We Speak No Treason Vol 1

by Rosemary Hawley Jarman

  I contented myself with riding up and down the line with quip and sally, dodging many a blow from men who could not wait to strike at something. One of these looked at me with scorn and muttered of coxcombs; whereon I rode knee to knee with him and strangled him with a paradox as we came to York, heart-high. On Lendal Bridge, the Friars of St Augustine raised blessing hands—Gloucester bowed; they were his friends. We clattered down Micklegate and either side was hemmed with women whose lords and husbands moved out to mingle with our throng. Under ghost-hung Mickle Bar we rode, and an old man wavered from the walls: ‘Jesu preserve his Grace! God for England!’ for he had fought beside King Harry, and come back limbless. This then was the army of the North; men bred in the cold moors’ solitude, who knew little of the court and its silken coils. Their loves were those of Gloucester, and they were Gloucester’s men.

  My lord of Northumberland smiled a wonderful sour smile and set his shining back, for it was plain how these northern men loved Gloucester, who took the time to listen to their grievances in all the blaze of his great affairs, and once these had been Percy’s people. To quote one small incident: there was that matter of the fishgarths. These traps, said the men of York, littered the Ouse and Humber to such a degree that poor folk could scarcely make a catch; but the Bishop of Durham and those like him needed this meat for their holy houses—an outrageous monopoly, vowed the northern magistrates. Such sacred souls are fat and powerful—it took a King’s brother to find the solution. The plaintiffs came to the Council of the North with their pleas, and went away satisfied. So thereafter was fish on the table of clergy and laity alike, and one day fish on the Duke of Gloucester’s board—perch and tench and demain bread and pipes of wine—gifts from the grateful aldermen of York. Oh, how that fish stuck in Lord Percy’s craw!

  When we emerged from Galtres Forest a party of knights awaited us at Bootham Bar. At that time I rode near the man of keen sight. I could only distinguish a vague shape of colour drifting from the standard bearer’s pole, but the young knight said calmly: ‘The Company of Taylors and Drapers—a goodly sight.’ And again I would not give him credence until he murmured: ‘Or, a pavilion purpure lined ermine on a chief azure, a lion’s head cabooshed affronté or over all, two Robes of Estate ermine lined purpure. Is your name Thomas, by chance, Sir Fool?’

  Throughout London they were arming. In Eastchepe the merchants were leaving their houses on richly caparisoned mounts. I went first to my mother’s place, and stood aside for the band of archers who strode down the street, singing grimly.

  ‘Godspeed, lads!’ I called.

  One stopped, mischievous-faced. ‘Don’t you wish you were coming, Sir Fool?’ he cried. ‘Frenchwomen are fair, I’m told, and fairer when they struggle!’

  ‘Bring me a souvenir!’

  ‘A French purse?’

  ‘A French pox, more like!’ I cried, then stepped into the cook-shop, my heart sinking, for there was the sickness smell, and no customers. My mother lay abed, small in a mountain of pillows. I pushed between the curtains and embraced her. My sister had come from Kent and stood at the fireplace with her back to me, stoking the flames as if for a lying-in.

  ‘Open the window,’ my mother said. ‘I would hear the men riding by.’ This I did, and the sound of tramping feet rose clear from the cobbles, a never-ending clatter. ‘I shall soon be well,’ she said, and would not talk about her ailments, but gossiped with me as before, of the Royal household, London life, and trade, which had not been so good lately

  ‘Folk have not the wherewithal,’ she said. ‘And there has been too much costly strife in London—quarrels breed heavy fines and besides, the King, God cherish him, asks much of his people.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The benevolences, he calls them. Even here I’ve heard grumblings. You cannot milk a dry cow.’

  ‘Why, I thought the King could pluck his jaybirds with such skill that they never cry out.’

  ‘No more. And this war is expensive. God send him victorious.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said I.

  She smiled weakly. ‘As for this French affair—it is his intent to cool their humours with a real battle.’

  I felt a wish to see the King. She said, ‘You may find him changed,’ but would say no more, so I asked about his royal offspring.

  ‘The Prince of Wales is at Ludlow,’ she said. ‘With his noble governor,’ and pulled a little face, saying that some servants of Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers, had been in the shop lately and brawled with Lord Hastings’s men. There had been bloody noses and a table broken. ‘Let us hope he is teaching the Prince Edward better manners.’

  ‘The Earl is schooling him in all ways of urbanity and nurture,’ said my sister from the fireplace, and I winked at her.

  ‘Let us hope they will not make a milksop of him,’ I said boldly, thinking of the Woodvilles’ creeping elegance.

  ‘Speaking of heirs,’ my mother said, ‘you must wed Mistress Grace.’ This was the moment I had wished to avoid. I acted right shiftily, causing my mother to plead and my sister to frown.

  ‘Do not deny me grandchildren,’ said my mother. I told her I had affairs to see to, and left her with a kiss, trying not to notice her sad face. My sister followed me down; she was weeping.

  ‘’Tis canker,’ she whispered. ‘She has a growth on her belly the size of an orange. The doctor would have cut her, but it goes too deep. I mislike your lady Grace, but it would please our mother to see you settled and the line continued.’

  ‘Then you have a son,’ I said, bitter with grief.

  ‘My son died,’ she said, going pale. ‘I have been to Canterbury, but I am still barren.’

  So I went out into the street, and made my way, heavy hearted, to Grace’s house. I had forgotten how foul London was. The streets were littered with filth that once I had hardly noticed. Had anyone, times past, told me I would crave the moors of Wensleydale, I would have struck him for a traitor.

  On the corner of Fish Street I jostled a real popinjay of a fellow who cursed me. My mother had said that folk were tightening their belts against the press of Edward’s benevolences, but this man was exceedingly well-endowed. He was no nobleman yet he wore violet satin and carried a gold-headed cane. His hat was a green velvet carrot, with silver tassels. He had a fair, rosy, maiden’s face, and his voice, even when raised in oaths, was like a warbling thrush. It was Clarence’s mermaid, his protégé who sang so sweet. A member of the Profession, so I spoke him soft.

  ‘Life treats you well, friend.’ He smiled a double-edged smile at this.

  ‘Certes, I have a good master,’ he answered, and flickered past me into Candlewick Street. I watched him disappear into The Parys, a tavern frequented by the wealthiest lords, and I pondered on him all the way to the house of my betrothed.

  Well, the banns were cried, and Grace and I were married, and my mother came to church in a litter borne by two of her oldest servants, who had burned to ride on the second Agincourt but were too full of years. The candles gleamed, and we plighted our eternal troth in God’s holy house, and took the wedding breakfast at my mother’s. There were smiles all round, even on my face, because not for naught was I trained as an actor. Then I took my lady and got her with child; and in the dark, she had very long, soft hair.

  Grace was rounding to the grandchild which my mother would never see, the day I sat in the Boar’s Head and watched the men returning from war, and saw the faces no longer smiling and heard the voices that no longer sang. Some of them passed through the tavern without words and quaffed ale as if to sate a thirst for blood. Their faces were such I thought it more prudent to sit silent until a figure I knew entered. It was my cousin, who halted at my bench, standing splay-legged, tall and fearsome with eyes like iron bolts.

  ‘You should have come with us,’ he said, sickly with scorn. ‘For that was a fool’s errand, yea, a fool’s errand, by Jesu!’

  ‘How went the battle?’ I said, frightened. He lobbed his spit over the t
able edge and down by my feet.

  ‘You should have been there,’ he repeated. ‘For there was much hearty jesting, and dancing, and sport, sweet talk, fair words. By Our Lord, I need drink! Tapster, wine here!’

  ‘And the fighting? How many casualties—how many men did Charles of Burgundy send?’

  ‘Not a blow was struck,’ he said, on a great swallow. ‘Not one blow. And as for Burgundy...’

  There was a clamour at the inn door and a company of young archers came in shouting. They were spoiling for a fight. There had been no booty, no plunder for them in France. Outside, a minor riot was developing among lewd soldiery who had ravished no women, plundered no dwellings. One of the archers was a little flown with drink.

  ‘You liar!’ he cried to a fellow. ‘My father paid taxes to make war, not sign treaties!’

  Blows followed, and the landlord seized a truncheon from the wall and ran among them. It looked a good fight—I fingered my staff, then felt my cousin’s fingers gripping my arm. He was gazing through the window where could be seen the livery of the King’s Peace officers. ‘Be still,’ he muttered, and I obeyed, watching while they entered and arrested four, five, six of these young hotbloods, clapping them in manacles and dragging them away, still foamy-mouthed with ale and passion. Then my kinsman told me all.

  King Edward had signed a peace treaty with France on the bridge at Picquigny. Charles of Burgundy had never arrived at all; he had gone wandering off to besiege Neuss at the crucial moment. It had been a bloodless truce.

  ‘Disgrace,’ I whispered, feeling torn to pieces. ‘Oh God, dishonour!’

  ‘I warn you never to speak thus,’ my cousin said grimly. ‘His Grace has said farewell to mercy.’

  He told me that times were a-changing; that the King now intended to punish—with the swiftness of the Almighty—all miscreants in word or deed: thieves, murderers, and those of seditious tongue. ‘He may have signed for gold with Louis, but he is still our King, by God’s grace, fearful and omnipotent. You’ll see.’

  ‘And all the lords stand with him,’ I said miserably.

  ‘Yea, they were well pleased with the fine presents King Louis showered… save for one, that is.’

  ‘My lord of Gloucester?’ I murmured, and he said, somewhat shortly, why did I ask him of the doings in France, if I knew them already?

  ‘He was as angry as any out there.’ He pointed to the grumble-haunted street.

  ‘Don’t ask me to believe he quarrelled with the King,’ I said.

  ‘The Devil have my soul, when I see that day,’ said my cousin with a laugh. ‘Louis sought to woo him full lovingly, but the more he smiled the more fiercely did Gloucester scowl. He would not dine with the French King, as did my lord of Clarence and de Bretaylle. At the King’s direction he accepted Louis’s presents, but with as much wrath as if he thought he’d sold himself.’

  ‘Though the Boar is rooted in the Rose,’ I mused. ‘It seems our King could set the realm in flames and his brother would cleave to him.’

  ‘I know not which he loves more, England or his Grace.’

  ‘They are one and the same,’ I said. ‘Whatever the end, France is conquered.’

  ‘And Hogan keeps his head.’

  ‘That charlatan!’ I roared. On all his perambulations round England the wily old soothsayer stirred up the people. No matter which way the wind blew he could lay claim to foresight and this day no exception. He had forecast that France would be conquered—so had she been, for 50,000 crowns a year and a trade agreement.

  ‘The Princess Elizabeth is promised in marriage to the Dauphin.’

  This was the end for me. ‘I would leave London,’ said I. ‘I would go home.’

  He smiled. ‘So the north is now home to you. You’ve caught a tincture of its speech—d’you know it?’

  Gloucester had taken his anger back to Middleham, yet I was still in London when they burned John Goos for heresy. My mother was fading fast and Grace’s time near, like the ebb and flow of the tide. The cook-shop would be mine by my mother’s will. Grace expressed the urge to manage it, though I would liefer have put in some trusted body to see to these affairs, and have my wife and child by me in Yorkshire. We quarrelled over it. If I ever conjure her into my mind these days, which I do rarely, I see my lady with her weapons of war to hand: a kettle, a pewter platter, a ginger-jar. Once, she heaved a whole pig’s head, hot from the fire, at me. That was one missile I did not catch, but on the whole she fumed in impotence at my dexterity. Though she had her way over the shop.

  ‘I will have no Month’s Mind kept,’ my mother said, in a whisper.

  ‘If that be your wish,’ I answered with regret. I wanted to remember her publicly and in honour, came the anniversary of her departing. The physician approached and set leeches to her temples. Her pallor deepened and her eyes closed in pain. I could not brook remaining in that hot room heavy with sickness and my sister’s sorrow. Grace’s kinfolk were there too: her haughty brothers and her sister Kate, who was tender to my mother as if she were truly of her blood. I walked with long marching steps through London. Aimlessly I went Tower-ward, where Margaret of Anjou no longer lay; for the King had ransomed her as part of the peace bargain with Louis, and she had returned to France, no longer fair, an old woman.

  On Tower Hill there was a vast crowd and some who recognized me. So I gave them a heel-and-toe and a bawdy rhyme, before the real revel began and they led Master Goos, self-confessed Lollard, to the stake. The sheriffs and priests stood about him with stern pleading. He had a sallow, gentle face; and even at that late hour he spoke of Wyclif with quiet conviction as if the whole matter had been decided for him years ago. They beseeched him to die a Christian man but he shook his head. So they looked at one another with thunderous cold looks, and made fast the chains about his body. The smell of the pitch rose high as they soaked the faggots and touched them with flame.

  One priest persisted, stepping close in the whirling smoke. ‘My son, my son, is not the Holy Sacrament Christ’s Body?’

  ‘It is but bread,’ gasped the heretic.

  When the blackened head drooped, there was a woman who writhed on the ground and wept, despite the tuggings and hushing glances of her friends. There is ever, I have found, one woman who mourns a death. Many may weep but there is always one who loves, and most times she is unknown. Like the dame who cried for Owen Tydder, with his poll on the highest point of Hereford Market Cross. Some unwise philosophy made me say aloud: ‘He died for what he thought was right.’

  ‘Yea, he did and is damned for it,’ said a great bellied cordwainer who stood by me, and spat towards the sinking flames.

  There were many such sights that year. King Edward was better than his word. He said farewell to mercy and he spared none, not even his own domestic. There were hangings by the score, quarterings and beheadings. Ears were nailed to cart wheels and their owners given a knife and told to leave town. There was even a boiling, but I did not see it. The gaols were straining at the seams. But there were no more mutterings of England’s dishonour, for the people were, in a strange way, comforted. They still had their strong fierce monarch, their Rose of Rouen, even if the Rose’s petals had curled a little. I saw him a couple of times in the distance. On the first occasion I might have thought him slightly changed for there seemed an unfamiliar fullness about his person. The second time was on the day I returned from the graveyard, walking behind the empty carriage with its big black horses (many accompanied me; my mother was respected). My heart turned a little even in its sadness as the King passed. He was half hidden by his gentlemen-at-arms but what I saw seemed foggy, with no clear outline. It may have been the last of my grief confusing me, but he did not seem so strong and sharp as in my remembrance. It was to be twelve months before I knew the truth of this.

  ‘Right worshipful husband,’ wrote Grace after my return north. ‘I have had occasion to dismiss Master Bates and Mistress Mary Slone, for idleness was upon them and the woman Slone was in the
habit of wasting scraps on back-door vagrants. She was insolent and spoke of going to the Gild for settlement but my brothers talked with her and she will cause no trouble now.’

  Mary had been with my mother for fifteen years. It had been her custom to feed beggars; my mother had turned a blind eye.

  ‘My brothers have found a dozen fresh knaves for the work; they are stout fellows and loyal to us. We do not find business to be thriving as you told me, I know not why. Master Fray came in the shop last week. He said he hoped all was pardoned and we shook hands on it, as I see no call to harbour dead grudges.’

  I began to wish she would cease to write me. Then the next bit caught my fancy. ‘Duchess Isabel has been passing sick, and was brought to bed of a boy lately. Men say she will not live, her lungs are bad. It is hard to be warm in London, so you freeze, no doubt, in the north parts.’ With this joyful thought she commended me to the Almighty, bidding me burn the letter. I turned it sideways to read the postscript.

  ‘Item, the Duchess Isabel is dead.’

  That cast a shadow on Lady Anne’s Christmas, the year of 1476, though she herself was well, and rosy from the sharp weather. Edward throve, and little John waxed strong. My lord of Gloucester rode against the Scots and returned victorious. I made them good cheer and we were peaceful together—until the King summoned Gloucester to the Great Council at Westminster. There had been grave tidings of a death, and that of one more important than the quiet Isabel. Charles of Burgundy was dead; not of anger over the Picquigny scandal, but from a surfeit of steel in his noble body. Rash as his nickname, the Duke had been besieging Nancy with a depleted force. Thus, in January snow, perish great princes. I stood behind Lady Anne on the castle stairway and watched my lord depart. His company moved out of the gate and down the dale, and the spring day was a little dimmed for my Duchess.