The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  ‘What passes?’ cried Warwick.

  ‘My lord … Oxford’s men were defecting! They rode south to Barnet, to loot and pillage. The mist has made them mad!’

  ‘And Sir John, my, brother?’

  ‘Lord Montagu makes for Edward’s troops – he attacks them from the rear. The Earl of Oxford is driving his men back from the town … but their defection has cost us sore …’

  ‘Fools, traitors,’ muttered Warwick. We need more men, he thought, and bitterly: would that I had Clarence’s sumptuous force with me. But Clarence is once again the King’s sworn man, and is he any less for that? Would I be less were I to surrender, now, this minute? The fog swung about him in coils, stinging his eyes. The groans of dying men assailed him. No, no. My followers would have perished for nothing.

  He looked wildly about. ‘The reserve! Bid them advance to my standard!’

  ‘My lord, my lord,’ answered the esquire. The white blanket wrapped him, so that a disembodied voice spoke to Warwick. ‘We cannot – they can see no standard clearly.’

  Lord Jesus, what a day!’

  ‘The day is witched,’ said Warwick softly. Even as he spoke, the mist suddenly rolled back, like a bland tapestry rising. It faded; gold threads of sunlight pierced the last smoky wisps. There was the fierce bray of trumpets, the grunt and thud and steel-swish of combat. Then from the south, a great crying: ‘Treason! treason! treason!’ The Earl wheeled, sword in hand. Now he could see – grey armour patterned with red, spouting wounds, a carpet of dead men on the periphery of his vision. There was the broken line of Hastings’s vanguard reforming, and dangerously close, the great fiery blossom of the King’s standard. A courier ran up, his face full of terror.

  ‘My lord, all is lost! In the mist, Lord Montagu’s men mistook the standards – they thought that Oxford’s Star was the Sun in Splendour …’

  ‘So they are butchering each other,’ said Warwick bitterly, listening to the screams.

  ‘Twas this cursed fog,’ said the courier, weeping with fright. Then, half-turning, he gave a shriek: ‘Oh, God protect us!’

  A solid phalanx of armed men – the Sun flaunting above them in the haze – was bearing down on Warwick’s contingent. Struggling out of Dead Man’s Bottom was Richard of Gloucester’s force, depleted but swearing, and armed like a host of bloodstained killing insects swarming up the slope. The Earl cast a glance around him. While his own armies fought among themselves, while the last flicker of grave-cold mist tongued his neck, he knew defeat. Throwing off as much of his harness as possible, he followed his fleeing force. Dodging a knife-thrust here, and there the swing of a redclotted axe, hearing the deathly thrum and swish of a close arrow, he ran. He, whom they had once named ‘le conduiseur du royaume’, fled, towards the dawn-blue shadows of Wrotham Wood. Some half a mile ahead it loomed; dense forest, a sanctuary. Behind him, Ned’s armies roared, roared as he had taught them so many years ago. And Dickon of Gloucester came upon him from the right flank, in tight and orderly mesh, his archers firing from behind, his infantry hacking from before. As Warwick had taught him, too, at Middleham.

  As he ran, another patch of mist like a low-flying ghoul enveloped him so that he stumbled, his hands thrown out; so that he cried upon the Virgin, and upon his wife, and lastly for mercy upon his King. That the King’s hand should be the one to take his life away. For they were upon him from behind, faceless shapes in the solitary swirl of white. He felt a gush of fire in his side, a lancing blow in his loins. He looked down, amazed, at the steel protruding from his belly. Right through his coat of mail; a weakened rivet, he thought foolishly. And yet how strange! Right through his vitals, where that ancient pain had been. He was falling. He saw her then. Trying to rise in the shadow of Wrotham Wood, so far, so near, hands slipping in the mud, he saw her. The silent winding-sheet had a face and coiled about him. The red lips smiled.

  Edward of England stood upon a little knoll. The sun had conquered and the damp meadow sprang to greenness in the growing gold. The King lifted his sword high.

  ‘Blessed be God, who sent this day!’

  ‘A ragged, weary cheer arose. In the distance tiny figures still chased the men of Oxford and Exeter. Above, birds broke from the silence of fear and began tentatively to sing. The King clasped his brother and Lord Hastings about the shoulders. Anthony Woodville strode up, smiling.

  ‘Load up the dead!’ came the cry.

  Stiff, as if already in effigy, they lay on the cold pavement of St. Paul’s. Sir John Neville, Marquis of Montagu, was on the left, his brother Warwick on the right. They were draped by thin loincloths and their wounds were terribly apparent. From the great hole in Warwick’s side and the gash in his belly, entrails protruded a little. Around the corpses candles had been lit, and someone unknown had laid a nosegay, the pale red dog-rose, between Warwick’s rigid fingers. The faces of the two knights were stern and far, detached by death with the look of contempt for things earthly. Throughout the days the people came, some weeping, some openly deriding. A drunken man harangued the world in general, until hustled away by an offended priest. But most folk had little to say. It was the end of the House of Neville, and too big for words.

  ‘He was a proud knight,’ remarked Butcher Gould, when his turn came to pass and stare.

  ‘He betrayed the King,’ said the little Billingsgate fishmonger behind him.

  Gould recalled his prentice days and with a shred of regret the meals he had eaten at Warwick’s open door. There was the clattering tread of guards; together with the throng, the butcher was pressed back towards the side aisle. A herald cried: ‘Make way!’ The Queen entered, with her women. Gould’s wife nudged him. ‘Look!’ she whispered. ‘She trembles.’

  Elizabeth was trembling with the astonishment of power. Strong, ancient phrases, in themselves meaningless, welled within her. It is written. In the stars. In all waters, lakes, meres, the sea. Her power was so great that none could withstand it. Her power is mine. She shook so fiercely that her women had to hold her on either side. A froth of spittle bloomed at the corners of her mouth. All around the voices were soothing, gentle. She was weak from recent childbed; she should not look too long upon the dead. But she did, she looked deeply at that unembalmed side, that gaping wound. She extended a quivering hand, perhaps to delve, but the press of women and courtiers nudged her away from her triumph. May you roast in the everlasting tortures of all damned souls, Warwick. The voices cajoled tenderly: ‘Come away, come away, your Grace!’ Oh, my Melusine, I thank you.

  Then Richard of Gloucester pushed through the ranks. He was accompanied by two knights: Hastings, and Francis Lovell. Eyes red, and with nervous hands, he stopped before the two Neville corpses, went softly on his knees. She saw the tears falling, the whiteness, the written grief. She heard his aching, brooding voice.

  ‘Jesu give thee rest, my Warwick!’ To those who listened he said: ‘By St. Paul! I loved him well.’

  He had lifted her unspoken curse with his benediction. She looked after him uneasily as he passed on. So Warwick was dead yet undead. His influence remained, heavy as a boding shadow.

  All over London the cries resounded. Edward of Lancaster is slain! The French Bitch is vanquished! The cries beat up the walls, touched off mania from the leaning gables, rose and fermented even to the cold palaces of Westminster, Greenwich, Sheen. And at Baynard’s Castle, Edward King of England made merry. For the battle of Barnet with its mist which, men said, was sent by God, was all but forgotten. It was eclipsed by the new triumph of Tewkesbury.

  Up and down the narrow streets, in the Council Chamber and in a thousand great halls, the flying tales ran; of the day with its fierce May heat and danger, the tide that swept the royal army, turning in its favour at the last. The fall of the Frenchwoman’s son, hot-followed in the field; the whelp gone, finished, dead. Clarence preened. It was his men who had struck down the young Lancastrian prince.

  Dressed in pale blue sarcenet, Elizabeth sat beneath the royal canopy and list
ened impassively to the noisy talk. Edward crashed his goblet on the board in the excitement of re-telling. They fought in Tewkesbury Abbey – up and down the nave. They dragged Beaufort of Somerset the younger from behind the altar and shore his head off in the market-place. The whole tale was told in a roar. Edward was like a madman; they were all mad with nervous joy, as if they could not believe their skins were whole. During this saga, Elizabeth glanced across at Lady Margaret Beaufort. Her face was slightly drawn, thoughtful. She would doubtless sorrow in secret for Somerset, her cousin. What did she think of the fate of Marguerite?

  Elizabeth beckoned, leaned close. ‘So the French Queen is taken,’ she said lightly.

  They had brought her through London in a chariot, having to hold her down so that she should not throw herself beneath the horse’s hoofs. They had taken her to the Tower, where Henry lay, praying and groaning, but the two of them were kept apart. It was reported that Queen Margaret cried day long for La Fleur d’Anjou; she would not have it that he was dead. She was therefore a close captive, and something of an embarrassment to King Edward.

  ‘My liege, if you should see Marguerite,’ said Lady Beaufort, in Elizabeth’s ear, ‘pray commend me to her kindly.’

  She looked straight ahead while speaking, to where King Edward, now standing in the middle of the Hall surrounded by merry courtiers, relived the battle again, with oaths and sweeping arms.

  ‘Why, my lady,’ said Elizabeth, also softly, ‘this is Lancastrian talk!’

  ‘All have their privy allegiance.’ Lady Margaret’s thin lips were amused. Unafraid, she looked at the Queen. Just as she had looked years ago, playing at chess. As if she knew the game would be hers in the end.

  ‘My liege, am I not your true friend and lover?’

  Yes, and I need you, thought Elizabeth. As Edward crowed and postured, she looked for her friends. Tiptoft, alas, was no more, but there was Reynold Bray, black-clad and servile in a corner; the Stanleys, who fought on whichever side was best and always seemed to catch up with victory in time. A flash of scarlet silk caught her eye; there was Catherine, and her husband, young Harry Buckingham. She frowned. Harry was too flamboyant to be tasteful, but rich beyond dreams, and generous to Kate. Anthony, dear Anthony; unscathed by battle, witty, elegant, even now penning a rhyme on the table-damask, a poem to the King’s glory. Who else? Her glance slid, lithe as a fish. Ah yes, John Morton, Bishop of Ely.

  Morton’s face was fleshy, all wattles and dewlaps, yet divided by a strangely ascetic nose, scimitar-shaped. His bulky body was covered by coarse black cloth. One lean and shapely hand lay on the giant crucifix at his breast; he looked the true divine. Seeing her eyes upon him, he bowed and with three fingers upraised in blessing, padded softly towards the dais.

  ‘How well your sons look tonight, your Grace,’ he remarked, after she had greeted him. Thomas Grey moved nearer to acknowledge the Bishop’s compliment; he was dressed in the swaggering doublet of high fashion, the sleeves like bladders, hose tight; a rich red gold chain adorned his chest. Richard, the younger, quieter son, wore the same pale blue as his mother.

  ‘Fine young lords,’ said Morton kindly. ‘Loyal and obedient, ha, your Grace? No rebellion there, I warrant. True to King and Church alike.’ His wattles quivered, his lizard eye slipped sideways, fell upon the knot of courtiers surrounding the King. Prominent there was Clarence, laughing and pantomiming a death-thrust with his poignard. At Clarence, Morton stared severely.

  ‘I very much fear me, Madame,’ he said slowly, ‘that there are others whose disposition is not so fair. I love our King, and would not see him betrayed anew. And for you, my liege, I make constant intercession that you shall, by God’s grace, remain supreme.’

  His eyes were hard to see clearly, encased as they were in fatty wattles, but the points of light in them burned bright and alert. He spread his hands flat over his crucifix, and continued softly: ‘It is simply this, my liege. With Prince Edward of Lancaster dead, my lord of Clarence stands heir to the throne. During the rising, Warwick named him thus. Parliament gave assent, and the Act was not repealed.’

  Anthony Woodville, who had come to stand beside the bishop, drew in a sharp breath; Thomas Grey spoke, manly, tumultuous.

  ‘My lord! He would never dare! Whom could he raise for his ally?’

  ‘There is a figurehead,’ murmured Morton. ‘A royal and saintly figurehead. A focus of upset, no more no less. In London Tower.’

  The Woodvilles looked sharply at one another. Elizabeth’s mind raced. Henry. That wretched, other worldly scion of Lancaster. Over a decade, memory skipped like a bouncing bladder to reveal the pointing finger, the hysterical voice. She wore no gauge for Henry, in truth. Haltingly she asked the Bishop: ‘Tell me, your Grace. Would you think it safer if …’

  The Bishop bowed his head, raised one shapely finger. ‘Madame,’ he said sonorously, ‘God’s ways are wonderful. The person concerned is mindless with melancholy. Maybe … if God should deliver him from the toils of this life … but who are we to ask God’s plan?’

  Anthony spoke, sharp and high. ‘Why not?’ he demanded. ‘For England’s sake; would not the cause be just?’

  Elizabeth slid out her satin shoe, pressed her brother’s foot as hard as possible. Close, stood Richard of Gloucester, pale and sombre, detached from the roisterers, and Lord Hastings, wine-flushed but near enough to listen. The Bishop smiled.

  ‘But of course,’ he said loudly. ‘Aught for England is just. Or for those–’ he bowed to Elizabeth – ‘of the blood royal.’ Proudly she bloomed. Not until long afterwards did she wonder whether the Bishop had mocked her. With Morton one never knew.

  Edward, shocked with the aftermath of battle, grew wilder still. He outdanced men ten years younger than himself; he swept his Queen into the wild salterello, he frightened his eldest daughter with a devil-mask. Again and again his cry resounded: Lancaster is dead! Lancaster is done! He laughed and wept in drunken emotion, recalling his own father, whose delight this day would have been. So afterwards, when the spilled drink and the greasy rushes alone bore witness to revelry in the deserted Hall, his mood was pliant. He sat in the chair of estate, twirling a broken flower in his fingers. He was alone save for Elizabeth and a hound cracking bones beneath the trestle. The summer dusk fell about him, the candles burned down. Through the arched windows came the prick of stars, and in every corner sepia shadows drew in like an ambush.

  She shivered. She said simply: ‘I am afraid.’

  He looked at her admiringly, her pallor, the silken veil of hair. He still desired her, even though her body was familiar. But not this night. He was tired, sad almost. God knew why; but as soon as the dancing finished the triumph in him had been replaced by melancholy.

  ‘There is naught to fear,’ he told her.

  But she pressed closer, kneeling by his side, whispering the veiled suggestions, the cautions planted by Morton. Edward listened at first with a slightly contemptuous smile, then warily, and when she had finished he was chewing his lip, clear minded, unquiet.

  ‘So you see, Ned, Lancaster is far from done!’

  ‘I also had these thoughts,’ he admitted. Then, more vehemently: ‘Jesu! the cause is just! Shall all these bloody battles come to naught? Shall another rebellion break around one puling saint?’

  He did not say who he imagined the instigator of such rebellion might be. Disappointed, she kept silence, and he continued.

  ‘My stomach goes against it. Yet it is kindness, really … snatch him to heaven ‘twixt one psalm and the next. Yes. Bessy, you speak well. If it were not heresy and against nature, I’d say you have a man’s mind.’

  ‘A woman’s heart, though, my liege,’ she answered, but he paid no need. He said only: ‘It is settled, then. Henry of Lancaster shall die.’

  ‘And Clarence?’ The words came out too eagerly. Edward’s eyes grew hard as he looked down at her.

  ‘Who spoke of Clarence?’ he demanded. ‘He will not transgress; he is pardoned once m
ore forgiven. He is my brother.’

  She bit her lip, looked away. Edward, sickened by decision and indecision, surveyed her. In the dusk she seemed fluid, her hair a film of radiance, her whole body diffused, spiritual. Sometimes he felt like crossing himself at sight of her, his Madonna, his goddess. Yet she should not speak as she did. Henry must die, he was of Lancaster; but Clarence, fair stupid Clarence, born of the same womb as himself … No, she should not even think of it. He must remind her of an old lesson. In the corner of the Hall, one of the shadows moved. It was a page, come in to fetch napkins for the laundry. Edward called to him.

  ‘Fetch me Mistress Grace!’

  ‘My liege?’ The boy hesitated; he was new to the household and did not know who Edward meant.

  ‘My dear bastard daughter,’ said the King.

  The youth ran, returning with the infant in his arms. Rosy, half-asleep, she smiled, stretched out her arms – to the golden giant, to the silver lady, who once more turned away. Edward, weary and distraught, took the child in his arms with such roughness that she began to cry. With his lips in the soft curly hair he said:

  ‘Lancaster shall die, Bess. Ah, weep not, Grace!’

  Above the child’s head, his eyes bored into Elizabeth, and spoke of Clarence. Be careful, Madame. Do not threaten those I love! But, as if to an empty room, he repeated:

  ‘Henry shall die. Quietly, swiftly. No need to shrive him. He is without fault.’

  The long tide of Jacquetta of Bedford’s life was ebbing, leaving a desolate strand of memory and the old shipwrecks of those loved and hated. It was a night of strange winds that shivered the tapestry knights upon the Siege of Jerusalem; from her bed, the Duchess looked cloudily upon that stolen splendour. She lay lapped in goosefeather softness while her mottled hands spread and moulded the coverlet. The kneeling figures about the room were opaque, inconsequential; she had been shriven but Bishop Morton remained, also the clerk Reynold Bray, tongueing prayers in a ceaseless monotone. There were also two nuns, the nuns of Sewardsley, fresh from their penance. Silly, blabbering women! She remembered their betrayal of her over the waxen images and her fierce old heart cast a shred of rancour towards them; it was so tangible that one nun, frightened, looked up from her prayers at the bed where Jacquetta lay, formidable even in death. The Duchess’s eyes moved over faces, features, jewels. They loomed large and faded. There was Lady Margaret Beaufort, the clever little wench! The outgoing tide washed up admiration. And Morton, with his crucifix held aloft like some battle trophy. Together Morton and Margaret would guard her dream. That gilded staff of heritage … there she was; dry-eyed as befits a Queen. Standing straight and slender to watch the bearing out of the longship of Jacquetta’s soul. Elizabeth.