The King's Grey Mare

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by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley


  ‘Mistress Grace!’ Rough hands, rough voice, roused her from sleep. The flickering gold of a cresset pried through her darkness. She moaned with fatigue and sat up in bed. In the communal chamber, the other women were awakening too. Renée’s cross voice said: ‘What is it?’ Grace, suddenly wide awake, peered into the face of a guard.

  ‘Mistress. Rouse the Queen.’

  He turned away as she fumbled for her clothing, her body like lead from the exhaustion born of the last few days. The Queen’s tense mood had sapped vitality from all the women. It seemed only five minutes since Grace had taken the last cup of cordial into the royal chamber, returning to fall into deepest sleep.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just on midnight. Hurry, mistress.’

  She shivered, wrapping a robe about her, and thought: Today is the third of May. The day for which my Queen has waited and wished. The young king must have arrived, with his uncle Anthony. Today he will be crowned. Grace wished that they had chosen a time other than midnight to arrive. She wished also that she was not always the one to fetch and carry, to be roused because her trestle bed lay nearest the door, or was it because she was the youngest in the chamber? But she was the Queen’s servant; this thought renewed her.

  ‘You may turn round, Master Jack,’ she said to the guard. ‘What is the message for the Queen?’

  ‘Desperate and urgent. Bishop Morton waits outside. I have bidden him to the Queen’s Council chamber. For God’s love, there is no time to lose.’

  Why this frenzy, if the Prince were here? She looked once more at the man’s taut face and hurried through into the Queen’s bed-chamber. Grace’s candle illuminated the unforgettable face, deeply dreaming. As she watched, the broad white forehead creased, the lips puckered in some unknown distress. Tenderly, Grace awakened her.

  ‘He is here,’ the Queen murmured, drugged with sleep. ‘Is the fighting over? John, you have come …’

  The utterance of that name bred warmth in Grace. John of Gloucester would surely be brought to London now. If they had killed his father as planned, he would be of as little account as any royal Plantagenet bastard. One who lived between dark and light, humbled one day, revered the next. She thought, with unconscious callousness: we shall be even more in sympathy; he will no doubt sorrow for his father, and I will comfort him. To the Queen she said softly: ‘Bishop Morton begs audience.’ Instantly alert, Elizabeth threw off the bedcovers and said sharply: ‘Morton? Why?’

  She slipped her feet into high wooden chopines, snatched up a black houpeland with a cowl and swathed her slenderness in its dark folds. The hood fell about her brow. She looked like a pure youth about to take holy orders. So enraptured was Grace by this sight that she fell dumb. Elizabeth’s unexpected slap stung her cheek. So be it: that’s a caress. I love and serve her.

  ‘Will you speak?’ said the Queen. ‘Why is Morton here? Have they arrived from Ludlow? Great God! I’ll see for myself!’

  They passed through the room full of drowsy robing women who knelt before the Queen as she went, the black gown blowing about her swift walk. Her lips were set, her eyes as clear as if they had never closed in sleep. Grace followed a pace behind along tortuous ways stone cold with the night’s chill, and entered on the breeze of powerful black into the Queen’s council chamber, which was day-bright with torches, and choked with the ambience of disquiet. Several people were there; Morton dominated. He had come fast from Holborn through the night. Thomas Dorset had been roused from the bed of Jane Shore. Catherine Woodville was weeping into her sleeve. Margaret Beaufort and her husband Stanley were present, standing with Thomas Rotherham, Archbishop of York. Yet the Queen addressed Morton alone.

  ‘What news, your Grace?’

  Before, the Bishop could reply, Dorset ran forward, sank on his knee before his mother. He was almost in tears.

  ‘The worst possible news, Madame. The Protector …’

  ‘Who?’ The Queen’s voice was outraged.

  ‘Gloucester. He intercepted Anthony upon the road. The ambush failed, and he’s read your letters, even the one bidding his death. He has taken Edward, our prince, and rides on London with him.’

  Morton spoke, sonorously calm against Dorset’s hysteria.

  ‘Lord Anthony, your Grace, has been taken north in captivity, for acting under your orders. Likewise imprisoned is your son, Lord Richard Grey; also the Prince’s companions, our allies Vaughan and Haute. It seems …’

  Dorset interrupted. ‘… that we are culpable of high treason!’ He gave a short bark of laughter. ‘In that we did disobey the King’s last decree! Gloucester came riding almost from Scotland. He would never have known of our plan had not cursed Hastings sent couriers straightway to him. He would never have conquered Anthony, had not Harry Buckingham ridden to him with reinforcements.’ The Queen looked at Catherine.

  ‘Sister, come here, I pray.’

  Catherine, weeping, fell upon her knees.

  ‘Ingrate,’ said the Queen softly. ‘Your own husband has betrayed me. Did I marry you to Harry Buckingham so that he might use me thus? Are you my sister and cannot sway a man?’

  ‘Your Grace,’ blubbered Catherine, ‘he did as he liked. And he told me he was going on pilgrimage, for our late King’s soul!’

  ‘I fear, Madame–’. Morton’s voice rolled like a stroked drum – ‘that we have little time. Gloucester is full of righteousness. Remember, he holds York more dear than anything else. What your Grace may have planned against his own person is a grain of sand in the desert of York’s betrayal. York, to Gloucester, is God. That decree of Protectorship from Edward’s dying mouth – that was no less than God’s ordinance.’

  ‘The Devil’s ordinance!’ she said savagely. ‘That any should usurp my heritage. The Prince is mine! Mine! Ours, to be ours in might!’

  Grace wondered whether the Queen might fall in a fit. Beside herself, she spilled out tantrum.

  ‘Shall the blood of my inheritance go unrewarded? Shall all my work be unfulfilled? Who is this Gloucester, to take in charge the crown of my estate? You, my lord Morton! Why could you not prevent it?’ Morton spread his hands, smiled a sorry ecclesiastical smile. ‘You, Catherine, who have shared my splendour – without me you would be mouldering still at Grafton Regis! You, Thomas! Why could you not forestall this plague!’

  As Dorset stammered nonsense, the door was flung open. Breathless and dishevelled, Lionel Woodville, Bishop of Salisbury, entered.

  ‘You have heard all?’ the Queen demanded.

  He nodded, his heavy face flushed. ‘My man rode in five minutes ago. Our brother with your son and his followers have been taken to Yorkshire. Their soldiers turned straight to Gloucester, who pardoned them for their part in the affair and sent them home. Gloucester came in mourning, with a mere six hundred men. He ordered a requiem for our late sovereign in York. On reaching Northampton he met Buckingham who informed him of the ambush. Gloucester caught our party at Stony Stratford. Another half a day and the Prince would have been here, and crowned.’

  ‘Crowned and ours,’ she said furiously. ‘What does Gloucester, now?’

  ‘He brings the Prince, but to be crowned under his Protectorship. He adheres to Edward’s decree – that his Council shall govern for the child until he is grown. He has sent barrels of harness on into London so that the people may see the proof of our conspiracy.’

  ‘The arms show our blazon!’ said Dorset feverishly. ‘They declare us traitors to the Crown …’

  ‘The people have never loved us,’ trembled Catherine. ‘Because we are for Lancaster.’

  ‘My lord Bishop,’ said the Queen to Morton. She spread her hands; the wide black sleeves fell in a graceful imploring gesture. ‘My lord, what now?’

  ‘Take your son,’ said Morton unhesitatingly. ‘Your youngest son, Richard Duke of York. Take your daughters and your women and go at once into Westminster Sanctuary.’

  Grace saw the Queen’s face set like an effigy, and she herself viewed the
prospect of Sanctuary without relish. To her, it was a vague time of chanting monks, of cold and sparse food, a time when she, a tiny girl, cried outside the door where the Queen laboured to bring Prince Edward into the world. This prince over whom men now fought like curs with a carcass.

  ‘We are to retreat?’ said the Queen. Morton smiled. ‘For the nonce, highness. It is politic to have no discussion with Gloucester or his creatures. All is far from lost. Sir Edward Woodville still anchors in the Channel, does he not?’

  ‘Yes, with much treasure,’ said Dorset, brightening.

  ‘My daughter,’ the Bishop swung round to address Grace. She had not realized he was even aware of her presence. ‘My child, fetch the Duke of York. Don’t alarm him. Remember he is only a little knave.’

  ‘Madame, let me come with you into Sanctuary!’ Catherine ran forward to the Queen.

  Coldly she replied: ‘You are a traitor and a fool, but you are still my sister. Make ready.’

  ‘And I?’ Dorset said unsteadily.

  ‘No, you will be more useful in London. Watch Hastings, Gloucester, Buckingham. Send me all news, discreetly …’ She turned and quit the chamber so swiftly that she left her son gaping and the three Bishops drawing together grave-faced, with whispers.

  Grace awakened the small prince and helped him to dress. Hand in hand they walked to the outer gate of the Palace. A rosy-pale May dawn was streaking the horizon. Scores of serving men ran across the cobbled strip which divided the Palace from the Abbey precincts. The sound of the monks’ morning office came faintly; soft light waxed and waned behind the arched windows as the unseen chanters processed, each carrying a flame. Outside the activity was frenzied. Grooms and servants, each laden with a box, or a pile of richly bound books, or a sheaf of silk garments, ran like madmen towards the Sanctuary door. One man carried two brachets slung over his shoulders. Their jewelled collars flashed like swords in the dawn light. Bumping down the Palace stair came the larger chattels; fardels crammed with gold plate, coffers so full of jewels that the lids were bursting open. A gold chain slithered like a serpent on to the cobbles. One man ran with a vast bundle of cloth-of-gold on his head; six others struggled with a carved table of Spanish chestnut. The Queen’s gold-framed mirror, Turkish carpets, rainbow-coloured and rolled like battering-rams, were borne into the Sanctuary. In went the Queen’s prie-dieu, studded with sapphires and diamonds, and two Flemish paintings of the late King. An enormous oak dresser with handles of beaten gold defeated the men. Cursing, they tried all ways to introduce it, finding the arched doorway too narrow. One of the dresser drawers slid open, revealing the flash of diadems, golden wands, necklets, all clumsily, hastily packed.

  ‘It’s too big, your Grace!’ one man cried.

  As if she were commanding a battle, Elizabeth pointed eastward to where the abbey wall was fragmented by arched windows.

  ‘There!’ she cried. ‘Where it is weakest. Get hammers. Breach the wall!’

  Abbot Milling, who had been drawn out into the courtyard by the commotion, looked as if he were about to swoon. ‘Madame,’ he said diffidently, ‘is there no other way?’

  ‘My lord Abbot,’ said the Queen, without looking at him, ‘I trust you have not forgotten my bequests to your house.’ He bowed, and was silent, looking unhappy.

  She watched as the last of the movables was rushed from the palace. The Siege of Jerusalem, under whose fabulous weight staggered fifty men. Grace saw the Queen’s face – fear and satisfaction and determination all mingling there, and heard the quiet voice say:

  ‘Yes, yes! Break down the wall. They shall not rob me a second time!’

  She turned and smiled at Grace, and the dawn rose clear and bright.

  ‘Scream,’ Morton ordered. ‘When they come, scream and cry.’

  Haggardly she looked at him. This ageing prelate, so calm and bland, had in him something of the dead Jacquetta and it gave her confidence. Morton was solid, unlike the vacillating Rotherham, Archbishop of York. How glad she had been to receive, in Sanctuary, the Great Seal from Rotherham’s hands. How furious when, panicking, he had demanded it back not twenty hours later. When she had asked his reasons he had said, with a fatuous smile: ‘The Lord Protector wishes it.’

  Only dignity had held her hand from striking him. Dignity and the knowledge that his behaviour was only to be expected. The Bishops, those fearfilled, conscientious old men, lusted for favour, no matter from what source. Gloucester was supreme in Westminster; therefore it was politic for them to work his will. Not so Morton; he remained her close ally, rich with the wisdom of his years and his skill at being where the grass grew greenest. Although she disliked his appearance; those hard agate eyes among folds of flesh, the forked beard above the dewlapped jowl.

  ‘Madame, hear me,’ he repeated. ‘When they come to take your youngest son, weep loudly. And let down your hair.’

  ‘My hair?’

  ‘It adds a certain pathos.’ he said seriously. ‘The brothers in this place go about … it would be favourable if you were seen to be – persecuted.’

  There was no need to question him. Only one question.

  ‘How does my son, the Prince Edward?’

  ‘Fit as a cock,’ he answered. ‘They plan to crown him on the Nativity of St. John. He is in the royal apartments at the Tower, playing at sovereignty. I wish, though, that we could have kept the little one with us. However …’ he sighed. ‘Gloucester vows it is a stain upon his Parliament …’

  ‘His Parliament!’ Rage erupted through her.

  ‘Indeed, highness. Unfortunately his claim to the Protectorship is good. As I say, he avers it debases his Council that the king-elect’s brother should be absent from the coronation. Like yourself, my lady. He would dearly have you present.’

  ‘I shall not leave Sanctuary,’ she said, through her teeth.

  Morton looked about, at the stones where damp trickled, at the cracked panes through which a breeze cavorted, and pursed his lips.

  ‘As you will. You are wise. Never fear. The day will come when you dance again in Westminster Great Hall. For now, let them have young Dick. But scream, claw him to your bosom. Let them tear him bodily away.’

  ‘Is Gloucester’s wife with him?’ she said suddenly.

  ‘She is to join him soon. At present she is ailing, at home in the north. Like their son, Edward, she is frail and sickly …’

  She found herself averse to hearing more about the Fiend’s daughter, and shut off her mind to Morton’s talk. When next she gave him her attention he was saying:

  ‘Your son the Prince has a will of his own. It is his doing as well as the Parliament’s that the other boy joins him.’

  ‘Yet he is not strong enough to defy the Protector,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Or Buckingham; for Buckingham is the spokesman always in this affair,’ said Morton. At that unfortunate moment Catherine chose to appear, and the Queen turned on her.

  ‘You hear that? Have you naught to say? Your husband, ranged against our blood!’

  Placatingly Catherine held out a sealed roll.

  ‘A letter, Madame.’

  Elizabeth broke the seal quickly, cried: ‘From Anthony!’ She read avidly, laughed, raised feverish eyes. ‘Clever,’ she murmured. ‘He bribed the guard at Pontefract to let this bill through. He says he is safe and well. Our adherents are everywhere. Thomas has already bidden him good cheer by letter. Hastings is the key. The weak link in the chain. Hastings blows where he lists and has not yet chosen his allegiance.’ She looked up, scornfully. ‘Yes! for years I watched him, wantoning with the King in evil company. Now, for all his love of the Protector, he finds old ties, of lust, of drinking, to be slender things … he would join us, if he dared.’

  Avidly she looked at Morton. ‘Is there salvation, my lord?’

  He bowed. ‘I have examined the situation, highness. With your brother and Sir Richard Grey still in captivity, I admit the cause has its limitations. But as your brother Sir Anthony reveals, your
friends are legion, waiting to support you. Let us consider. Gloucester comes to uphold the Crown, the focus of his battle-cry and credo. He burns with his late brother’s ordinance. You and your kin, Madame, are disliked by the old nobility. Forgive me, but it is so. Factions are bound to arise over the ruling of a child king. Gloucester feels therefore compelled to form a strong Council to uphold what he deems the right. The old nobility are with him. But you, Madame, have a subtler strength. All the families of Lancaster who strive, quietly, in the shadow of your power. Your power, soon to be restored.’

  He went on: ‘Let us count your allies: Rotherham; he grew frightened, but he is still yours. Salisbury, yours by blood. Lord Stanley …’

  She frowned. Stanley was another gall-bitter disappointment. Lately she had learned that he, Margaret Beaufort’s husband, cherished the Protector, and sat on his Council. But Morton murmured: ‘do not fear. Stanley can feign love for the most suspicious heart. He pays lip service to the new order, but he dreams of your inevitable majesty.’

  As he spoke, the Bishop moved towards the window, seeing white seabirds wheeling beyond the high cracked panes. Where? Across the North Sea perchance, to France, to Brittany? Where the true saviour waited. The one who, without doubt, would value Morton as he deserved. The one in whose service he could rise to magnificence and terrible power. The only one; the master chosen long ago. He kept his back daringly turned on the Queen, while excitement boiled within him. I am an old man, he thought, but I must not die until our hopes are fruited. Until Henry Tudor reigns in England. Meanwhile I must cherish this foolish woman. By my own hand must I move these pawns of state. He turned back slowly, saying:.

  ‘It is better that I do not visit you again here, my liege. All our plans are en train. Dorset will suborn Hastings. You know, Madame, where Mistress Shore is now?’

  Startled, she said: ‘Shore? What has a cackling harlot to do with our plight?’

  ‘She is with your son, Dorset, hidden deep in London. He is teaching her – how to render an ageing lecher witless. Surely, Madame, you have not forgotten Adam’s Fall?’

 

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