We Speak No Treason Vol 1

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  I knew of whom he spoke, and I kept silence, though my mind shrieked agreement.

  ‘But we are talking of you, mistress,’ he said gently. ‘It intrigues me much to hear you describe yourself thus—neither one thing nor the other, for I too have known this feeling, and it is strong in me tonight.’

  I spread my hands, assaying to make a jest of it.

  ‘’Tis the best I can do,’ I smiled. ‘Like Patch, in his motley; half red, half yellow! That is I.’

  He set down his wine, and sighed. ‘And I,’ he said.

  Let us merge the red and the yellow then, I thought in my heart. Looking at him, dark and gleaming like a raven in the firelight, I wondered if I could contrive to touch his hand; and instantly, he must have read my thought, for his fingers reached out and closed about mine. We sat motionless, while a loving ache from his touch crept up my arm and settled in my breast.

  He was quiet for so long a space, I felt bound to amuse him with conversation.

  ‘We saw a passing marvellous sight, when we came by London Bridge,’ I said. ‘All the people were shouting and clamouring and everything halted for my lord of Warwick, as he rode...’

  I bit my words off on a gasp of pain, as his hand tightened on mine like the steel of a trap. I sat enduring the agony, questioning the pallor of his face.

  ‘Certes, the people love Warwick,’ he said, through his teeth. ‘It was always so, for he won their hearts with his kindliness and courtesy—none was too lowly for his notice... all love him, as I did.’

  It was the firelight, there could be no tears in his eyes; that was impossible, I thought, for he was hard and shining like steel; a royal Duke, a King’s brother, and such do not weep easily. Before I could decide, he had leaped from the chair, to lean against the polished sweep of the brass chimney-piece. He rested his forehead on his arm for a brief second. When he looked at me again, his face was so composed I thought I had imagined it. It was the firelight.

  ‘I loved Warwick,’ he said, and it was as if he spoke to an empty room. ‘He was like my father, and he trained me in the arts of war as bravely as I were truly his son. I cannot bear to think of those happy times at Middleham, but when I breathe the corruption down there’ he gestured fiercely in the direction of the Great Hall—‘then I mind how sweet were the cold moors of Wensleydale with their sharp cleansing gales and haunted mists. There a man could come close to God and know himself at last. Here... there is naught but greed and spite and lechery...’

  He smote the chimney-piece with his fist, and it gave off a dull booming sound. I sat quiet, and trembled.

  ‘I wonder often, of a night when I lie sleepless,’ he whispered, ‘why I was blessed, or cursed, with a heart that knows one way only, and cleaves to that way as a priest to his breviary. It is easy for George—he was ever feckless and light- minded, and lets himself be swayed by the breeze of fortune whither it will. But I have cast my loves into the dust to honour my allegiance to his Grace... to my brother Edward. The Sun in Splendour, hidden now behind a foul cloud of locusts!’

  His emotion rent me to the bone. His pain was mine.

  ‘Do not distress yourself so, my lord,’ I whispered. He did not hear me.

  ‘When I was fourteen, I attended a great banquet,’ he continued. ‘My lord of Warwick made much of me, and I wore the Garter. Warwick seated me with his ladies, the Countess, Isabel, and little Anne... I was so honoured and happy, until I realized what he was about. He would have me turn traitor to the King. I would not take his bait, so he washed his hands of me. Did you see what befell tonight?’ he demanded, turning his fiery gaze upon me.

  ‘Yes, my lord, I knew much sadness,’ I murmured.

  ‘Jesu!’ he muttered. ‘He called me... a Woodville-lover! I, of all people, who would rather have died than see my beloved... his Grace, netted by that loathsome brood. And then the Queen caused me to lose face, deliberately, before all!’

  His colour came and went, frighteningly, with his fierce breath. I rose and stood beside him.

  ‘My lady of Desmond aided you,’ I reminded him gently, and his frenzy ebbed a little.

  ‘Yea, the dear Countess. She’s a good friend to me... and one who has suffered much at... at the hands of Edward’s Queen.’

  As if he thought he had said too much, he glanced at me sharply. ‘I may not speak of it,’ he murmured. Then, in almost the same breath he said softly: ‘She is widowed.’ He looked at the fire. The leaping flames were red in the dark eyes. ‘And worse,’ he whispered. ‘The shedding of infants’ blood... Slaying women is bad enough, and no Plantagenet has ever done so, but the monstrous crime of takinng children’s lives deserves eternal torment.’

  We were silent again, a long silence, broken only by the chirping of burning logs; and the falcon’s wings softly stirring in sleep. I knew that he spoke of some secret foulness of the Queen, and wondered if he remembered that I slept by Jacquetta of Bedford. In that instant he turned to me with a faint smile.

  ‘I will say no more,’ he said. ‘It is not that I do not trust your gentle face, for there is that in it which moves me to confidence. And the King knows I am loyal and would not let the Woodvilles harm me. But you are in the service of Elizabeth’s mother, and open to attack. So it is better now that I should teach you chess, if that would pleasure you.’

  But we remained looking at each other, and he took my hands in that same tender clasp.

  ‘I would not betray you, my lord,’ I said steadily.

  ‘Suffice it to say this is why the Countess of Desmond and I talk together and sometimes dance in the Great Hall,’ he answered. ‘We find some little comfort in each other’s company. And I have need of such.’

  I could scarcely catch his last sentence. With my heart I watched him, for I longed to keep his image with me for ever: his dark slenderness, his pale face. I marked every aspect of him; seeing that he looked worn now from his outburst of the past few moments; that his black brows were straight as if drawn by a steady pen; that his right shoulder was slightly uneven as against the left; that he was very unhappy. For all his polished manners and his knightly grace, he was young, and woefully unhappy, and I loved him, with a love sharp as death.

  He still held my hands, and my gaze, with his own.

  ‘Have you known loneliness?’ he said without emotion. And I thought of Grafton Regis, after the old nurse died, and Agnes went away, and I nodded. All the time my limbs quivered, like branches under lightning—I was the tree, and he the storm.

  ‘I would tell you something now, that I have not said in this past hour of high passion which I fear has wearied you,’ he said. ‘I am glad indeed that I wandered up to the gallery the other night... it gave me much pleasure when I saw you there, so fair, so kind, and welcoming me with a sweet smile and outstretched hand. Indeed, I would thank you for that, damoiselle, and for the dance we had together, and for this night, when you have listened, and soothed me with your gentle words. I feel you are a good maid. I would you were my friend.’

  ‘I have done little, my lord,’ I murmured.

  ‘I was wroth with Harry this night,’ he said, above my head. ‘I did not command you to visit my apartments—that word tastes of the old droit de seigneur... I doubt not you thought I wished you here... to possess you, as if you were a peasant wench to tumble for an hour, when it was naught like that.’

  And for all these bold and soldierly words, which could have come from the lips of Warwick himself, his voice shook slightly.

  Slowly I looked at him, and, as I heard his breath quicken, knew that he would not dismiss me thus, without a kiss, and with only cool words of friendship. I shook my hair, so that it came free of my gown’s collar and streamed about me, a gleaming fall, the colour of the fire.

  ‘Call me by my name,’ he whispered.

  But I held it so dear my tongue could not shape the word, even to its owner.

  And he reached for me with open arms, and we came together trembling, and I know not which of us sho
ok the more, he or I, as if we lay in coldest snow, although we held each other standing in the hearth, and after a while I felt the flames warm upon the side of my gown.

  ‘We shall be in the fire, my lord,’ I said, trying to laugh, and the laugh got caught up in my throat.

  ‘We are in the fire already,’ he muttered, his face in my hair. ‘We are in the fire, and burning.’ And he tightened his arms about me so that I could scarcely breathe, and I felt his hard young body against mine, all steel and strength and honour, and behind my closed eyes I had a vision of him riding in Wensleydale, through the smoke of the mists, his hair tossed by the wind, and part of the wildness.

  He kissed my eyes, and my throat, and my cheeks, and wound his hands in my hair, and I became as the soft wax of the candles and leaned back in his arms, wondering if this was how it felt to die, and attain Paradise.

  The fire burned low as we stood thus in the press of love, and when he spoke his words slipped into my dream and became part of it.

  ‘Lady, I have known no woman,’ he murmured. I clasped my arms around his slender back.

  ‘Then we are both ’prentices in love, my lord,’ I said, softly smiling. ‘For how can I teach you a craft of which I know naught?’

  And we laughed together, all sorrow fled, and he lifted me in his arms, and I was as light as a twig. He took me to his bed and lay down with me, and we were very still for a long space, except for his hands stroking the hair which lay strewn across my cheek. He lifted his head and looked in my eyes.

  ‘Call me by my name,’ he whispered. ‘Sweet heart, say it to me.’

  ‘Richard,’ I said, trembling. ‘Richard, my love.’

  His took me in his arms. He laid his lips on mine. And a flame sprang up and caught us, and we sighed in it, and were consumed by it, and there was naught in the world save its fierce glory. And he was no longer Duke of Gloucester, Earl of Cambridge, a prince of the blood, or the King’s brother.

  He was but Richard, and for a little space he was mine, and I was his true maid, his Nut-Brown Maid, who loved but him alone.

  *

  O Lord, what is this worldis bliss

  That changeth as the moon!

  My summer’s day in lusty May

  Is darked before the noon.

  I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,

  We depart not so soon.

  Why say ye so? whither will ye go?

  Alas! what have ye done?

  All my welfare to sorrow and care

  Should change, if ye were gone:

  For in my mind, of all mankind

  I love but you alone.

  (The Nut-Brown Maid)

  Now, I was part of the spring. Benevolent Saints, how I loved him! and how happy were those months! Even now, when I am old, and my body is sickly and weak so that I need the aid of others sprightlier than I that I may kneel for Lauds, I still mind that time. When the young green leaves sprouted tender as kisses, and the birds sang a merrier tune than any minstrel could pipe. When the pleasaunce at Greenwich and Shene boasted a crush of blossom nudging the velvet lawns, with brave iris and gillyflower, lilac and narcissus jousting with one another for acclaim. When the evening was haunted by lilies which, shaking in the breeze like censers, gave off a headier scent than the holy things they sought to ape, and the Rose, the White Rose, shed its splendour over all.

  Yea, I have full remembrance of that time; but as my heart lies under tangling weeds and a rough stone slab, it is all as that read long ago in an old romance, and there is no movement in me, not even of sadness. Because—and for this I thank the Father in all His mercy—without a heart, there can be no sorrow, nor can there be joy. Thus, a heartless state is best during the days of waiting, which I pray will soon be over.

  Yet from the time of Epiphany, when the revels ended, and order was restored to the jocund court, it became sorely difficult for Richard and me to meet. I dared not go too often to the gallery for two reasons: first because my lady of Bedford was ever demanding, lusting for this or that whim to be fulfilled, and secondly because there was no pleasure in watching him below at a distance, when I could not be in his arms. Though I did see him at the board, seated a thousand miles away at the other end of the Hall, seated below the Woodvilles, sometimes between Dick and Thomas Grey, toying with his knife, eating little, saying less, drawing his brows together as he gazed at the King, who was ever engrossed by Elizabeth’s lively kinsfolk. He was all dignity and grace, sombre in the dark clothes he liked to wear, as ever courteous to all since that one burst of passion when Warwick had wounded him with words, the same night he and I first held each other—in pain, in bliss, in scorching, tender consummation.

  We had been together less than a dozen times, yet I was happy beyond words. I remembered each meeting so perfectly, for I had to feed on it until the next; and once I saw him for ten minutes only, behind the tall yew hedge in the pleasaunce, while from very near the sound of the mallets in the forbidden game of ‘closh’ mingled with guilty laughter. There, we had stood and kissed each other softly for a few moments. I felt the sun warm on my closed eyes, my lifted face. He had said: ‘Sweet heart, I had sore need of you last evening, for my heart was heavy.’ And I had answered: ‘My lord, my love, my heart was sad because I needed you.’ There, in a nutshell, was the difference between us.

  And that ten minutes served me for the next two weeks, for Richard was never idle, was ever conferring with older men who listened to his words with a smile, none the less impressed by his wisdom. He was meticulous over matters of policy, his commissions of oyer and terminer, and as I knew how much it pleased him when the King gave him tasks to do, I did assay to be happy on his behalf, but as he was not with me, I found it nigh impossible. Happy I was, yea, but I felt always as if the spring were gliding by too swiftly and that I was alone in the sunshine, with my own shadow darkening the gleam.

  Then one evening all was well again, for Harry sought me on the spiralling stair, under the arras of gold, and I took his little hand as if we were children together and we went along light of heart in the gloom, to where the gentlemen ushers and grooms of the bedchamber turned their heads away and bent to their dice in the passages and whispered, though not of me, for they were wise men and sympathetic to the wants of lords, although they knew not what great love and joy passed between us. And Richard’s chambers were deserted save for him; and if they called King Edward the Rose of Rouen, the Sun in Splendour, his youngest brother surpassed him in my eyes. Three hours I spent with him that evening, and we talked quietly of one another, of our hopes and our troubles, and our kisses grew stronger, and we were unable to withstand the whirlwind, the torrent, that burst within us. And we clung together, and forgot all but the longing to be enwrapped and enfolded within each other. And he was mine again, for three hours; and he tried to teach me to play chess, but as I sat upon his knee for the lesson and my hair swept the pieces off the board each time I turned to kiss him, it was not a success.

  I wished in my heart that he had been born a cottar’s son, and I betrothed to him at the village porch with a wreath of roses on my head, and the family standing ale-flushed and merry about us, and that we had been bedded together with rude mirth and left to live out our simple lives; rearing babes, toiling with smiles and frowns and days of gloom and hunger even, with our small pleasures, our bereavements, our feast days and our May Days... though each day would be May Day if Richard had been born thus.

  Noblemen took lemen for lust, and the women went gladly through ambition, using their bodies as snares for gold and power. But he was not one of these, neither was I; for he turned to me out of the mazes of his loneliness, and I to him from the web of my love.

  We were no longer ’prentices in love.

  Warwick was seen no more at court. Patch, who seemed to have an ear at every door, was worse than any woman for whispering tales to me. He told me that the Earl, after a brief and unexpected Christmas appearance, had gone to his manor at Cambridge. Further, it wa
s rumoured that George of Clarence communicated with him, and that there was more talk of Isabel, the frail fair lady with her vast estates.

  ‘A right comely wench,’ he said. ‘But sickly, like her sister Anne. Though I doubt not that were she as hideous as I, the prospect of ridding London of the Woodvilles would aid Duke George to love her.’

  He was waiting for me to say he was not hideous. All I said was: ‘How would marrying Isabel harm the Woodvilles?’

  ‘I fancy Lord Warwick has promised George that he will engineer this,’ grinned Patch. ‘But I fear ’tis delusion. You mind that Warwick was one of the Calais Earls?’

  I did not, but let him continue.

  ‘King Louis of France is a craftsman at flattery,’ said the fool. ‘Not long after he took the throne he made a ploy for Warwick—sought his advice on hunting dogs, wrote him fair letters at Calais, and Warwick bloomed like a peach.’

  ‘Yet Warwick fought for Edward, and set him on the throne,’ I said, confused.

  ‘True,’ he answered. ‘And Warwick had the notion that once peace was made with Louis, there would be no more attacks from Margaret of Anjou. But this would mean crushing Burgundy. Edward would never agree to that. And in any event, as Elizabeth snatched the King from Bona of Savoy, Louis’s sister by marriage, all Warwick’s plans were halted in mid-gallop. Thus my lord loathes the Woodvilles.’

  My mind flew back to an old conversation. I saw John Skelton’s handsome face, heard the tale of Richard’s flight to the Low Countries, and the saving of his life.

  ‘Nay,’ I said very softly. ‘They would never break with Burgundy, for the Burgundians are passing kind.’

  Patch laughed. ‘Hardly could they, with the King’s sister married to Charles, Burgundy’s own Duke!’

  He knew much more of politics than I. I said: ‘Warwick still plots with George, then, think you?’

  ‘Yes, and he would have done with Dickon, too,’ said the fool, and my witless heart started its old dance, floundering and prancing at the name.

  ‘I wonder if he will ever weaken,’ Patch mused. ‘I doubt not Warwick would give him Anne as a reward... ’Twould be easier if my lord had both brothers ranged against the King.’