways. More than ever her eyes minded me of cursed Gyb, though they were green, not yellow.

  ‘You are passing anxious to rid us of my lady by some means,’ she murmured. ‘I saw how you ran around like a frenzied stoat in your desire to robe her, and now you would have her drugged—by the Rood, that gallery must be an enchanted place! I myself have always found it too cold to stay long—but you spend half the night there and come to bed an icicle.’

  ‘It’s a diversion,’ I said. ‘No more.’ And I turned from her, suddenly weary, all my bright dreams cold as tomorrow’s fire, knowing that I had made much of naught. A few words, a dance, a kiss on the crown of the head—or had I imagined even that? A maid with long vixen-coloured hair—a moment’s politeness—and all forgotten in the chase, in the tiltyard, or checking supplies in the armoury?

  At ten, one of the Queen’s henchmen tapped on the door of the outer chamber, and I spoke to him. He asked whether my lady would be descending to the Hall, as all were concerned for her health. I found great difficulty in answering, and held wide the door so that he could see through into the Duchess’s apartment, where the gentlewomen drowsed, Elysande kept vigil and my lady snored.

  ‘What a thing it is to be cursed with years,’ he observed. ‘My Lord of Misrule holds court below, and I warrant there will be much lusty sport, with men and women doing what they will! Do you not wish you were one of his subjects, mistress?’ and he winked lewdly.

  Wild imaginings burned my mind—Richard—the cool Duke of Gloucester, inflamed mayhap by some wanton, noble lady… I put my hand flat on the liveried chest, right over the royal badge, and gave it a shove.

  ‘Not all have their minds crammed with bedsport, false mischiefs...’ I gasped. ‘Go! My lady sleeps and so shall we, soon.’

  He twisted his body about in horrible gestures.

  ‘Alone, mistress?’ he mocked. ‘’Tis passing sad.’

  From the Great Hall a roar ascended. Female shrieks and loud laughter followed. I glanced hopefully to where the Duchess lay, praying that the clamour might have awakened her, but I was disappointed.

  ‘King Misrule will have them all kissing by now,’ went on the page. ‘So why should we two not kiss—fair mistress, give me your lips, I pray you.’

  He lunged at me. He had been drinking ale, in some quiet corner. I thought sadly of my quiet corner, as I slammed the door in his face. The cold stones would be colder tonight, without me to warm them with my frail burning, and the torch flame would mutter to itself, unless others spoke and danced and touched lightly in its leaping glare. For he would not have come.
I was now convinced of it.

  And if by chance he had come and found me missing, a shrug of the shoulders would end that which had scarcely begun.

  I could picture him, walking away, slender and agile, his jewels and his eyes of ice and fire the only points of light in the darkness of him. With his swift controlled step he would be descending the stairs, entering the Great Hall to link arms with his friend, the unseen Lovell of last evening, the fortunate one who called him Dickon.

  Then they would exchange the old glances of young men.

  ‘Did she come? Was she there? What happened?’

  A shake of the head, a dagger of disdain sheathed in laughter—a draught of wine and eyes bright, seeking fresh faces to charm.

  I had never seen an execution but had heard plenty of tales; how the bowels are dragged from the belly and burnt while the victim lives. I thought my pain akin to that pain. I turned and walked to where Elysande sat at her tapestry frame.

  ‘Sweet holy Mother of God!’ she cried softly. ‘I vow I’ve never seen such a sad countenance in all my days! Grafton Regis must be the dullest place in the realm!’

  ‘It’s quiet enough. Why?’ I said. The pain was growing more brutal, more real every minute.

  ‘Well,’ she said, laughing, ‘it seems that having tasted the joys of spying on the great ones, you can’t live without such nightly diversion! But I remember, when I came to court, I felt the same. It soon palls. Why, by St Catherine, maiden, you’re weeping!’

  And she sat without moving to comfort me, but looking at me with a quizzical gaze, mocking and pitying at the same time, while her face rippled and moved before my tear-filled eyes like stones on a river bed.

  ‘Do not snivel like a slubberdegullion,’ she said, sharply kind, and this was the best physic for me, for I collected myself, and managed to smile at her, weakly.

  ‘There’s more to this,’ she spoke firmly. ‘Will you tell me—we are friends, are we not?’

  She was ever anxious to be my friend, and I was glad of it. But I could not trust myself to answer.

  ‘You have a lover!’ she said suddenly, in a pleased voice,

  ‘No lover,’ I answered. And minded the times I had said this to others who had asked me, and my reply had mattered no more to me than the death of a falling leaf. But now the case was changed anew; I had no lover, and I was in love. I thought of my love as a perfect pearl, gleaming and warm to the touch, richly sweet as honey, fragrant as the Rose, fierce as the Boar. It had been held out to me for a little space. Unfulfilled, it must be hidden in my heart. I wondered if a heart could contain all that rich and painful sweetness, without splitting clear in two.

  ‘No lover, Elysande,’ I said again.

  ‘But you had an assignation,’ she went on, guessing, eager, kind. I shook my head, and then the Duchess stirred. She was awakening, too late. The glance I gave her was sorrowful but it held no anger. She was only the tool used by unkindly Providence, to break me up.

  ‘I have slept well,’ she announced, and Elysande and I looked at each other, lost for words.

  ‘Do you desire aught, Madame?’ I asked her, though I knew there was little method in seizing the chance to go below on an errand. My gallery would be empty, empty. It was habit that made me solicitous for her needs.

  ‘I’ll have my hair brushed,’ said the Duchess ‘I feel quite renewed after my slumber. We will have a game of cards shortly,’ and she clapped her hands with a fiend’s delight, throwing all the nodding women into a frenzy of awakening.

  So, for an hour, I brushed the Duchess’s hair, and through a thin veil of unnoticed tears, I played a game that these were other locks I stroked; dark hair shining with life about a pale, noble, dangerous young face. It was difficult though; every time I made the feeling come alive, and closed my eyes the better to imagine, my lady railed at me for sleeping.

  On my way to the launderer’s in the morning, I passed the gallery, and stood a moment to bid it farewell. It was no longer an enchanted place. In daylight it seemed smaller and not the chamber of delight where once, long ago, he and I had been handfasted. The torch was black where it had burned through. An evil omen. There were a few people about; divers ladies of the court, white and wan with kiss-marks on their necks, and satiety hung on the air like over-heavy perfume in a hot room. I swept low as George of Clarence passed, gilt-haired, aloof, his fair brows drawn together in a headache knot.

  I shifted the weight of clothes from one arm to the other and sighed. A heavier sigh from the lungs of a clever mimic, whistled past my ear. Only Patch, I thought, could have come so inopportunely; if he jests with me now, I will strike him in the face. But I had misjudged him. He seemed to sense my misery.

  ‘Be not so doleful,’ he counselled. ‘I’ll carry the gowns for you—Jesu! they are heavy!’ He staggered under the weight of damask and fine linen.

  ‘Give them back to me, Patch,’ I said, mistrusting him. ‘My lady’s still wroth that one of her shifts went astray last week. God knows, you might steal one of these to wear for sport, and get me into trouble.’

  Hurt, he whined: ‘Cruel maid. You should know I wish you naught but good.’

  So I pleaded pardon, and squeezed his arm. ‘I’m in a foul humour this day, Patch,’ I said.

  ‘Then, like cat and dog, this spikes my own affection,’ he answered. ‘For I am joyful in truth... maiden, last night I had a great triumph. I was Lord of Misrule to the court, and set them all by the ears! God’s bones, you never did see such sport!’ and he laughed aloud with glee.

  ‘That I can well believe,’ I said, hiding my sorrow.

  ‘I looked for you on the gallery,’ he continued. ‘I wished to share the laughter with you, sweeting. We could have watched them below, all in turmoil, and got great joy from it. But you never came, or at least I did not see you.’

  ‘My lady was sick, and needed me,’ I said, and turned to go, unable to bear more.

  ‘Some folk keep strange custom,’ he mused, picking up one of the Duchess’s stockings which had escaped the bundle. ‘For sure, I came up here to seek you, long past midnight. Yet I did but meet with Dickon of Gloucester, and I know not who was the more startled, he or I.’

  Elysande had seen me talking to Patch, and noting my swift change from despair to gladness, reckoned it was he who was my paramour; and now that I had seen his wrinkled face and curving mouth again, all was well with me. So, to please her, I laughed, and thought on Piers, or Patch, for a brief space. He was clever, and scholarly, and his star was rising higher in the service of King Edward, so skilled and jocund was he. He was not ungently born and he was, I suspected, wealthy; neither was he freakish nor dwarfed, like some entertainers—he was fairly enough of proportions and far from unpleasing to look at. There would be few raised brows should I choose to be betrothed to him. Truly it seemed that marriage for me had faded into non-existence, these days. My mistress had gained her heart’s desire—Lady Grey was Queen of England; and she had her relatives to look to in matters of suitable betrothal. She had many wards—I was useful no doubt in a minor way but of no consequence. As for my thoughts on marriage?

  There was but one to whom I would belong. And had he been poor as the humblest cottar’s son, ragged, lame, blind, ignorant, and yet capable of offering me the wedding ring, I would have taken him on the moment, with not one look behind, so long as he had Richard’s face, and Richard’s voice, and Richard’s spirit, to burn me with a steady fire, to warm me with its young heat and make each day May Day for me.

  ‘But you do not marry them,’ I said in a whisper. By rank far distant, and by riches further apart than the topmost star. Elysande swam back into my vision.

  ‘Fools, I mean.’

  ‘Well, sweet, he is a man,’ she said, laughing, and I saw suddenly the use of this silly delusion, and caught at it gladly.

  ‘Yes, he is. He is, indeed,’ I said, feigning coyness, and she looked hard at me, as if unsure of her own mind.

  She was hard to
fathom, Elysande. French in descent, she gave away little in confidence, never lost her temper through weariness as did the others, and she seemed to know many at court, some of noble birth. I had seen her only lately having fair speech with a woman, the strangest little person I had ever seen. She was even lower in stature than I, not a deal higher than the comic dwarfs King Edward kept for his pleasure, to juggle and ride the great hounds around the Hall. Far from well-favoured was this tiny lady, with a face all bones and sharply defined as an axe, small flashing eyes and hollow cheeks. Yet she had had two husbands, Elysande told me, for this was Lady Margaret Beaufort. Daughter of the Lancastrian Duke of Somerset, she had first wedded Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, when she was thirteen, bearing a son, Henry, two months after the death of her knight.

  Patch plagued me with tales of these Tudors; he seemed to know all their history. They were some kind of distant cousin to the King. He had witnessed a rare scene, had Patch, in Hereford, the town where he was born.

  ‘I can see it now,’ he said, more than once. ‘Old Owen Tudor, kneeling in the market square—one blow, and he lacked a head... then came this madwoman...’

  ‘And combed his hair and stroked his face and wept and lighted candles all around him,’ I said wearily.

  ‘I was but a little knave,’ he said, uncaring. ‘Jesu, that woman must have loved him sore. Then, if a Queen loved him, why not a witless wench?’

  Surprised, I murmured: ‘Did a Queen love him?’

  ‘Yea, Queen Katherine, widow of Harry the Fifth—Harry of Agincourt. That is why they smote off his head, I vow. Slain for love,’ he said romantically and sighed, rolling his eyes at me and conveniently contriving to forget all about old Owen’s Lancastrian loyalties.

  ‘Edmund Tudor was their bastard issue,’ he maundered. ‘Jasper and Owen and Edmund, Margaret Beaufort’s first husband. Maiden, think you she has heard my tale of high romance and sorrow? Mayhap one day I will seek to interest her with it,’ he said happily.