The King's Grey Mare

by Jarman, Rosemary Hawley

  ‘We ride for Westminster now. John, I trust you will be ready for tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ John said eagerly. ‘It will be wonderful.’

  Richard inclined his head, thinking. Yes, by God’s mercy, it will. I shall see York, and my little prince again. I pray Anne will stand the journey, and that Buckingham’s temper will improve. There was something amiss with him – an arrant insolence, an ill-covered fermenting of – what? He was almost like a cardplayer who has presented the wrong suit and regrets a better ploy. The King turned his horse. Its pelt flamed white in the sun; its rider’s cloak made a purple swirl about the saddle.

  ‘God be with you, mistress,’ he said to Grace. To a page: ‘Escort and assist her.’

  They rode away, in a leaping gallop through the high grass. Lord Stanley’s mount switched its quarters from side to side, avoiding rabbit-holes. John took Grace’s hands and kissed them solemnly.

  ‘I must follow him. Sweet Jesu Christ keep you always, dearest, dearest mistress.’

  She turned from him, from the future Captain of Calais, from the adventurer to be, thinking dully: Why do they sing of love so, if it’s as sad as this? Then she felt his arms pulling her to him, a rain of kisses on her face. The next moment he was in the saddle, spurring so that his mount leaped forward in a cloud of petals and the seeds of grass. He was soon diminished; at the edge of the meadow he waved violently before merging with the King’s train. Grace murmured to herself:

  ‘Of all the pains that ever I knew

  It is the pain that most I rue.’

  and found no comfort in it.

  As the chariot bearing Bishop Morton through the night skirted St. Albans, the rain began again. A solid fall of black water descended as if someone had emptied a pail from the sky. Frightening in its vehemence, the torrent thundered on the wooden roof of the litter, startling the horses and extinguishing the frail lanterns. Morton lifted the sodden curtain and peered out into the murk. He absently murmured a curse, withdrawing it next minute, for in one way the foul weather was a blessing. Few would brave such a tempest to hunt the Bishop down, fugitive and renegade though he was. The King’s men would not look for him tonight and any vigilantes among the people would be busy mending their roofs. Such nights as this had ruined the plans of a month ago; a torrent had fallen ever since Buckingham had engineered the rebellion and Morton had been permitted to escape. Folk were already calling it the year of the Great Water. He sank back on damp cushions and pulled his fur closer, stroking the collar as if it were a docile beast. If the roads were not too foul they would reach their destination in a few hours. Morton’s hand, blue with cold, left his collar and caressed the icy gold chain at his breast. Calmly he listened to the curses of the drivers, flogging the horses through thick mud. These men would not fail him – he had paid them handsomely. He had paid Buckingham too – with lies and promises and flattery, although Buckingham had proved, to say the least, unfortunate. He lay now in October clay, headless, with his right hand fashionably struck off to mark his treason against King Richard.

  For Morton, this journey was a necessary madness. The Dragon himself had warned him to take care. ‘Remember, my lord, I shall need a Cardinal Archbishop!’ smiling that swift glassy smile, pressing Morton’s hand in his skinny nervous fingers. Yet implicit in that warning had been a command to accomplish what was necessary. The last campaign against that ageing, impetuous Woodville. The final dangling of the mammet. ‘I will see her dance,’ he muttered to himself. A jet of rain through the storm-tossed curtain soaked his robe. He leaned and shouted to the drivers: ‘How goes it? There’s a bridge ahead, if my memory serves,’ and received back the eldritch cry: ‘Rest easy, my lord! We’ll have you there by midnight!’

  He had said a Mass for Buckingham; the poor fool gone to his end not knowing that he was only a catspaw in a game of such magnitude that death was an integral, even a necessary part of it, like the blood-sacrifice laid beneath the walls of a great abbey; the founding of a dynasty. Morton put his long blue hands together and prayed: ‘Let me live for many years. Let me laugh in secret, and don the Cardinal’s hat that Richard Plantagenet would now never give me. Let me retrieve the schemes ruined by Hastings’s bungling and Buckingham’s ill-luck. O Thou, whoever and whatever. Thou art, let me live!’ Wind battered rain against the carriage, rippling the curtain and spraying the Bishop with pungent filth.

  ‘The pity of it is, I need her,’ he said to himself of Elizabeth while the chariot ploughed lurching on. The Dragon had stipulated his price. And certainly there was sense in it. Sir Edward Woodville, with his stolen fleet, had been of great value, lying ready in the Channel and still ready … Despite the rough ride, Morton slept a little. He dreamed he was eating strawberries at Brecon with Buckingham who had received a secret bill in a pig’s trotter; a letter that touched fire to his spleen and made him pliant, ready for rebellion. Morton breathed on the flame. ‘Harry, such ingratitude! After all your loyalty! What recompense! But there is one who would not use you so, one who recognizes a good heart.’ Buckingham’s bright eyes were thoughtful, his bent head listened.

  ‘Sheen, my lord!’

  Morton woke up, looked out of the carriage. A light in a tower flickered ahead, a light half-hidden by drenching rain. They were making good time. Stretching his shivering limbs, he wondered how Dorset was. He had hoped originally that Tom might come from his refuge in France to uphold the Dragon’s invasion. Since that invasion had proved abortive, the Woodville’s son had been, in the event, wise. The litter rolled on through the long wet night. It had been a tortuous journey from Ely; Ely, that cowed diocese that did and was as Morton bade it. Soon he would be in Westminster Sanctuary. He felt for the friar’s habit rolled up under his feet; it would soon be time to don the disguise. Shameful? With such a stake? He smiled. Never. With laboured, mudsucking breath the sodden horses ploughed north of Sheen and he caught the first sound of the Thames. He reached down and lifted the friar’s mantle.

  At Westminster the river had risen, nearly lapping the Sanctuary door. The Bishop’s thunderous knock resounded against a carillon of rain from the gushing gargoyles. He was admitted at once. Despite the friar’s habit, the brothers knew him, and Abbot Milling was afraid, lost long ago in the deep waters of conspiracy. The Bishop went in and left a trail of mud along the cloister; he stood dripping while Elizabeth was roused. In the chamber where he waited, a fire still burned in the hearth; a miserable half-dead flicker. He extended his wet foot to it, and was standing thus when Elizabeth entered. Hands clasped inside the sleeves of her gown, she walked towards him. A little shiver ran over her body.

  ‘Domine vobiscum,’ he said, and threw back his hood. He lowered his hand for her salute, and felt her icy lips on his fingers.

  ‘So you have come at last. My lord–’ some irony in her tone amused him – ‘how was your stay in prison?’

  ‘Comfortable. I was protected from storms such as these. Such a night!’

  ‘Buckingham let you escape?’

  ‘Ah, Buckingham!’ He crossed himself. ‘He left this world in a vile humour, cursing the King, cursing me, and cursing you, Madame. He cursed you on the scaffold, for sowing the seed of his revolt. That letter your sister wrote ‘– those were your sentiments, not hers.’

  He saw her face whiten: ‘Where is the letter now? If Buckingham cursed me, then I curse him. For his failure to overthrow the usurper and bring back my sons. What incubus thwarted this latest plan?’

  ‘The weather,’ said Morton coolly. He bent to feed the sullen fire with a branch. ‘The bridges were down, the passes sealed off by storm and Gloucester’s armies. As for the letter – do not fear implication this time. I myself saw it burn.’

  She was able to smile. ‘My lord, I misjudged you.’

  He moved to grasp the moment. ‘You did not trust my doctor friend. You asked for me in person and here I am, come through a night of devils, Madame.’ He watched the hem of his robe steam. During a summer of fr
ustration he had aged somewhat; the blue-white skin hung in folded dewlaps at his throat and eyes. He felt a hand upon his damp sleeve.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘how can you help me?’

  ‘Shall we be seated?’ he said gently. They sat on either side of the fire which shifted, revealing deep red caves, a grey abyss edged with white, a falling tree, a withered serpent. The night grew close and secret about them.

  He said: ‘There is one whom you would destroy?’

  Wariness sprang again in her. Margaret Beaufort had often spoken thus to her, with wisdom and provocative confidence, and where was Margaret now? She let the Bishop answer for her.

  ‘King Richard,’ he said, and jetted his spittle into the ashes.

  ‘An anointed king,’ she said, without expression, and waited.

  ‘To be ruined and vanquished by you.’

  Instantly she was convinced that he was a provocateur and said stiffly: You think too highly of my power. I am a poor widow.’ The tears would come at a thought – no need, these days, for feigning.

  ‘Madame!’ said Morton with a deep and withering smile ‘let us, for Jesu’s love, be plain. Have you not been death’s instrument, more than once? Have I not been witness to your deeds?’

  She was silent. The fire settled itself. A little blaze built up, like Hell-Mouth, in a tunnel.

  ‘Lady,’ said the Bishop softly, ‘God forbid, I should judge you. You have been sorely tried.’

  She lifted her eyes and looked at him directly.

  ‘Richard of Gloucester is young, and a great warrior. He has a certain reputation. You may kill an old man, but not a King like the usurper. Like the Hog!’ she said violently.

  ‘Yes, the Boar, the Hog,’ the soft hypnotic voice agreed. Morton looked disgustedly about him. ‘Devil damn me, this is no place for you! Have I not said you will dance again in Westminster?’

  ‘What is the price of this solution?’ she said, surprisingly sharp and cool.

  ‘Your eldest daughter, the Lady Bess. In marriage to Henry Tudor.’

  She gasped, her brow wrinkled. ‘Tudor!’ she said incredulously.

  Morton said: ‘He will be King of England, at my guess, within a twelvemonth. Your daughter will be Queen, and you Queen-Dowager, with all the pomp and pride you wish. I will help you to a height. Henry Tudor will invade …’

  ‘With what? Who will follow him?’

  ‘Tudor will conquer with the aid of your forces. Immured in Sanctuary as you are, have you not realized that all of Lancaster is now for Tudor? Sir Edward Woodville’s fleet still runs free, with all the treasure amassed by your son Dorset. It is enough to pay for another invasion. There are men in France and Brittany willing to spill English blood for Tudor; Lord Stanley will …’

  ‘Stanley and his wife have betrayed me. They attend the Council; they gave their hand to Titulus Regius.’

  Smiling, shaking his head, the Bishop fingered his gold collar.

  ‘Foolishness,’ he murmured. ‘Madame, do you not believe me when I say they will not, cannot show their hand yet? Have you forgotten that Tudor is Margaret’s son?’

  Yes, she had forgotten. Now it seemed that Henry was a figurehead of true power; her solution, as Morton said.

  ‘But why is my daughter so necessary to this enterprise?’ she said.

  ‘Tudor will conquer,’ said the Bishop. ‘But he cannot reign by conquest alone. He needs the seal of Plantagenet blood. He will unite the houses of York and Lancaster, and be beloved for it. He comes from God, a saviour. But he must marry into a royal dynasty.’

  Then she remembered.

  Bone of thy bone shall be a future fate

  With blood of these three houses surely mate.

  The old riddle was answered. Lancaster, York and Tudor. Henry Tudor was of Lancaster … it was an omen. Her shivering had nothing to do with the cold, with the dead fire or the dripping walls of Sanctuary. Against the blackened chimney fresh dreams blazed. A reprieve. A frantic hope. Herself Queen-Dowager and no more plain Dame Grey. She tried to speak calmly.

  ‘It is a fair prospect, my lord Bishop. But you have forgotten something!’

  Morton inclined his ear.

  ‘The people love Richard! They love him better than they loved his brother. They admire him for his new statutes and his justice. Whatever the barons say, he has won the people’s heart!’

  She had heard tales of the progress, how England had shaken with cheers for the Hog, the usurper.

  ‘They love him,’ she repeated. ‘They will not rise against him. And I am powerless.’

  That hateful word. Where was Melusine now? And where the secret doctrines of strength and cunning? As if to catch again at that lost mystery and might, she gazed at the Bishop’s white, wattled face. He smiled comfortably.

  ‘All that you say is true, my liege lady,’ he murmured, ‘The time is full. Now we must turn that love to hate.’

  On a day of ribald March winds she arose and came out of Sanctuary, for it was time and more than time for her to do so. She knew that Morton disapproved; this, oddly, added impetus to her step, as she thought: I am not yet totally his; I am not yet altogether committed. She stood outside the gate and drew in lungfuls of breath, catching the high-tide smell from the river, the smoke of chimneys, the odour of brawn patties from the cookstalls outside Westminster Hall. Armed with a worn dignity, she stood erect, while behind her young Bess shivered in the unfamiliar gales. The girl’s mouth was sullen and her cheeks hollow from months of boredom and privation. Elizabeth, stealing a glance, thought: I myself have looked fairer, but what’s to be done? Nearly all the jewels, the gold and the fine clothing so carefully rescued months earlier had been handed over to Morton’s keeping to swell the funds for the new campaign. The smaller treasure had gone in barter for food and fuel during the long siege in Sanctuary. So Elizabeth stood, naked of glory, in a long cloak of white wool fastened with a tawdry beryl brooch. Her slim face was resolute, her eyes, now finely lined, full of hard brightness. Several merchants with their prentices passed her without a second glance, and she smiled grimly. This time I am not the bait for a king, she thought. It is Bess who must be cherished. A rare wave of affection moved her to clasp the girl’s arm, and they moved in procession with the shabby female entourage down to the quay.

  ‘So, daughter, we’re out of prison!’

  Bess nodded glumly, her eyes on the cobbles.

  ‘Look up!’ said Elizabeth. ‘Learn to bear yourself straighter. You will be a Queen.’

  Bess had no more tears to shed. She had wept so much since Morton’s visit that the cause of her grief had become somehow blunted and confused. She was to marry Henry Tudor. So she was finished with romance, both read and dreamed of. Her father had warned her against Tudor, long ago. She was a little girl, at her first ball and banquet. It was early enough in the evening for Edward to be still coherent. Henry had just bowed and quit the Hall, and everyone was sniggering over his quaint continental manners. But the King had growled: ‘He is an enemy of my throne,’ and none had heeded this. Bess, feeling sorry for her father, had crept close to him, and he had talked to her for about five minutes, as if she were a wise old courtier. Warning, admonishing her. She had never forgotten it. Now, a look of flat despair lay on her face and moved her mother to say, surprisingly gently:

  ‘Everyone must marry. And Henry Tudor is young, probably biddable. Between us we will pluck his plumes!’

  Elizabeth saw herself as the matriarch, the omnipotent Queen-Dowager, exerting subtle pressure on her son-in-law. And this, strangely, gave birth to oblique doubts about the whole affair. What if Henry were all that young and biddable! What if Morton were flying so high with ambition that he failed to see certain weaknesses in his protege. He had promised that Tudor would invade, but what if Tudor and his foreign force were unsuccessful? Henry, apparently, had never fought in battle in his life. Gloucester was a skilled and seasoned warrior, vanquishing even the Scots and proving such a strategist that Kin
g Edward at the end had left all campaigns in his brother’s sole charge. The wind snatched at her veil, whipping it like a battle standard against her face. No, she was by no means committed to the proposal. Better to wait, and get the measure of the Hog. She was summoned, nay, begged to return to his court. He had forgiven her, and was this not weakness of a different kind?

  ‘I, Richard, promise and swear, verbo regio, that if the daughters of Elizabeth Grey, late calling herself Queen of England, will come to me … then I shall see that they shall be in surety of their lives … that I shall marry them to gentlemen born, and give in marriage lands and tenements to the yearly value of 200 marks for term of their lives. And such gentlemen as shall hap to marry with them I shall straitly charge lovingly to love them, as wives and my kinswomen, as they will avoid and eschew my displeasure.

  ‘And over this, I shall yearly pay the said Dame Elizabeth Grey … the sum of 700 marks …

  Strange, to reward treason and hatred thus.

  ‘Moreover I promise to them that if any surmise or evil report be made to me of them by any person, I shall not give thereunto faith or credence …’

  Forgiven, forgiven. His one wish was to live in amity. He was the Fiend’s lover, and her greatest enemy. Yet what a fool he was! She wondered, as she wondered every day, whether the whispers had reached him yet; whether love was turned to hate in England. In France, it was certain. The messengers had come and gone between Morton and herself: each step of the campaign was planted firmly. She knew the words of the Chancellor of France almost by heart: