The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  Her beloved father was home, and she not there to greet him. She ran, across meadow and lawn, past the falcons’ mew with its rank, raw-meat smell – under the archway into the ward and, skirting the chapel building, up the worn stone stairs to the children’s apartments. There the chaplain met her, muttering prayers or imprecations. Within the solar, the nurse fussed grimly among the sisters; Jacquetta, Eleanor, Anne, Martha and Margaret; toddling, preening or playing about the floor, according to their age and disposition.

  ‘Well, my lady,’ said the nurse sourly, motioning to a tiring-maid to unfasten Elizabeth’s laces, ‘may you find mercy, though you don’t deserve it. Hurry, now. My lord waits for you below.’

  Elizabeth shivered at the cool touch of a clean linen shift. She danced impatiently on the spot, itching to run to the oriel through which she could hear the stamp and jingle of many horse, the deep voices of men, a breath of song. He could sing better than any man in England or France. How long of him had she missed already? Sometimes he only stayed a day, to enchant them all with a tale of courtly prowess. Then he would depart, leaving the manor even more dull and lifeless than before.

  She was dressed at last in a high-waisted Italian silk patterned with red roses, its tight sleeves trimmed with marten. Catching the sun through an embrasure, her hair gleamed like thistledown. She descended the stairs to the Hall, followed by the sisters who were old enough to attend her, and she knew that she outshone them, as a silver candle shames a tallow dip. The Hall was full of courtiers, knights, wearing her father’s blazon. A royal herald stood stiffly by the fireplace. The colours on his tabard, the leopards and lilies of France Ancient, leaped to her glamour-hungry eyes like a blaze; she heard bright, soundless music.

  The tables, flanking three sides of the Hall, were laid for supper and at the knights’ dais at the northern end sat her parents, talking with a tall boy. Anthony! Unexpectedly home on leave from his livery service. For the first time she cursed the seductive, solitary lake that had made her miss so much joy. She went forward to the dais and knelt.

  After the long obeisance, she looked into eyes blue as her own. The eyes of Sir Richard Woodville, Earl Rivers; Knight of the Garter, Privy Councillor, Knight Banneret and leader of men; yet first, her own father, and deeply, possessively loved. He raised her, kissed her, beckoned to a henchman who came forward with a long package wrapped in hessian. Inside was a thick, shining-swathe of cobwebby lace.

  ‘From Alençon,’ said her father, smiling. ‘One of the many perquisites of my captaincy there. For my fairest daughter.’

  She looked at him, at the way his russet hair was threaded with silver and curled on his broad shoulders; how the rich blue velvet doublet fitted him like a skin. The old collar of ‘S’s, worn by all knights in the service of Henry of Lancaster, gleamed on his chest. He was called by many the handsomest man in England. She thought, gloriously: they are right! Then, while she gloated over the lace, he turned again to talk to his wife.

  ‘Bordeaux has fallen,’ he said. ‘The French conquest of Aquitaine is complete.’

  ‘Ah, Jesu,’ said Jacquetta of Belford. Totally noncommittal was that little prayer, yet there was a triumph in it. England for the English, they said; yet Jacquetta’s heart was bred and nurtured among the French, and Lancaster was her watchword.

  Young Anthony winked at Elizabeth. He had a golden fineness, too, she thought, in his gay scarlet habit and shirt of fair Rennes cloth. She mused again on Sir Hugh, already running to plumpness; she had been spoilt by father and brother for beauty in other men. Thinking of Hugh put her in mind of her mother’s yet unheard opinions. Disquiet crept over her. Had a decision been reached, while she was dreaming by the lake? And what did her father think of Sir Hugh? She listened closely to the conversation; still they spoke of policy.

  ‘As Seneschal of Aquitaine, I had a great force,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Two thousand bowmen, three hundred spears. And then I kicked my heels at Plymouth, revictualling a fleet which none seemed minded to use. The King, Jesu preserve him, sometimes seems …’

  He ceased abruptly. Other conversations buzzed in the Hall; behind a screen one of the minstrels discreetly plucked his lute. Jacquetta’s face was impassive as she listened, waited for her husband to resume. Elizabeth studied her; it seemed this day as if she were seeing them all for the first time.

  Duchess of Bedford in her own right, daughter of Pierre, Duke of Luxembourg and Marguerite del Balzo of Andria, Jacquetta Woodville still owned much of the legendary beauty of her youth. Her eyes were lustrous, her features clear and proud. The narrow band of hair revealed at the edge of her coif was still a rich coppery gold. She wore many rings, and about her neck lay a ruby and diamond reliquary reputed to hold a bone of St. James. She was holding a parchment letter from a personage of some note, for from it dangled a great seal like a gobbet of wet blood. A letter newly arrived; Elizabeth knew suddenly that it concerned herself. Her eyes flew to her mother’s, and were held in a strange, perceptive gaze. Her heart beat hard. Good or ill lay in that parchment.

  The gamey scent of the roast peacock wafted to her nose, but her stomach fluttered fretfully. Now she would be able to eat nothing, even in her father’s honour. Not all Anthony’s wit could sharpen her taste, until she knew the content of that roll.

  Still Jacquetta’s eyes, all-knowing, fathomless, held hers, as the clarions sounded for supper.

  Early morning sunlight pierced the chapel windows and gleamed upon paten and pyx and chalice.

  Confiteor tibi in cithara, Deus, Deus meus; quare tristis es, et quare conturbas me?

  The chaplain watched Elizabeth constantly, while he tongued the Mass by rote. The words meant little after years of repetition and left his mind free to wander. He marked her trembling as she took the Host; this was in itself the sign of conscience, as was the way she bent her head to draw comfort from her missal. Soul, why art thou downcast, why art thou all lament? A tear crept softly down her cheek and the chaplain’s stern mouth relaxed. So the eldest Woodville maiden was penitent. She rued the disgraceful scene in Hall last evening, caused by a letter which, thought the priest, should have been hailed meekly and with gratitude.

  The eldest Woodville maiden was, however, weeping not in penance but with renewed rage. She murmured, choking: ‘Spera in Deo, quoniam adhuc confitebor illi …’ Wait for God’s help … my champion and my God! The painted saints about the altar studied her coolly. Everywhere there was a candle, starred by her own tears, cold as the light in her father’s eyes when she had run from the Hall last evening.

  They had given her the letter to read aloud. Its heavy seal had fallen across her wrist, the writing was powerful and black. Sir Richard had stretched himself in his chair, jewelled goblet in hand, prepared to enjoy his daughter’s pretty voice. At first, reading, she had been proud, then incredulous, and upon reaching the fierce, swarthy signature her tongue had trembled in fury. In the body of the Hall there had been whisperings. A young page, waiting near the dais with his dish of venison frumenty, had started to grin. Amid this growing interest, this knavish amusement, she finished the letter, and the echo of its words fed a sudden, incredible anger.

  To Dame Elizabeth Woodville:

  Right worshipful and well beloved, I greet you well, And forasmuch as my right well beloved Sir Hugh Johns, knight, which now late was with you until his full great joy, hath informed me how that he for the great love and affection that he hath unto your person, as for your great and praised virtues and womanly demeaning, desireth with all his heart to do you worship by way of marriage, before any other creature living as he saith.

  I, considering [ – the lordly I! here she heard her own voice becoming high and strained] I, considering his said desire and the great worship he had which was made knight at Jerusalem … And also the good and notable service he hath done and daily doth to me, write you at this time, and pray you effectuously that ye will condescend and apply yourself unto his said lawful and honest desire, wherein ye sha
ll cause me to show unto you such good lordship [here her tongue tripped over immoderate rage] as ye by reason shall hold you content and pleased, with the grace of God, which everlastingly have you in his blessed protections and governance,

  Signed: Richard Earl of Warwick.

  That name made folk tremble. Warwick was a living legend, hand in glove with half the crowned heads in Europe. It was said that he used Richard of York as his mammet, driving the Duke, his cousin, willy-nilly into uprisings, and lording it in England and in Calais, where Elizabeth’s own father was second-in-command to the Earl of Somerset. Warwick used folk to his own ends; some even said that Warwick’s word was law! She had always disliked the sound of his arrogance, his power. And now, here was Warwick, treating the whole business of her betrothal as a fait accompli – foisting his ditch water-dull liegeman upon her as if to bestow the greatest favour! Reading between the lines, the letter was tantamount to a command.

  The words burned. ‘Wherein ye shall cause me to show you such good lordship as ye by reason shall hold you content and pleased!’ Reason left her. She would not suffer his good lordship. She would not be Warwick’s chattel, to marry to whom he thought fit, not even for the grace of the God he invoked so confidently. She was Elizabeth and none other. In that moment she felt that not even her parents, not even the King and Queen could command her, bend her ferocious, adamantine will. The nurse could beat her and the priests pray. She was Elizabeth, who would not be bidden! In that terrible moment of madness she had tried to tear the thick parchment across, had crumpled and ground it beneath her little shoe; all this under the company’s astonished gaze and her father’s mounting wrath.

  Rising from the dais, he had shouted at her: ‘Dame, have you lost your wits? Is this the way to treat a fair offer? Earl Warwick …’

  She had screamed back like an eelwife. ‘Warwick! Pox take Warwick! And you hate him yourself, my lord, for his treasonous talk against the Crown!’

  Even Anthony, behind his father’s chair, had blanched, for there were several visiting Yorkist partisans in the Hall, dining in precarious amity. Sir Richard’s face had turned the colour of Clary wine.

  ‘God’s Passion, is this the speech of my daughter?’ he cried. ‘Madame, go to your room. Before this, I was not of a mind for you to marry Hugh, but by Christ, he shall have you now! And may Our Lady give him grace to tame that temper!’

  At that instant the grinning page had laughed out loud, through sheer nervousness. Maddened further, she rounded on him and caught him a stinging blow across the cheek. The boy, who was the son of one of King Henry’s courtiers and new to the Woodville household, set up a noise like a pig being butchered. Two great hounds leaped roaring from under the table, and Sir Richard hurled his goblet across the chamber. Only Jacquetta had remained calm. Recalling the scene like a nightmare, Elizabeth realized that her mother had not spoken one word.

  The Mass was over; she touched her lips to the Book. The chaplain rose, and, followed by a hobble of aged chantry priests and the singing-boys, came down the nave. She intercepted him in the porch.

  ‘Father, I wish to be professed as a nun,’ she said. Her lips were trembling. He looked at her not unkindly. ‘Nay, my daughter.’ He made to walk on. She caught at his vestment and he looked down, surprised.

  ‘I am in earnest,’ she said softly. Anything, rather than be used, be bidden. Anything so long as she, Elizabeth, could choose. In some convents life was, she believed, almost gay. She would be admired by her sisters as the fairest nun in Christendom.

  ‘No, my child,’ repeated the chaplain.

  ‘You yourself said,’ cried Elizabeth, ‘that my soul was wayward. For my soul’s good, Father, please …’

  The chaplain smiled palely, twisted his gown from her grasp.

  ‘Your reasons are wrong, daughter,’ he said, as if he read her mind. ‘And do you consider yourself fit to be a Bride of Christ?’

  The choir filed past. Standing abjectly in the porch, she heard the chaplain say to an acolyte, ‘My lady is to wed Sir Hugh … by the Rood, Jack, this chalice needs scouring; ’tis foul with fingermarks …’

  The nurse escorted Elizabeth back to her apartments, where she was in durance with no company but that of the baby sisters. They had not allowed Anthony to visit her, and he was leaving that morning, bound again for the house of his patron in the south. Since last evening she had set eyes on neither parent. She sat down before her tapestry frame and began to work with short vicious needle-stabs. Appropriately the picture was one of St. Jerome lecturing some maidens. Elizabeth pushed her needle through his eye. Through the half-open window she could hear voices and the jingle of a bit as a horse tossed its head. She stole a glance at Dame Joan; the woman was drowsing, oblivious of a summer fly crawling on her neck. Elizabeth rose, crossed to the casement and pushed it wide. In the courtyard below a few of the guard lounged, gossiping. A saddled horse waited. Anthony was within the house, making his farewells. The few short sweet hours were over, unshared by her. Again she cursed Earl Warwick’s insolence. Hated Warwick! the fault was his. Warwick, powerful, remote, had, without even setting eyes on her, caused disappointment and grief. Dispiritedly she leaned from the window and listened to the men talking. Policy, of course, the old war-talk that bored her so; the familiar names: York, who last year had returned from Ireland ready to do battle with the royal House of Lancaster. He had been pacified only by a seat on King Henry’s Council, and the King’s declaration of trust in him. Beaufort of Somerset, under whose command her father had once been at Calais; true knight and liegeman of the King and especially of his Queen, Margaret. Hated by York, for some reason, more than any other man. Now they spoke of the Queen; the free, fortunate, beautiful Queen.

  She would never see the Queen. Soon she would be cooped, brooding, on Hugh’s manor, bearing the customary child a year, Hugh himself doubtless flaunting off to Jerusalem again in the service of his lordly master Warwick. Perchance Warwick would visit her during her husband’s absence. Odious thought! her fancy saw Warwick inspecting her household, appointing her servants; her imagination all but endowed the unknown Warwick with horns and a cleft beard. Tiny drops of sweat broke out on her face; she clenched her hands and wept.

  Anthony came down the steps into the courtyard, an esquire following him, and grasped the waiting horse’s bridle. The sun touched gold from his uncovered head. Elizabeth dared not call, even with the nurse snoring behind her. Instead she threw a rosebud down; it dropped on the horse’s saddle. Anthony looked up at her white face and small, imploring hands.

  ‘Ah, sweet sister,’ he said very softly. ‘God send you good fortune.’

  He rode up to the window; by stretching up he could almost touch her hand. She glanced across the courtyard. Most of the guard had dispersed, but three were dicing on the cobbles outside the mew. Anthony’s esquire wandered over to join them.

  ‘Take me with you,’ she whispered. ‘Take me away!’ Before he could answer, she had nipped up her gown and was sitting on the sun-warmed window ledge. Her feet hung down a yard from the horse’s ears. Anthony’s face looked up, pale and troubled. The cobbles seemed a long way down. She had visions of her skull crushed, every bone in her body smashed to pieces. Yet in that instant she jumped, slid, fell into her brother’s arms. The horse reared in fright at the sudden burden and bolted, hooves ringing on the stones. Anthony struggled to hold her across his saddle-bow, while she began to laugh like a madwoman. They careered through the gate, swerved under the arch and raced across the meadow. Anthony was swearing, calling on the saints. Eventually he brought the horse to a bouncing halt.

  ‘Sweet Jesu!’ he said, rubbing a strained wrist. ‘You could have been killed! What a fool’s game!’

  They were near the water, and her secret place. The shimmering willows seemed to listen as they argued, he shaking his head despairingly, she crying, pleading.

  ‘Take me away,’ she begged. ‘Grant me this one favour, and I will repay you, if it’s the las
t thing I do in life.’

  ‘Come, sweeting,’ he said, looking suddenly like a frightened child (he was little more). ‘It’s not your death. Sir Hugh is kindly, biddable. I doubt not you’ll have your way with him in the end. Come,’ disentangling himself from her arms, ‘make the best of it.’

  Still she sobbed and besought him.

  ‘Where would I hide you?’ he said uneasily. ‘I … I should get into trouble.’

  She recognized from his last sentence that he was as young, as powerless as she. She dismounted slowly into the reedy grass, her hair awry, her face drawn and miserable.

  ‘Go, then,’ she said dully. ‘I know you would help me if you could.’

  ‘Aye!’ he answered, eager to be off. ‘Saint Catherine keep you; we’ll meet again soon.’

  ‘Farewell,’ she said, turning away.

  He gathered up his reins. ‘Bess, use our father kindly,’ he said. ‘You shamed him sorely last evening.’

  She walked away, hearing the scudding hooves of his departure and his shout of farewell. In utter resignation she descended the moist green slope to where the bank of kingcups made a pillow and the same two trout lay basking under sun-kissed water. She sank down, curving her body beside the shady willows, and let sadness engulf her. Then came the unmistakable feeling that she was not alone. Someone was watching her. A chill enveloped her as she thought of ghosts of the reedland, bogies that changed themselves to water-birds; the Lord of Evil himself, inhabiting, for sport, this lonely, sunlit place. Then the uncomfortable feeling was broken by a calm, a beautiful voice.

  ‘Weep no more, daughter,’ said Jacquetta of Bedford.

  Astonished, Elizabeth saw her mother sitting unattended on the other side of the willow tree. Green-latticed sunlight lapped at her steady profile. For all this rustic departure, she was attired with customary fineness. Her headdress was of silver cloth, stretched over a little pointed horn of starched damask. Small jewels winked in her ears and upon her white bosom. She wore dove-coloured satin and a high embroidered girdle. Her little shoes of clary velvet were stained with mud and rushes. Otherwise she was immaculate. A hand wearing a pearl-and-ruby rose, beckoned through the hanging frond of leaves.