We Speak No Treason Vol 1

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  ‘I doubt not she is well familiar with it, Patch, as are we all.’ I sighed and turned up my eyes to make him cease. And then I realized it was nearing dusk, and Tudors and Lady Beaufort fled from my mind. For they were all but as the pastry figures fashioned by cooks for the subtleties at the King’s table, and my thoughts all drew together and ran to meet Richard, as I prayed for night to come swiftly.

  I vowed I would wait for him until dawn. I donned the Duchess’s gift as soon as she was safely below. Elysande brushed out my hair, as if I were a noble lady. The other women played at dice, casting resigned looks in our direction as we murmured and shook with mirth, though there were some who smiled to themselves, having faint remembrance of their own youth; they were all past thirty.

  ‘They think you lack-wit to love a fool,’ Elysande whispered, and we clutched each other and wept with our laughter. And I laughed more merrily than she at the secret jest which I enjoyed, until a sudden thought shattered my joy. In truth, I had likened Patch to a troublesome fly before, but this night, if my lord came and spoke with me, and bewitched me with his steady gaze and the clasp of his hand, the fool might prove more dangerous; a fly? nay, a hornet, with sharp jealous sting. I fell to gnawing my nails, and when Elysande asked me, sighing what ailed me now, I could not answer her.

  She snuffed a few candles, and the chamber grew large and dark with this new riddle peering at me from the shadows. Two of the women already slept, and their quiet breathing mingled with the rattling dice and the faint music coming from below. I sat motionless.

  ‘Your sweetheart will be looking for you,’ Elysande whispered. ‘Take your cloak, it is colder tonight.’

  I drew the hood up over my hair.

  ‘Why do you dally?’ she hissed, holding the door open. A chill breath from the passage crept in. ‘If you don’t go soon, you’ll not be back when my lady returns.’

  ‘Ah, Jesu, Elysande,’ I whispered. ‘Will she return soon, think you?’

  She smiled. ‘Nay, child, she’s in fine fettle tonight. From the way she spoke, she rued slumbering through the gaiety last evening.’

  The door closed softly behind me. Shaken by a trembling that had naught to do with the cold, I moved vixen-silent through the familiar darkness. Around the corner, the flickering torch burned high, beckoning me with its elf-light. I heard the music and the raised voices, which by now I could almost tell apart. The King’s laugh was a mighty sound, rich and golden as he, and I recognized Clarence’s bibulous chuckle. Tenderly, I bent my body against the pillar, greeting the carved faces with my fingers, and looked down. I was safe from Patch for a time in any event, for a figure, all blazing yellow and red, jingling bells, leaped witlessly about before the royal dais. He had possessed himself of the gold carcanet from the neck of some knight, and was skipping with it in the manner of a young child. He will need to be careful, I thought. His glory of last night makes him wax stout and proud. For his sake, I hoped that the lord he had robbed was cup-shotten and careless.

  The Woodvilles dominated the Hall. They were all gathered, and tonight also there was Lionel Woodville, lately made Bishop of Salisbury. In fine robes, he nodded and smiled at the wholesome folly before him. There was Lord Hastings, looking sour. Lord Stanley and his brother William. Katherine of Desmond, Dick and Thomas Grey, George of Clarence, and my lord of Warwick. My eyes found Warwick, found his companion, and searched no further.

  He was the very reason for my birth. He was my lord, and he stood next to the Earl of Warwick, slender and elegant, dangerous and sad, and I felt my heart give one clapping rush out to him like the wings of a dying bird; and my eyes set upon him in longing love, and I heard myself, like someone far away, come forth with a little rush of loving words, and his name, said over and over in the darkness. It was a moment or two before I realized that all was not well with him. He was talking to Warwick, very fast. He was pale as death. He held one hand hard down upon the hilt of his dagger as if he feared it would suddenly take on life, and kill. He was angry.

  Warwick, much taller than Richard, bent his handsome head languidly to listen. A little smile fidgeted his mouth. I mistrusted that smile. And George of Clarence came strolling into the tableau, also smiling, with full pouting lips, with condescension and unmistakable mockery. And Richard talked on and on, as I watched him, his hands; the clenched fist, the spread fingers, the clasped hands like a prayer; and his brows drawing together, and his eyes bright with this unknown anger and sadness. He glanced towards the King, then back to Warwick, talking, talking. And all the time Warwick smiled that arrogant, cruel smile, and Clarence chuckled in his wine-cup.

  Then Warwick laid his hand upon his own heart and spoke. One short phrase, and Clarence laughed out loud, and the colour touched Richard’s face, as if each cheek had been held before the fire. Then in the next instant he was pale again, pale as one long dead.

  Warwick placed an arm about George of Clarence’s shoulders, and together they walked away.

  Richard was looking at the King. Edward, with a moody good-humour, filled a goblet with wine and pushed it across the table, beckoning his brother to come and drink. Richard walked over to the dais. He made to lift the jewelled cup, when the Queen forestalled him. With a masterly coquetry and a cat’s swiftness, she took the cup herself, pledging the King over it with large eyes. She touched it to her lips. Then she handed it over her shoulder to Anthony Woodville, who raised it high.

  ‘The King, my lords!’ he cried. ‘The Sun in Splendour! Perdition to his enemies!’

  With a roar, the court rose, goblets aflame. I saw them all, as if frozen in a pose, the gay court acclaiming its King, the royal pair smiling their pleasure, and the King’s brother, young, solitary, fierce, his foot upon the step of the dais, glaring about as at those who sought his death. The only one to lack a cup for the loyal toast.

  ‘Holy Jesu! Cruel, cruel!’ I said out loud, and clung to the pillar, shaking.

  I had been against the Countess of Desmond because she danced with him, but I loved her the next second, for it was she who brought salvation. Snatching up a half-empty hanap from one of the side tables, she tendered it discreetly towards Richard. And Patch, the troublesome fly, the witless fool, I loved him too. For he nipped it swiftly from her hand and gave it to my lord, with a courtly bow and a wink that held no mockery. So the wheels began to turn again, and the throats of men moved in their swallow, and the thud of goblets being set down merged with the minstrels’ gay tune, and the moment passed.

  My heart pounded, and my palms were wet. I fixed a killing glance upon the Queen but it did not touch her, for she fluttered her lashes and her hands, and the King ogled her with looks that spoke of bed. It was only when I surveyed the company again that I saw my lord of Warwick had not drained his cup, but held it brimming still. The smile on his countenance was bland and fierce. And now the gay colours, the glory, meant little. I smelled the storm, the hidden hate. It rose up and beat about me.

  Warwick bent the knee before his King. He was departing, the carved smile still on his lips, and as I marked his progress through the door, I realized that another, the other, the only one, had left before him. And I had not even watched him go; it was like a betrayal, for I had sworn I would not let him from my sight, would protect him with my gaze as his own patron saint.

  I sighed. He would not come now—that was certain, for he was too distressed by whatever had befallen him down there in that hell of hot laughter. And I would not even have the chance to offer him solace. It was as I thought thus, I wondered how best I might comfort him, and lacked conclusion, for how shall one, who has no quality, who is shadow and not substance, know aught of succouring a prince of the blood?

  Cold and alone, I stood for a long time. My heart ached. I was full of longing and sorrow and shame, shame at myself. Last night, while the Duchess slumbered, I had tormented myself with thoughts of my love, deeming him a lightsome courtier, wayward in look and desire. Now I knew he was not even a part of the seethi
ng court; I saw him old beyond his years, constantly tortured; pricked by intrigue and spite, baited by circumstance as a bear by feast-day mastiffs. And the worst of it was I did not know all. I could not reckon what it was that branded his face with that look of angry sorrow. And, thinking how gladly I would have shared his trouble, no matter what, I drew my cloak about me and began to make my way, sadly, back towards the Duchess’s apartments.

  I felt a tugging at my skirts, and turned, frightened. A pale face stared up at me, level with my waist. A child’s face, a faery face, disembodied above a suit of dark livery, and green-white with fatigue. A tiny page, come by night on an errand of which he was too young and too weary to know overmuch. Very hesitantly he asked my name and looked satisfied when I nodded. Then he fumbled for my cloaked hand and gripped its coldness. He began to tug me back towards the gallery. ‘Mistress, come with me,’ he muttered.

  ‘Where?’ I stood firm, while he heaved at my hand and breathed gustily as if to draw me after him by sheer strength.

  ‘It is a command,’ he insisted, and my blood turned to dreadful ice. Only the King commands. My first thought was that I had been espied on the gallery by night and that the Comptroller of the Household had been ordered to reprimand me. Or some doing of the Queen! My guilt summond wild images of Elizabeth’s displeasure. I remembered too that I wore my lady of Bedford’s gown. It came to my mind that she might not recall giving it to me. I sought to hide its rich folds from the torchlight and the child’s weary eyes.

  ‘Who so commands?’ I whispered. The page shook his head, mute with sleep-lust.

  ‘Madame, ’tis this way,’ he breathed, his foot pawing the ground like a pony anchored by too great a weight. And so in pity and resignation I steeled myself and went with him, along the dark ways, past the drowsy guard, who winked at me as at any fair female face, answering my uneasy smile. We ascended narrow spiralling steps to another broad passage, descended a staircase, crossed a deserted hallway and entered a part of the Palace where I had not ventured. My captor halted before an oaken door, and bruised his knuckles hammering upon it. We waited. The page looked at me, and I at him, and he twitched his pale lips in a comic grimace.

  ‘I suppose we had better enter,’ he muttered, and threw his weight against the handle. I followed him into the empty chamber, and, in the light of many candles and a great fire, saw that upon his livery was blazoned the Boar, the White Boar, and my blood turned from ice to flame.

  My hand was still imprisoned. He had a duty to fulfil, and none would chide him for shirking it. I managed to smile at him.

  ‘I shall not flee, child,’ I said gently. ‘How cold your hand is! Come to the warmth.’

  He came, willingly, and sat in the hearth, his knees under their proud livery drawn up to his chin, while I looked around the chamber, drinking in the things that were Richard, and which gave me joy.

  ‘Where is my lord of Gloucester?’ I asked, walking about on the rich carpet.

  ‘He was here when I left, but he must have gone about some affairs,’ said the child anxiously.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ I said. Now I could hardly speak. ‘He will come soon.’

  His chessboard lay open upon a small table, the pieces frozen in an intricate move. My fingers hovered over a bishop; then dropped to my side, for I knew little of the game. I wondered with whom he had been playing, and guessed again at Lovell, his friend of the dark staircase. A fluttering sigh came from the corner. On a rod crouched a perigrine falcon, his round eye fixing me like an angry jewel. A lute lay on a chair near by and I touched it softly. The little discord rippled and hung sobbing on the air.

  I walked to his writing table. Sheets of parchment lay strewn, and some had fallen to the floor. Pens and ink—a broken quill, and a pattern of fierce words leaping to my eye. I bent to read and saw with love, his signature... R. Gloucester; and three words, repeated over and over, the writing a fine Italic script growing wilder and ending with an ink-smear and paper torn by a savage pen. Very recent, that writing, the last line still wet. Three words only, time and again…

  Loyaulte me lie.

  The fire spurted and hissed as it licked damp wood.

  I went through into the adjoining chamber, for the door was open, and gazed at Richard’s narrow bed. It looked hard, though the sheets were damask, the covers edged with ermine. The White Boar, worked in silver thread, savaged the coverlet with its tusks. Above the couch shone a tiny light, steadfast and comfortable, illuminating the statue of St George. In silence I stared at the saint, and asked his blessing on Richard Plantagenet.

  ‘I wish he would come,’ said a small voice from the antechamber. I went back to the fire and was about to try to cheer the page, when the door opened, and he did come: all my joy, all my safety and all my bliss.

  He entered smiling and he too had felt the cold, for he had thrown a long cloak of dark velvet about him. He gave me no time for any curtsey; he strode across the chamber and took my hands.

  ‘Mistress, I am happy to see you again,’ he said. His voice was as I remembered it. The joy became a pain, striking my depths.

  ‘Sir, you commanded my presence; I am happy to obey,’ I said softly. He must have felt the heartbeat in my wrist; beating, beating, like a song, like a tabor. But his glance swept to the page, and his smile faded a little.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded. ‘Harry, you are becoming hard of hearing now you are old and have fully eight years! I mentioned no word of command—I did but say you were to ask the lady.’

  The page’s mouth opened convulsively as if to set up a bawling. Richard bent hastily and took him in his arms, setting him on the table, so that his legs dangled.

  ‘My lord, forgive my folly,’ whimpered the child. ‘I have a passing bad memory—I pray you, don’t beat me.’ And he shot a sly glance from under his lashes, cringing and fawning like a cur who begs morsels beneath the table.

  ‘Folly indeed,’ muttered Richard. ‘When have I beaten you, you knave?’

  ‘Never, my lord,’ said the page primly.

  Then Richard laughed. ‘Well, sir, thanks for your faithful service this night. You look over-ripe for your bed. Be gone!’ and he tossed a coin up in the air which the page caught deftly, tucked into a pouch that a faery might own, and, grinning, twinkled his legs across the chamber and heaved the door shut behind him.

  And we were alone; and the fire blazed and chattered on the hearth, and we stood looking at each other across a chasm of unspoken words and my thoughts that leaped and swooned and grew bright.

  He was the first to move. He crossed to me and my heart raced swifter for I thought... I know not what I thought, but he took my cloak from about me and his glance fell on my hair and he paled slightly.

  ‘I pray you, be seated, mistress; be comfortable.’ He drew a chair for me with as much courtesy as I had been the Queen. He laid our cloaks together across the table. ‘I looked for you last evening,’ he said, but his voice did not reproach me. His tone was rather that of one who expects to be disappointed.

  ‘My lord, I would gladly have talked with you on the gallery again,’ I said. ‘But my lady of Bedford had need of my services.’

  The look of kind politeness vanished from his face as if cloven off by a sword, and he gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘Ah, holy God!’ he said, and his quiet voice was even quieter. ‘It is wondrous mirthful, for even in this, as in all my affairs, that company conspires to thwart me.’

  He turned, with his restless, trained walk moving over to where stood a flagon of wine and cups.

  ‘Will you drink, damoiselle?’ he said, holding up the crested flagon, and I sprang from my chair, for it was unseemly for him to serve me.

  ‘I will attend you, my lord,’ I said hastily, seeking to take the wine from him. He covered my hand with his own, and his dark eyes held mine as he smiled a half-smile.

  ‘You are my guest, mistress,’ he said. ‘Be seated, I pray; let us have no more folly. No posturing, no sham.’r />
  Through my wild joy, he handed me the cup. He sat opposite me, the fire burning bright between us, and stretched his legs in the hearth, the time-honoured male gesture.

  ‘This is better than that chill nook where first we met,’ he said, and smiled at me over the top of his hanap. He drank, slowly, without taking his eyes from me. Then he whispered:

  ‘Jesu! You are fair!’

  I sat and tried to be calm, feeling myself becoming fairer under his look.

  ‘Can you play chess?’ he said suddenly.

  Surprised, I shook my head. ‘But I will learn, my lord, if that is your desire,’ I murmured.

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘It matters not,’ he said. ‘It is a good game, however, and one that all should know. It teaches a man strategy and tactics, and, by God, I vow that in this place one should be born cognizant of such matters!’

  I longed to ask him more, help him unburden himself, but I knew I must wait until he chose to speak of that which troubled and angered him so much.

  ‘How do you find the court?’ he asked me, and I was sorely vexed for an answer.

  ‘The jewels and the dresses are wonderous fine,’ I ventured, and he hid a smile in his wine-cup, shaking his head, no doubt, at the light-mindedness of women.

  ‘But I see little of the court itself, my lord, for I am neither one thing nor the other...’ I babbled on. ‘I am greater than some and lesser than some, and to speak the truth, I have not yet found my rightful place. I am pulled this way and that by standards of society, for though I came from the Queen’s house at Grafton Regis, I am not of noble birth.’

  He gazed at me, and there was that in his eye which reminded me of the falcon’s stare, looking right through and out the other side.

  ‘Noble birth,’ he said slowly. ‘Jesu, mistress, I have seen the humblest vassal conduct himself with more grace than some of noble birth! And I have seen those who, hiding their policies behind a lovesome smile, feign nobility as they were born to it. While their hands clutch power as greedily as any cutpurse in the street!’